I Owe You One(4)

I press my lips together. This is so Jake. Of course he said we were based in Notting Hill. He probably said Hugh Grant was a regular customer too.

“No, we’re Acton,” I say politely.

“But you’re planning to expand into Notting Hill soonish?” presses Clive, as we head inside. “That’s what your brother told us.”

Expand into Notting Hill? That’s total rubbish. I know Jake just wanted to impress a pair of strangers at a bar. But I can hear Dad’s voice in my head: Family first, Fixie.

“Maybe,” I say pleasantly. “Who knows?” I usher them into the shop, then spread my arms around at all the saucepans, plastic storage boxes, and tablecloths. “So, this is us.”

There’s a short silence. I can sense this isn’t what they expected. Simon is peering at a display of mason jars. Clive takes a few steps forward and looks at a Monopoly set curiously. A moment later, a red bouncy ball drops on his head.

“Ow!” He looks up. “What the—”

“Sorry!” I say quickly. “No idea how that happened!”

Shit. There must have been a stray one teetering somewhere.

“So you’re looking to turn into more of a high-end deli?” Simon seems puzzled. “Do you stock any food at all?”

I feel another defensive prickle. I don’t know what stories Jake’s been telling him, but that’s not my fault.

“Absolutely.” I nod. “Oils, vinegars, spices, that kind of thing. Please do put your box down.”

“Perfect.” He dumps the box on a front display chest, which we cleared in advance. (Normally we’d go into the back room, but it’s full of boxes of scented candles, which we need to unpack.) “Well, let me introduce you to what we do. We’ve sourced a range of olive oils which are rather special.” He says it in that posh way—raaather special. “Have a taste.”

As he speaks, both men are unpacking large bottles of olive oil from wooden boxes. Simon briskly lays out some dipping saucers and Clive produces some precut cubes of bread.

He’s talking about some olive estate in Italy, but I’m not listening properly; I’m staring in horror at Greg. He’s just walked into view—and his pockets are still stuffed with bouncy balls. His entire groin area looks massive and lumpy and just … weird. Why didn’t he get rid of them?

I give him a furious eye roll, which means: Why have you still got bouncy balls in your pockets? Greg immediately shoots back an urgent eye roll of his own, which clearly means: There’s a good reason, believe me.

I don’t believe him for a moment. Greg acts in good faith, no one doubts that, but his logic is random and unnerving. He’s like a computer on its last legs that works perfectly until it suddenly decides to email your whole in-box to Venezuela.

“Would you like to have a taste?”

I abruptly realize Clive’s spiel is over and he’s proffering bread cubes and oil.

As I dip and taste, I’m thinking: Typical Jake, setting up this meeting on the one day that Mum isn’t in the shop. What does he think, that he can get this past her beady eye? That she won’t notice? Mum notices everything. Every sale, every refund, every email. Everything.

Suddenly I notice that the two posh guys keep shooting surreptitious glances at Greg’s bulging groin area. I mean, I don’t blame them. It’s a pretty disturbing sight.

“Excuse Greg’s strange-looking appearance,” I say with a relaxed laugh. “He doesn’t normally look like that! It’s just that he—”

“Hormone disorder,” Greg cuts me off with an impassive nod, and I nearly choke on my bread. Why … What does he even mean by … Hormone disorder? “Nasty,” Greg adds meaningfully.

I’m used to Greg’s idiosyncrasies, but sometimes he silences even me.

“Funny story,” Greg adds, encouraged by the attention. “My brother was born with only half a pancreas. And my mum, she’s got this manky kidney—”

“Thanks, Greg!” I interrupt desperately. “Thanks for … Thanks.”

The two smart guys look even more appalled, and Greg shoots me a self-satisfied look which I know means, “Saved things there, didn’t I?”

For about the hundredth time I wonder if we could send Greg on a course. A course on Not Being Greg.

“Anyway!” I say as Greg heads off. “These olive oils are amazing.” I’m not just being polite; it’s true. They’re rich and aromatic and delicious, especially the dark-green peppery one. “How much would they retail for?”

“The prices are all laid out here,” says Simon, handing me a printed document. I scan the figures—and nearly fall over flat. Usually I’m pretty cool in situations like this, but I hear myself gasping, “Ninety-five pounds?”

“Obviously this is very much a luxury, high-end product,” says Clive smoothly. “As we explained, it’s a very special estate, and the process is unique—”

“But no one’s going to spend ninety-five quid on a bottle of oil!” I almost want to laugh. “Not in this shop. Sorry.”

“But when you open in Notting Hill?” chimes in Simon. “Very different market. We think ‘The Notting Hill Family Deli’ is a great name, by the way.”