I Owe You One(37)

It said he’d lost all his family at an early age. His dad died when he was ten, then his mum when he was eighteen, and then his older brother, James, got knocked off his bike two years ago. But rather than these personal tragedies crushing him, it said, they had taught him a love of life and a passion for justice. It said his colleagues described him as cheerful, well adjusted, and compassionate, and there was even a photo of him, captioned The Clerkenwell Crusader.

Which should all make me feel better, because he’s clearly a good person. But actually it makes me feel worse. Because here I am, coming to finagle a job out of him. OK, not finagle, exactly. But it feels a bit like that. A bit underhanded. A bit grabby.

Or … is it?

Ever since I decided to do this, four days ago, my mind has been swinging back and forth. Be fair, I keep thinking. That’s the maxim I try to live my life by. But what’s fair? One minute I think I am being fair. I’m totally within my rights. He owes me this. The next minute I think: Oh my God, what am I doing? I save his laptop and in return he gives my boyfriend a job? I mean, is that justice?

But then, he did insist he wanted to repay me, didn’t he?

And maybe I did save him millions of pounds.

Anyway, whatever. I’m doing it. I’ve got an appointment in five minutes. And the thought that’s powering me along is: Ryan needs this. Which means I need it too.

I’ve left Ryan waiting at a Starbucks round the corner. Before I went, he wrapped his arms around me and said, “It all begins here. A whole new start. Fingers crossed, eh, Fixie?”

“Fingers crossed.” I nodded, breathless with nerves.

Then he smiled and said, “I know you can do it.”

His blue eyes were fixed on mine in a way that I’ve dreamed of for years. I didn’t overreact—I just smiled back and said, “Hope so!” But inside, I felt a kind of explosion of love. After so much yearning, here was Ryan, with me. Relying on me. In partnership with me. All the things I’ve so desperately wished for.

As I walk along, peering up at the office buildings, my mind rewinds over the last few days. I’ve seen Ryan every day, round at our house—and something’s really changed between us, in a good way. Our vibe. Our connection. He’s confided in me. Asked my advice. He always gravitates toward me—putting an arm along my shoulders or pulling me onto his knee. It feels as if we’re closer than we ever have been before.

But the question that circles my mind constantly is: Do we have a viable future together? And the answer lies right here, in the office of Sebastian Marlowe.

I push the door open, take the stairs to the first floor, and there it is. A reception desk with ESIM printed in green letters on white. I can see an open-plan space with people sitting at computers and hear the hum of conversation coming from behind a door. The receptionist is a motherly middle-aged woman, and she smiles at me in a warm, friendly way.

“Hello,” I begin, as confidently as I can. “I’m Fixie Farr. I have an appointment with Sebastian Marlowe.”

“Of course,” she says. “He’s expecting you. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please. That would be lovely.”

I’m expecting to be directed to a seating area, when a door straight ahead of me flies open—and there he is. Taller than I remember. Frondy hair shining in a little shaft of sunshine. Woodland eyes gleaming at me. An open, friendly smile.

“Hello,” he says. “You came.”

“I did.” I can’t help smiling back.

“Well, come on in!” He gestures at his door and I follow him into an office which instantly makes me feel relaxed. I don’t know if it’s the bright modern art or the battered leather sofa, but it feels human, despite the three computers. There’s a bookshelf lining a wall and a couple of plants and a worn antique rug. The whole place feels homey.

“I’ll get us some coffee,” says Sebastian. “If you’d like coffee?” His brow creases. “Or I think we can run to herbal tea.…”

“Coffee would be great,” I say. “But your receptionist said she’d get me some.”

“I’m sure she did.” He smiles again in that friendly way. “But she’s twisted her ankle and she’s supposed to be taking it easy, not that she ever obeys orders. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.”

As he strides out of the room, I wander over to the bookshelf. Like the rest of the room, it’s pretty characterful, with books on business, novels, and ethnic-looking sculptures. The top shelf is empty apart from two modern vases, and as I survey them, I feel a familiar sensation creeping over me. The left-hand one is crooked, and I’m already itching to straighten it.

It’s not my business, I tell myself firmly. Not my vases. Not my problem. Look away.

Oh God. But I can’t look away. My fingers have started doing their thing, drumming against each other. How can you live with crooked vases? Doesn’t he notice? Doesn’t it irritate him? As I gaze at the offending vases, my feet start their stepping motion: forward-across-back, forward-across-back. It would be so easy to fix. It would only take a moment. In fact—

I can’t bear it anymore. I have to straighten it. I step forward and raise a hand, and as I’m pushing it into place, I hear Sebastian’s voice behind me: “Those vases haven’t been touched since my grandmother placed them there, just before she died.”