I Owe You One(5)

I try to hide my shock. The what? Our shop is called Farrs. It was named Farrs by our dad, whose name was Michael Farr, and it’s never going to be called anything else.

“This is the olive oil we stock.” Greg’s voice takes us all by surprise, and he places a bottle of oil on the table. “Costs ￡5.99.” His prominent gray eyes survey the two posh guys. “Just saying.”

“Yes,” says Simon, after a pause. “Well, of course, that’s a rather different product from ours. Not to be rude, but if you both have a taste, you’ll notice the difference in quality of the cheaper oil. May I?”

I notice how skillfully he’s drawn Greg into the conversation. Now he’s pouring out our ￡5.99 oil and dipping cubes of bread into it. As I taste, I can see what he means. Our oil tastes thinner in comparison.

But you have to know your customers. You have to know their limits. I’m about to tell Simon that our customers are a practical, pragmatic lot and there’s not a chance in hell they’ll spend ninety-five quid on oil, when the door opens and I turn to see Jake striding in.

He’s an impressive sight. Always is. He’s got Dad’s firm jaw and Dad’s twinkling eyes and he’s dressed in really nice clothes. Posh estate-agent clothes. Navy blazer, tie, shiny expensive shoes. Cuff links.

And at the very sight of him, I feel a rush of familiar feelings attacking me, like flapping ravens. Inadequate. Guilty. Inferior. Rubbish.

This is nothing new. My big brother always brings these feelings out in me, and why shouldn’t he? If I believe in anything as much as family first, it’s be fair. I’m always fair and truthful, however painful it is.

And the painful truth is that Jake is the success and I’m the failure. He’s the one who started an import-export business without a penny from anyone else. He’s the one who made a mint on some brand of nude seamless knickers that he sold to a discount store. He’s the one who has the flash car and the business cards and the (nearly) MBA.

I’m the one who took a loan from Mum (“our inheritance,” Jake always calls it) and tried to set up a catering business and failed. And who still hasn’t paid the money back.

I’m not the black sheep of the family. That would be glamorous and interesting. I’m just the stupid dumb sheep who still has a stash of dark-green aprons under the bed, all embroidered with my logo: Farr’s Food. (I sold everything else, but I couldn’t get rid of those.) And whenever I’m around Jake, I feel even more stupid and dumb. Like, literally dumb. Because I barely ever open my mouth, and when I do, I start to stammer.

I have opinions; I have ideas. I really do. When I’m managing the store alone—or alongside Mum—I can tell people what to do. I can assert myself. But around Jake, and even sometimes Nicole, I think twice before I venture my thoughts. Because the unsaid message hanging in the air is: “Well, what would you know? Your business went bust.”

The only one who makes me feel like none of it matters and I’m still worth something is Mum. If it weren’t for her, I don’t know how I’d have coped.

“Guys!” Jake greets the visitors. “You’re here already! Ciao.”

Ciao. This is how he talks with them. We grew up in the same family, but I can’t imagine ever being the type of person who says ciao.

“Jake!” Clive claps him on the back. “My man.”

“Call this Notting Hill?” joshes Simon, shaking Jake’s hand. “This is bloody Acton!”

“It’s just the start of the empire,” says Jake, with a broad grin—then he darts me the tiniest of looks, which I can read completely. It means, “I’m assuming you haven’t dumped me in it?”

I shoot back a corresponding look, which says, “The Notting Hill Family Deli?” But now he’s blanking me.

Jake often blanks me when he’s with his smart friends. He’s probably worried I’ll expose some of the fibs I’ve heard him tell. I’d never do that—family first—but I do notice when he’s fudging the truth about things. Like where he went to school (he calls himself a “grammar school boy,” but it was a comp). And references to our “little place in the country.” I have no idea which “little place” that would be—maybe the old privy at the end of Mum’s garden?

“So these are the famous oils!” Jake exclaims. “Fantastico!”

“You have to come and see the estate, Jake,” says Simon enthusiastically. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Love to,” Jake drawls. “I adore that part of the world.”

I don’t remember Jake ever going to Italy in his life, although obviously I’m not going to point this out.

“You know it costs ninety-five quid a bottle?” I say tentatively to Jake. “I don’t think our customers can afford that, can they?”

I see Jake flinch in irritation and I know why. He doesn’t want to be reminded of our practical, price-conscious customers. He wants nonexistent millionaire customers.

“But if you’re going high end, this is where the market is.” Clive taps the bottle. “The taste is phenomenal, I’m sure Fixie will agree?”

“It’s great,” I say. “It’s delicious. I’m just … you know. Will our customers appreciate it?”