I Owe You One(84)

“It’s not hideous!” I say furiously, before I can stop myself.

“This is too much,” says Seb, his face white and taut. “Briony, I think you should apologize to Fixie.”

“Apologize?” echoes Briony incredulously. “Apologize to her? Are you nuts?” She comes close and stares at him, breathing hard, her face flushed and actually quite beautiful-looking. “You know what, Seb? I don’t know who this girl is … or how she came into your life … but you’re welcome to her. Enjoy!” She makes an exaggerated, sarcastic gesture at the pair of us, then swivels on her heel.

Shit. She’s going. She’s actually leaving.

“I’m so sorry,” says Seb, as she stalks away. “That was—”

“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly.

“You saw the worst of her.” His brow wrinkles. “She has this temper … but she can be really fun, really entertaining. I mean, she’s very bright, and she does a lot of charity work through her job—”

“It’s fine,” I say again, cutting him off. “Really.”

I know what he’s doing: He’s justifying why he’s with her. Or was with her, I’m not sure which. But I don’t need to hear the list of “Briony’s hitherto-unsuspected good qualities.”

“So,” I say after a long pause. “Is that … Are you two … ?” I can’t bring myself to say the word over, but it’s hanging there in the air.

“I think that was me getting fired,” says Seb with a wry grin. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah.” I bite my lip, then add, “Sorry. That was my fault.”

“No. No, no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I would have walked, anyway.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound neutral, because the biggest mistake I could make right now would be to criticize Briony.

For a while we’re silent, watching the skaters whirling and floundering round the ice. Then Seb draws breath.

“It’s funny,” he says, his eyes distant. “You get into a relationship. And you know that person has flaws, everyone does … but you can get so used to them that you … you forget. You forget that there’s another way. Sorry, I’m not making sense—”

“You are,” I say fervently, because what he’s describing is exactly Ryan and me. “You forgive the person and you endlessly rationalize and you forget …”

“That there are other people out there,” says Seb softly, and as he meets my eyes, I feel a sudden tightening in my stomach. Other people. What does he mean? Me?

No, don’t be stupid, I scold myself at once. Of course he doesn’t mean me. He probably means, like, there are loads of people on Tinder.

“On Tinder?” I hear myself saying idiotically, and a flicker of amusement passes over his face.

“I wasn’t thinking of Tinder.”

His warm green-brown eyes are traveling questioningly over my face and I gaze back helplessly, my throat too clenched up with nerves to speak, my thoughts a chaotic whirl: This is it, this is it.… Wait, is this it?

A bleep suddenly sounds from Seb’s phone and we both glance down automatically. I see the name Briony flash onto the screen and feel a sudden qualm. Maybe this is her apologizing and wanting to make up.

“You should probably …” I gesture awkwardly at the screen. “It might be … Don’t mind me.”

Wordlessly, Seb opens the text and reads it. It’s quite long and I can see lots of capitals and exclamation marks.

“Right,” he says at last, wryly. “Well, I have been fired. Quite conclusively.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Really.”

I try to look as heartfelt and sorry as I can, but I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job, because there’s a twinkle in Seb’s gaze. He puts his phone away and there’s a breathless beat.

“So, I was wondering,” he says at last. “Would you—maybe—like to have dinner sometime?”





Nineteen




Forty-eight hours later I’m sitting with Seb in an Italian restaurant, and I don’t quite know how I’ve got through the last two days. I’ve worked in the shop and started some Christmas shopping and mended the loo when it broke (Dad taught us all elementary plumbing when we were children). Outwardly I’ve appeared normal. Relaxed, even. But all the time I’ve been thinking, Dinner with Seb … oh my God … Dinner with Seb … oh my God …

Then I went the other way and worried that I’d suddenly, inexplicably, find him unattractive. But here we are at last, sitting at a table in the golden glow of an overhead light, and I can’t take my gaze off him. Seb’s eyes are fixed on mine too. And it’s so obvious what both of us want, I don’t know how I ever doubted it for a moment. We’ve both ordered linguine with clams and discussed wine a bit and even the weather, but that’s felt like the subtext to a different, silent, much more charged communication.

As the wine arrives, though, Seb clearly decides to become more talkative.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says, as the waiter disappears. “Tell me about Fixie.” He toasts me and I clink back and sip. The wine is crisp and delicious and I feel like having quite a lot of it.