I Owe You One(93)

“Hello! Fixie?” a cheery familiar voice answers. “That you, love?”

“Hi, Aunty Karen,” I say, trying to sound relaxed and calm. “Is Mum there, by any chance?”

“Oh, darling, she’s fast asleep. Feeling a bit poorly. She’s come down with a virus or something. Overdid it with our trip to Granada, probably. We only got back last night. Oh, Fixie, it’s fabulous! The tiles!”

“What about Mum?” I say anxiously. “Is she OK?”

“I’ll take her to the doctor tomorrow,” says Aunty Karen reassuringly. “If they don’t give her any medication, I know where I can get some, dirt cheap. Now, love, I’m trying to persuade your mum to stay with me for Christmas. You wouldn’t mind, would you? You’re all grown-ups. Probably off doing your own thing!”

I stare at the phone, dismayed. Christmas without Mum? Without Mum?

I’ve always assumed she’ll be home by then. I’ve always had that thought there in my mind, like an anchor: Mum’ll be home.

“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound as hollow as I feel. “Well … you know. Mum should do what she wants.”

“That’s what I said!” cries Aunty Karen triumphantly. “I said, ‘You relax, Joanne! I’ll cook, and it’s eggnog all the way!’ ”

“Well, give her my love,” I say, forcing a bright tone. “I hope she gets better soon. Keep me posted. And let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Of course,” says Aunty Karen comfortably. “And are you all OK? Jake? Nicole?”

“Yes, we’re fine.”

“Oh, and how’s the shop?” she adds. “I know your mum’ll ask me. She’ll say, ‘Didn’t you ask about the shop, Karen? How could you not ask about the shop?’ She loves that shop like another child!”

Aunty Karen hoots with laughter and I look around at the shop that Mum loves so much, feeling even more hollow.

“It’s … great!” I say. “All good.”

“Marvelous. Well, take care, Fixie!”

“You too,” I say, and ring off feeling like I always do after conversations with Aunty Karen: as though a tornado has blown away.

So that road is closed. I’m not bothering Mum about Jake, not when she’s ill. I’m going to have to do this on my own.

Come on, Fixie. Come on.

I catch sight of my own reflection in the shop-front glass and do a sudden impulsive front kick, punching the air like a kickboxer. Then I do another, then another, moving forward, panting a little with the effort. My chin is jutting out and my expression is fierce and I probably look like an idiot—but I don’t care. I feel stronger with every kick. I can do this.

Ninja Fixie. Bring it on.





Twenty-two




Uncle Ned has booked yet another grand restaurant for our meeting, this one on Piccadilly. As I’m on the way there, I cut through a shopping arcade to get out of the freezing cold and am immediately hit by warmth and light and a smell of cinnamon. The marble-floored atrium is filled with pop-up stalls selling scented candles and seasonal goods. Christmas songs are blaring through the sound system. A full-sized snowman is wandering around, making children laugh. It’s all very festive, only I don’t feel in a festive mood. I feel jagged and angry.

I’m striding along, practicing what I’ll say to Jake, ignoring invitations to try out smoothies and massage chairs—when a familiar voice hits my ears and I stop dead. No way.

No way.

“I’m a makeup artist,” he’s saying. “And you have a really interesting face, did you know that?”

I swivel slowly on my heel, and there he is. Ryan Chalker. As handsome as ever, wearing a black shirt and trousers, standing next to a pop-up stall covered in pots of face cream.

I wait for the familiar reaction to hit me. I wait for my breath to shorten and my heart to swoop. But the magic has gone. After all these years, the magic has gone. All I can see is a smooth-faced chancer. He’s addressing a frowsy-looking woman in a parka, and I can tell, he’s getting through to her.

“You remind me of this model I used to work with on magazine shoots,” he says brazenly, and I breathe in sharply with indignation. Since when did Ryan work on magazine shoots as a makeup artist?

“Really?” I can see the woman blossoming under his compliments.

“You have beautiful skin,” he assures her. “But I bet your husband tells you that every day.”

God, he’s good. Of course the husband never says a word to her, and now this woman is putty in Ryan’s hands.

“Who does your eyebrows?” he demands now.

“I do,” she admits.

“No.” Ryan’s eyes widen. “They’re amazing! Don’t let anyone touch them. Are you over thirty-five?”

“A bit.” The woman flushes.

I mean, she’s about fifty. Even I can tell that.

“Not by much,” says Ryan firmly. “So tell me, darling, do you use eye cream?”

“A bit.” Her eyes swivel evasively. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Ryan looks devastated. “Sweetheart, look after your skin. I don’t care whose products you use, but for me, start using eye cream, yeah? I’m going to give you a free sample …” He’s swiftly undoing a little pot. “Can I put this on you? You don’t mind?”