I Owe You One(69)

“Oh, you know,” I cut her off hurriedly. “Nothing to see. All over.”

It’s nearly two weeks since that mortifying night at 6 Folds Place. I haven’t seen Jake or Leila since the morning after and I certainly haven’t heard anything from Ryan.

“Well, you know what I think,” says Hannah. And I nod because I do, and we’ve said it all, both of us.

—

I know Tim’s on his way home from work and I suspect Hannah wants to have a long talk with him, so I don’t stay for supper, even though she offers. As I step outside her front door, the air is so freezing, I gasp. It’s the coldest October on record and they’re talking about snow.

Greg loves it. He kept going outside today to survey the gray sky knowingly and using the word Snowpocalypse. I had to turn down suggestions from him that Farrs should stock balaclavas, sleds, and urine bottles (urine bottles?) from some activewear catalog that he adores.

“People are going to need this stuff,” he said about twenty times. “You wait.”

The more he pestered me, the firmer my resolve became: I am never, ever stocking a urine bottle. I don’t care if it is the Snowpocalypse. I don’t care if they were used on a genuine polar expedition, I don’t want to know.

(I must admit, I did wonder: What about girls? And I would have asked Greg, except he would have given me some frank and terrible answer which would have lodged in my brain forever.)

I walk briskly through the streets of Hammersmith and I’m nearing the tube station when I get an incoming call from Drew. I haven’t heard from him for a while.

“Drew!” I exclaim. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, thanks,” he says, sounding preoccupied. “Is Nicole with you, by any chance?”

“No,” I say in surprise.

“It’s just that I keep trying her phone, but she’s not picking up.”

“Oh,” I say warily. “Well, maybe her phone’s broken or something.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe.” Drew exhales and there’s a short silence. Quite an expensive silence, I can’t help thinking, what with him being in Abu Dhabi.

“Drew,” I venture, “is everything OK?”

“Well, not really,” says Drew heavily. “Here’s the thing. Nicole keeps saying she’ll come out and visit me here in Abu Dhabi. She promises she’ll get a flight. But then she doesn’t. Has she mentioned it to you at all?”

“No,” I admit. “But then, we don’t talk that much.”

“I know she’s really busy, being the face of Farrs and doing her yoga and all that,” he says. “And I respect that, Fixie, I do. I’m proud of her. But when I first came out here, we planned that she’d come over soon for a visit. Well, that was months ago!”

“Maybe she’s making plans I don’t know about,” I say evasively.

“Fair enough.” He sighs. “Well, sorry to bother you.”

He rings off and I walk for a while, my brow crinkled. Nicole’s never even mentioned going to Abu Dhabi. Which is pretty weird, now I think about it. Why wouldn’t she go and visit her own husband who she misses so much?

I’m just reminding myself that other people’s relationships are a mystery and there’s no point speculating about them, when my phone bleeps with a text. I look down, expecting it to be Hannah or maybe Drew again—but it’s from him. Seb. And it’s just one word:

Help.

Help?

I stare at it, disconcerted, then ring his number. It rings and rings and I’m expecting it to go to voicemail, but then suddenly his voice is in my ear.

“Oh, hello,” he says, sounding taken aback and kind of strained. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. D’you mind— I’m slightly in the middle of something—”

“Are you OK?” I say, a bit bewildered. “You texted me Help.”

“I texted you?” He curses. “I’m so sorry. I meant to text my assistant, Fred. Must have pressed the wrong number. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“Of course not,” I say, my brow creasing. “Of course you haven’t.” But I feel a bit perplexed. Why would he text his assistant Help? “Are you sure you’re OK?” I add impulsively.

“I’ve … I’ve been better,” says Seb after a pause, and now he sounds breathless. “Been attacked, actually. My fault for cutting behind the Horizon. It’s always been a dodgy alley.”

“Attacked?” I nearly drop my phone in horror. “Are you— What happened?”

“It’s really nothing,” he says at once. “Some guys decided they wanted my wallet, that’s all. Only I seem to have done in my ankle, and I can’t move and I’m a bit out of the way here. Thankfully they were too repelled by my ancient phone to take that.”

He’s lying in an alley and he’s been mugged and he’s making jokes about his phone. I half want to smile and half want to yell, “Take this seriously!”

“Have you dialed 999?” I ask. “What have you done?”

“Dialed 999?” Seb sounds horrified at the idea. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I just need to get to a hospital. Fred will come and pick me up; he lives in Southwark. It’s two minutes from Bermondsey. That’s where I am,” he adds as an afterthought.