I Owe You One(54)

But above all, I can’t believe what Hannah is telling me about her and Tim. This can’t be right; it can’t.

We’re in the back room at Farrs, touching up our makeup together. Jake has renamed the room “Backstage” for tonight and has equipped it with three bottles of champagne, one of which Hannah immediately opened.

“He just announced it,” she’s saying miserably, taking a gulp. “He sat down on the sofa and said, “ ‘I don’t want a baby anymore.’ ”

“How can he not want a baby anymore?” I say, incredulous. “Your whole life has been about trying for a baby.”

“I know! He says he’s changed his mind. He says he’s allowed to change his mind and he doesn’t have to explain it. What kind of person says that?”

Tim, I silently answer.

“Maybe he’s just having a wobble,” I say. “Take him out to supper, have a glass of wine, and talk it through.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She looks doleful. “I dunno. We’re not getting on too well.”

“Really? Why not?”

“It’s my fault.” Hannah hesitates. “I’ve been off my game. We had a big row at the weekend. I … I put my foot in it. I upset him.”

“How?” I can’t help asking. Tim is basically made of Teflon. I can’t even imagine Hannah upsetting him.

“It’s kind of mortifying.” She stares into her glass.

“What?” I say, agog. “Hannah, come on. What?”

“We were at this dinner party,” says Hannah reluctantly. “The talk turned to male circumcision and sex. I’d been working since six A.M., by the way,” she adds defensively. “My brain was fried. I couldn’t think straight.”

“I’m not going to judge you!” I exclaim. “What did you say?”

“OK.” She breathes out. “So everyone was discussing whether circumcision affects sex. And I said to Tim, across the table, ‘Well, you’re not circumcised, are you, babe? And it doesn’t make you any less sensitive.’ ”

“What’s wrong with that?” I say, puzzled. “I mean, it’s a bit indiscreet …”

“You don’t understand.” Hannah shakes her head wildly. “He looked at me with this horrible flat look, and he said, ‘But, Hannah, I am circumcised.’ ”

“Oh my God!” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Is he?”

“Yes! He is! He always has been! I don’t know what happened. I must have had a brain-freeze.”

“Shit!” I quell a sudden terrible urge to laugh. I mustn’t laugh.

“It was so embarrassing.” Hannah screws up her face in agony. “The whole table heard. They were like, ‘How can you not know if your own husband is circumcised or not? Have you never even noticed?’ They teased us all evening. And Tim …” She pauses. “He didn’t take it very well.”

“Huh,” I say, regaining control of myself. “That’s understandable.”

“I know. I mean, what he should have done was say nothing. How would anyone have known? I told him that afterward. I said, ‘Why did you even open your mouth?’ But it didn’t help.”

“Right,” I say, a bit lost for words. “Well—”

“How could I forget my own husband’s penis?” Hannah’s voice rises in agitation. “His penis?”

“Er.…” I peer at her strained face. “Hannah, don’t take this the wrong way, but is there any chance you’re pregnant already? You might have got … I dunno. Pregnancy tension or whatever?”

“No! I haven’t got pregnancy tension; I’ve got trying-for-pregnancy tension!” Hannah erupts. “It’s turning me into a madwoman! How do people do it?”

“I have no idea,” I admit. “Look, try to forget about it. You’ll pull through. Tim and you are solid.”

“Yes.” Hannah seems to calm down a bit. “Maybe. Anyway, this is your evening. Let’s not talk about me anymore. It looks amazing out there!” She gestures toward the shop floor.

The place has been transformed for the party. Jake closed early and brought in a team of removers. They’ve packed away about half the stock, got rid of the display tables, put up lights and a bar for drinks. A DJ has set up speakers and a laptop. There are also massive posters everywhere, with Nicole’s face blown up huge and MEET THE FACE OF FARRS, printed at the bottom.

I mean, to be fair, it does look amazing. It just doesn’t look much like a shop. Let alone our shop.

“So, who’s coming tonight?” inquires Hannah.

“Up to Jake.” I spread my hands. “This is his thing. He says it’s a ‘curated’ guest list.”

“Oh, curated,” says Hannah, and shoots me a sardonic look, which I return.

Hannah is the only person to whom I will ever be disloyal about the family, because basically she is family. So she knows what I think of Jake. And all Jake’s ideas.

“He went through the customer database,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “And he chose all the ones with posh post codes.”

“Posh post codes!” echoes Hannah incredulously. “What counts as posh?”