I Owe You One(94)

He smears some goo on the woman’s face, then brandishes a mirror at her. “Can you see that? Can you see the transformation? And that’s on one use! It’s not surgical, but it’s surgical.”

It’s not surgical, but it’s surgical? Is he even allowed to say that?

I’m bristling with outrage as I watch. That woman has so not been transformed, but she’s gazing at herself, transfixed. I don’t know what Ryan’s doing with angles or lights or simply the power of suggestion, but it’s working.

“And we’re doing two pots for the price of one today,” he says smoothly. “You know what an eye lift costs? You know how many thousands? This is a tenth of the price.”

He shows the woman a price list and she blanches. At once Ryan says, lowering his voice, “You know what? I shouldn’t do this, but just for you, let’s knock ten percent off. I’ll get in trouble, but … hey. It’s Christmas.”

“Really?” The woman looks at him so trustingly that I can’t bear it any longer.

“Hi there!” I say brightly, striding up to them, and Ryan gives such a startled jump, I grin inwardly.

“Oh, hello,” says the woman, looking disconcerted.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’d hold off if I were you,” I say pleasantly. “I once bought some eye cream from some random person in a mall and it gave me hives. I’m sure this nice man will give you some samples and you can try them properly at home. Maybe get another opinion from a friend before you lash out all that money?” I smile sweetly at Ryan. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir? With all your experience as a ‘makeup artist’?”

“Actually, I should be going,” says the woman, looking flustered. “Thanks anyway,” she says over her shoulder to Ryan as she hurries off.

“ ‘Makeup artist,’ ” I say scathingly. “You’re evil.”

Ryan stares at me consideringly for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs.

“Fixie,” he says. “You’ve got such a good conscience. You make me feel like a better person.” And he smiles at me, his eyes as devastatingly blue as ever.

Once upon a time, that smile would have made my heart flutter. My doubts would have receded; I would have run back to him. But not today.

“Well, you make me feel like a worse person,” I say coldly, and Ryan laughs again.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and I stare at him in disbelief. He’s missed me? I feel a sudden furious urge to yell at him, to hit him, to make him suffer.

But almost at once it subsides. Ryan’s pathological, I’ve realized. He says anything to anyone to get out of whatever situation he’s in. Truth doesn’t count, integrity doesn’t count, love doesn’t even figure. Yelling at him would be like yelling at a rock. It’s never going to change.

I’m just glad the magic has gone. I’m free of him. About bloody time.

“I’m not going to say, ‘See you,’ ” I inform him politely. “Because I don’t want to see you, ever again. Goodbye.”

As I walk off I can hear him laughing again, only the sound is a little more forced, and I briefly wonder if there’s any kind of regret or understanding in his eyes. But I honestly can’t be bothered to look.

—

And then I’ve reached the entrance to the restaurant and my heart is pounding. Because standing up to Ryan was like a warm-up, but this is the real deal.

The ma?tre d’ shows me to our table, where I find Uncle Ned lounging on a banquette, holding what looks like a gin and tonic. Jake is holding one too, and Nicole has a glass of what I’m sure is champagne.

“Fixie!” Uncle Ned greets me. “Take a seat. Have a drink, m’dear.” His face is nearly as red as the velvet seat. Did he start early? Looking around at the flushed faces, I wonder: Did they all start early? Jake’s eyes are bloodshot, I notice, and he still has those shadows under them.

“What?” he says defensively, as he feels my eyes on him. “Oh, by the way, I’ve got some good news for you. Ryan’s back in London.”

“I’ve just seen him,” I say shortly as I take a chair. “And it’s not good news.”

“Now, I rather like the look of the porterhouse steak,” says Uncle Ned, squinting at a big leather menu.

I bet he bloody does, I think—but force myself to stay calm. I’m a ninja, sizing up my opponents, slow and focused, before I strike.

“Would you like a drink?” a waiter asks me.

“No, thanks,” I say politely, and wait till he’s gone before adding, “I won’t spend Farrs’ money here. This is totally inappropriate. Totally inappropriate,” I repeat for emphasis, and jab at all their expensive drinks with my finger.

“What?” says Nicole blankly.

“Inappropriate?” splutters Uncle Ned.

“What exactly are we achieving here, except spending money?” I look from face to face. “Nothing.”

“Now, really.” Uncle Ned’s face becomes puce. “Here I am, giving freely of my time and advice—”

“Do you even know how our sales are doing?” I cut him off, sweeping my gaze around the table. “Do any of you? But here you all are, ordering cocktails and steak. It’s freeloading and it’s revolting and I’m not doing it.”