I Owe You One(98)

“Did you choose a color yet?” she asks, and I point randomly to the lilac nail polish.

“Lovely choice!” says Leila, and she starts to unscrew the pot. And we’re both so calm and peaceful now, I almost don’t want to ruin the atmosphere, but I have to ask one more question.

“So what’s Jake going to do now?”

Leila exhales in a shuddery breath and stares down at the nail-polish pot, blinking hard.

“Get some money from somewhere,” she says at last. “I said to him, ‘Jakey, get a job! A job!’ But you know what he’s like.…”

“Where will he get more money?” I say bluntly.

Slowly, Leila’s skinny arms and shoulders rise up in the most hopeless shrug I’ve ever seen. For a few moments we’re both silent, because what is there to say? Then Leila’s eyes brighten.

“I could put a shimmer on top of the lilac,” she says. “I’ve got a lovely new product, shall I show you?”

I know displacement when I see it. Her hands are trembling as she reaches for the pot and her eyes are shadowy and I decide we’ve talked enough about Jake.

“That sounds amazing,” I say, as warmly as I can. “Leila, you’re brilliant.”

And she is brilliant. As I’m heading to Seb’s later, I keep staring at my immaculate shimmery lilac nails and thinking, I should get Leila to do this every week.

But that’s only about 5 percent of my brain. The rest is remembering Jake’s angry bravado. And Leila’s shadowy eyes. And that bare wall with wires hanging out of it. All my adrenaline from earlier on has seeped away, leaving me flatter than I’ve been for ages. I feel pale and washed out and strained.

Seb buzzes me in and I travel up in the lift to his flat. He’s waiting there, the front door flung open.

“So, did you do it?” he asks at once, his face bright and expectant. “Were you Ninja Fixie?”

I stare at him for a moment, rewinding to the restaurant. Yes, I was assertive. I said what I thought. I was Ninja Fixie. But that all seems dwarfed now by my discoveries about Jake.

“Yes!” I say. “Kind of. Uncle Ned was offended. He stormed out.”

“Excellent!” Seb grins. “Every good shareholders’ meeting needs someone storming out in dudgeon. Come on, sit down and relax. You look knackered.” He kisses me and ushers me in, and I follow, my head still trying to make sense of the evening.

“Oh, you’ll never guess what,” I say, suddenly remembering. “I saw Ryan.”

“Ryan?” Seb echoes, his face instantly tightening, and I immediately regret mentioning him.

“Only for, like, a nanosecond,” I say quickly. “I definitely put him straight.”

“Good,” says Seb, after a pause. “Glad to hear it. So, a good evening?”

I sink down at his little kitchen table, feeling my last vestiges of energy slip away. “Actually, no. It was awful.”

I fight an urge to burst into tears. I think a kind of delayed shock is hitting me. Shock at Jake’s aggression toward me. Shock at the truth behind it.

“Awful?” Seb hands me a glass of wine. “Why?”

“Thanks,” I say. “It’s … well, it’s Jake.”

“What about Jake?”

I hesitate, sipping the wine, trying to work out what to say. I can’t blurt out that Jake’s in debt. Leila told me in confidence and he’s family and it might not be as bad as she thinks and … I just can’t, not even to Seb.

“He’s got some issues,” I say at last. “Work issues. It’s all quite worrying.”

“Right,” says Seb carefully. “But that’s his problem, isn’t it? Not yours?”

“But it involves Mum,” I say despairingly. “I have to do something, but I don’t know what.…” I rub my face. “Everything’s got worse than I thought.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Seb peers at me anxiously for a moment, then reaches for a plate on the counter. “Have some fudge.”

I stare incredulously at the crumbly, delicious-looking cubes. “Is that homemade fudge?”

“I thought you might like a treat when you got back. I like making fudge,” Seb adds with a shrug. “It’s easy. I’ve been making it since I was seven.”

I take a piece and put it in my mouth and it’s like a burst of comfort. Sweet, rich, total indulgence.

“Thank you,” I say, after a few moments of chewing. “Thank you for making me fudge.”

“Well, you did save my life,” says Seb, glancing at the coffee sleeve, which is just visible in my tote bag. “Fudge is the very least I owe you.” He shoots me a teasing grin, but this time I don’t smile back. I don’t know why, but his words have flicked me on the raw. I can’t smile. I can’t joke. I don’t find the coffee sleeve charming or amusing anymore; I find it grating.

I finish my piece of fudge, then say, without looking at him, “Are we going to do this forever?”

“Do what?” Seb sounds confused.

“Tit for tat. I owe you. You owe me. Would you have made me fudge if I hadn’t saved your life?”

“Of course!” Seb gives a shocked laugh. “It’s only a joke!”