I Owe You One(21)

Mum once told me after a few drinks that Uncle Ned took after my granddad, who could be a “difficult man.” But then she wouldn’t reveal any more. And I never really got to know my granddad before he died. So as far as I’m concerned, Uncle Ned is just one of those unsolvable family mysteries like, “Whatever happened to the key to the shed?”

“You’ll find someone,” says Mum peaceably. “And how’s the fishing going?”

Nooo! Not fishing. When Uncle Ned gets going on fishing, he can last for hours.

“Well,” says Uncle Ned. “I was down at the river the other day— Ah, Jake!” He breaks off as Jake joins the group. “How’s business, m’boy?”

Thank God. Saved from a six-hour anecdote about a trout.

“Pretty good, Uncle Ned.” Jake gives Uncle Ned his flashy smile. “Got a few interesting deals coming my way, as it happens. I’ve been at the Global Finance Conference at Olympia this week; have you ever been to it?”

Of course Uncle Ned hasn’t been to it. He used to work for an insurance company, but he was an office administrator in the Woking branch. I’m not sure he ever made it to head office, let alone any global finance conference. But he’d never admit that.

“Those were the days, m’boy,” he says, as though he were there every year. “Dealmaking and drinking and all the rest of it.” He gives a throaty laugh. “What happens at conference stays at conference, eh, Jake?”

“Amen to that!” says Jake, lifting his glass.

They’re such a couple of phonies. I know Jake only went to that conference because a friend of his had an extra pass.

“We had some times, back at the firm,” says Uncle Ned, blowing out smoke. “The stories I could tell you …” He makes an expansive gesture with his cigarette and knocks a glass off the sideboard, where it was resting. It crashes to the floor, breaking into bits, and he frowns in annoyance. “Damn it,” he adds. “One of you girls had better clear that up.”

One of you girls? I instantly prickle again, but Mum steps in, putting a hand on Nicole’s arm. “Love,” she says. “Would you mind?”

“And the MBA?” says Uncle Ned to Jake. “Going well?”

“Excellent,” says Jake emphatically. “It’ll open so many doors.”

“Nothing like letters after your name,” affirms Uncle Ned.

They carry on talking about qualifications and opportunities, but I’m not listening. I’m watching Nicole clear up the glass. She’s hopeless. She’s got a broom but she’s pushing it aimlessly at the bits of glass, spreading them around the floor, staring at her phone. Can’t she look at what she’s doing? She’s sweeping shards all over the place. This is glass. Someone could get hurt.

My fingers are drumming in that way they do. My feet have started pacing: forward-across-back, forward-across-back. I can’t stand it any longer.

“I’ll do it,” I say in a sudden gasp, and grab the broom from her. “We’ll need to wrap this glass up in paper.” I reach for an empty breadbasket and start picking up fragments with my fingertips.

“Oh, Fixie, you are brilliant,” says Nicole vaguely. “You always know how to do things.”

I was going to ask her to find some old newspaper, but she’s already started tapping at her phone, so I carry on with my task. I’m craning my head to spot the shards of glinting glass on the wood-effect floor and wrapping them in an old Radio Times, when I hear Tim’s voice booming above me, “Ryan’s back?”

I hadn’t realized Tim had arrived at the party, so I stand up and say, “Hi, Tim!” But Tim doesn’t seem to hear. He stares at me with his bullet eyes, his dark hair plastered across his forehead, then says, “So are you two an item again? You and Ryan?”

Trust bloody Tim to put me on the spot in front of everyone.

“No!” I say brightly. “I mean, not no, like, it’s totally unthinkable, but …”

“So you’re thinking about it?” supplies Tim.

“No!” I almost squeak.

“Yes, you are,” contradicts Nicole, looking up from her phone. “You were talking about it with Mum.”

Thanks a lot, Nicole, I think viciously. What I could really do with is for the conversation to move on, but Tim persists:

“How long were you two together for?”

“No time.” I try to laugh it off. “Ten days. Nothing. And I mean, he lives in L.A., so …”

“Yeah.” Tim nods slowly. “I mean, L.A. It’s a different standard, isn’t it? The women, I mean. They do things. To their lips, their boobs … plus they don’t age,” he adds, warming to his topic. “You’re a whole year older than when you last saw Ryan. In L.A. years, that’s what? A decade?”

“So I’m an old crone now?” I say. I’m trying to find this funny, but Tim has this way of pursuing a subject relentlessly, like a terrier, not noticing that you’re bleeding from the neck. Normally Hannah steps in tactfully, but I can’t see her. Where is she?

Then, as though in answer to my question, the doorbell rings and Hannah’s voice comes from the hall: “I’ll get it!” There’s a pause, then her voice comes again, like a clarion: “Oh wow, Ryan! Welcome back!”