I Owe You One(7)

Now Leila dangles a shiny Christian Dior shopping bag at me and I inspect it with a small pang. I can’t afford to buy Mum Christian Dior perfume. Still. She likes Sanctuary stuff too, which is what I bought her. And now just the thought of Mum is calming me down. I don’t need to worry about any of this, of course—Mum will sort it out. She’ll talk to Jake in that firm, calm way she has. She won’t let him order silly-money olive oil.

Mum runs the family, the home, the business … basically everything. She’s our CEO. Our anchor. When Dad suddenly died of a heart attack, it was like something exploded in her. It was as if all the negative energy of her grief circled round into a determination that this wouldn’t destroy the business, or the family, or anything. She’s powered us all through the last nine years, and she’s learned Zumba and no one makes flaky pastry like she does. She’s amazing. She says she channels Dad in everything she does and that he talks to her every night. Which sounds weird—but I believe her.

She’s normally in this shop from dawn to dusk. The only reason she’s not here now is it’s her birthday party this evening and she wanted the day off to cook. And, yes, some women of her age—or any age—would let other people cook for them on their birthday. Not Mum. She’s made sausage rolls, Waldorf salad, and apple pie every August 2 since I can remember. It’s tradition. We’re big on tradition, we Farrs.

“By the way, I sorted out your car-repair bill for you,” Jake says to Leila. “I rang the guy. I said, ‘You’ve been messing my girlfriend around. Try again.’ He backed down on everything.”

“Jake!” gasps Leila. “You’re my hero!”

“And then I think you should upgrade,” Jake adds carelessly. “Let’s get you a newer model. We’ll look at the weekend.”

“Oh, Jakey.” Leila’s eyes glow, and she turns to me. “Isn’t he the sweetest?”

“Er … yes.” I smile feebly at her. “Totally.”

At this moment, Morag and her customer—a middle-aged woman—come up to the till. Immediately Jake switches into top customer-service mode, beaming at her and asking, “Did you find everything you need? Ah, a paring knife. Now, I’m afraid I will have to ask a delicate question: Are you over eighteen?”

The woman giggles and blushes, and even I crack a smile. Jake’s pretty charming when he wants to be. As she leaves we all say, “Goodbye,” several times, and smile until the door closes. Then Jake gets his car keys out of his pocket and starts swinging them round his finger, the way he’s done ever since he first got a car.

I know what I want to say to him. It’s almost as if I can see the words forming in front of me in a thought bubble. Articulate, passionate words about the business. About what we do. About Dad. But somehow I can’t seem to get the words out of the thought bubble and into the air.

Jake’s face is distant and I know better than to interrupt him. Leila is poised like me, waiting, her eyebrows anxiously winged together.

She’s so pretty, Leila. Pretty and gentle and never judges anyone. The thing she takes most seriously in life is manicures, because that’s her business and her passion. But she doesn’t even blink at my tatty nails, let alone sneer at them. She just accepts everyone for who they are, Jake included.

Finally, Jake stops swinging the keys and comes to. I have no idea what kinds of thoughts have been transfixing him. Even though I grew up with him, I really don’t understand Jake very well.

“We’ll head over to the house, then,” he says. “Help Mum out.”

By “Help Mum out” I know he means, “Get myself a beer and turn on Sky Sports,” but I don’t challenge him.

“OK,” I say. “See you there.”

Our house is only ten minutes’ walk from the shop; sometimes it feels like one is an extension of the other. And I’m turning back to sort out a display of table mats which has gone wonky when Leila says, “What are you going to wear, Fixie?” in excited tones, as if we’re going to the school prom.

“Dunno,” I say, puzzled. “A dress, I suppose. Nothing special.”

It’s Mum’s birthday party. It’ll be friends and neighbors and Uncle Ned. I mean, I want to look nice, but it’s not exactly the Grand Embassy Ball.

“Oh, right.” Leila seems perplexed. “So you’re not going to …”

“Not what …”

“I just thought, because …”

She trails off meaningfully, as though I’ll know exactly what she’s talking about.

“Because what?” I peer at her, and Leila suddenly swivels on her clippy-cloppy heel to Jake.

“Jakey!” she says, in her version of a reproving tone. (Basically still an adoring simper.) “Haven’t you told her?”

“Oh, that. Right.” Jake rolls his eyes and glances at me. “Ryan’s back.”

What?

I stare at him, frozen. I can’t speak, because my lungs have seized up, but my brain has already started analyzing the word back like a relentless computer program. Back. What does back mean? Back to the UK? Back home? Back to me?

No, not back to me, obviously not back to me—

“He’s back in the country,” elaborates Leila, her eyes soft with empathy. “It never worked out with that American girl. He’s coming to the party. And he was asking after you.”