I Owe You One(38)

What? What?

I whip round, aghast, to see Sebastian behind me, holding two cups of coffee.

“Oh my God. Sebastian, I’m so sorry!” I say in a flurry. “I should never have— It’s just, it was crooked and driving me mad, and I had to fix it. That’s my flaw,” I add shamefacedly. “I always have to fix things, and then I end up making everything worse, but—”

“I may not have been entirely serious,” he cuts me off, midstream. “My flaw is: I like to wind people up. Sorry. And by the way, do call me Seb.” He shoots me a mischievous grin and I can’t help laughing, even though my heart is still thudding in delayed panic. What if that had been true, about the grandmother?

Or what if it had been the grandmother’s ashes? I flinch as the horrifying thought strikes me. What if I’d come into his office, a total stranger, and messed with a memorial to a beloved relative?

“You seem worried,” says Seb, eyeing me curiously.

“I was just thinking, what if that was your granny’s ashes?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“Ah.” He nods. “Yes, that would be awkward. Thankfully, my granny’s ashes are safely interred in a churchyard.”

It’s my cue to sit down, but somehow I can’t stop talking. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

“We scattered my dad’s ashes at sea,” I hear myself saying. “It was a disaster. We threw them toward the waves, but it was so windy, they blew back in our faces, and Mum was batting at them, saying, ‘You get in the sea, Mike, you obstinate sod; you know it’s where you want to be,’ and then this dog came running up—” I break off. “Sorry. Not relevant.”

His whole family died, I remember, in a horrifying rush. And I’m standing here talking about ashes. Shut up, Fixie.

“Well,” says Seb after a pause. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes! Sorry. Let’s … yes.”

Why did I even have to touch that vase? I’m thinking as he ushers me into a chair. I feel so angry with myself. Can’t I learn? Can’t I change?

Yes, I resolve. I can change. And I’m going to. The next time something bugs me, unless it’s super-important and vital, I’m leaving it. I am leaving it.

“I must hear, though,” Seb adds as he sits down. “What happened with the dog?”

“You don’t want to know.” I roll my eyes expressively and he laughs—the open, boyish laugh I remember from the coffee shop. Then silence falls and he regards me expectantly.

It’s time to say what I’m here to say. But I still feel rattled. I need a moment to compose myself.

“I like your office,” I say.

“Oh, good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

“Some offices seem to say, ‘Be afraid,’ ” I blabber on desperately. “But this one seems to say …” I cast around for inspiration. “It says, ‘Let’s get on with things; this is going to be great.’ ”

“Ha!” Seb seems delighted by my analysis. “I like that.”

I sip my coffee, playing for time, and Seb sips his too, and there’s one of those expectant, silent beats.

Come on, Fixie. Say it. Just say it.

“So anyway, I’m here to claim my IOU,” I say in the lightest manner that I can.

“Great!” He looks genuinely pleased. “I hoped you were.”

A tiny part of me relaxes. So he hasn’t forgotten about it. And he doesn’t seem offended. On the other hand, he hasn’t heard what I want yet.

“OK. So.” I take a sip of coffee, once more playing for time. “First of all … I have to ask you something. Were you serious?”

“Of course I was serious!” he says, sounding surprised. “I made you a genuine offer. I’m indebted to you and I want to pay you back for your kindness in any way that I can. Have you still got the coffee sleeve?” His mouth curves into an amused smile.

“Of course!” I produce it from my bag. “You’d better check it.”

He reaches over, takes it from me, and gives it a mock-serious examination. “Yes,” he says at last. “I hereby pronounce this to be authentic.” He pushes it back across the desk, then faces me squarely. “So, what can I do for you?” His eyes suddenly light up. “Did you want to take me up on the investment advice? Because—”

“No. Something else.” My stomach is churning hard, but I have to press on. “Something …” I swallow. “A different thing.”

Oh God, come on. Say it.

“Of course. Anything at all. What? Not a chocolate chip muffin, after all?” he adds with another laugh.

“No, not a chocolate chip muffin,” I say, digging my nails into my palm, willing myself to say it. “Not a chocolate chip muffin.” I force myself to look up and meet his gaze. “A job.”

“A job?” I see the shock pass over his face before he can dissemble. “Sorry,” he adds hastily as he notices my expression. “I don’t mean to sound … I just didn’t … A job. Wow. OK.”

As he’s speaking, I can see his brain working. I can see the cogs whirring. I don’t need to point out, “You said ‘anything at all.’ ” He’s pointing it out to himself.