But I don’t give away my real thoughts for a nanosecond. I need to bolster up Mum before she decides not to go away after all and do a sixteen-hour shift at the shop instead.
“Mum, listen,” I say, with as much confidence as I can muster. “When you get back, we’ll be sitting around that very table to celebrate.” I gesture at the gateleg oak table. “The shop will be in great shape. And we’ll be a happy family. I promise.”
Eight
After Mum and Aunty Karen have left the next afternoon, everything feels flat. Jake and Leila disappear off to the pub and I decide to make a Bolognese for supper, because that’s what Mum would do. But even as I’m cooking, it isn’t the same. I’m not filling the house with the same magical, Mum-like atmosphere. I don’t feel warm or cozy or reassured.
To be honest, it’s not just because Mum’s gone that I feel so flat. It’s that I haven’t heard from or seen Ryan since the party. Not a visit, not a phone call, just a single text: Sorry about your mum.
The day after the party, he went to Sonning to visit his family, and then it was as if he’d disappeared into a black hole. He didn’t reply to any of my texts. A couple of times Jake said, “Ryan says hi,” and that was the sum total of our communication. To be honest, I didn’t mind too much. He wasn’t the priority; Mum was. But now I can’t help thinking: What happened?
I stare at the pan dispiritedly and give it a stir—then turn it off. I’ll pop out for some ice cream. You can’t go wrong with Ben & Jerry’s when you need a pick-me-up.
As I’m hurrying along the High Street, I see a guy with frondy hair walking ahead of me, with a brisk determined stride. At once I think, Is that the guy from the coffee shop? Followed by, No, don’t be silly, it can’t be.
Odd that my mind has instantly gone there, though. And even odder that I’m faintly blushing. What’s that about? I haven’t even thought about him since that day.
Well, OK, maybe I have, once or twice. Just his eyes. There was something about his eyes. I’ve found myself picturing them now and then—that flecked, leafy green-brown color.
The man ahead of me stops to consult his phone and I catch sight of his face—and it is him! It’s Sebastian … whatever he’s called. He glances up and sees me approaching—and at once his face creases into a smile of recognition.
“Oh, hello!” he says.
“Hi!” I come to a halt. “How are you?” I meet his woodlandy gaze—then quickly look away again before I overdo the eye contact.
“Good! Just waiting for a cab.” He gestures at his phone, and I see the map of a cab-company app.
“Back in Acton!” I say. “Or are you local?”
“No. I’ve been here for …” He hesitates. “A thing.”
“Oh, right,” I say politely, because it’s none of my business—and it feels as though the conversation should perhaps end there. But Sebastian’s face is animated; his brow is creasing up; he seems like he wants to share his thoughts.
“As it happens, I’ve been consulting ‘the skiing workout guru,’ ” he suddenly says, making quote marks with his fingers. “Did you know that the skiing workout guru lives in Acton?”
“No,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t even know the skiing workout guru existed.” I nearly add, “I’ve never skied in my life,” but I can tell Sebastian is on a roll.
“Nor did I, till my girlfriend gave me two vouchers for my birthday and insisted I go to see him. So I went. Twice.”
“Right. And how was he?”
“Absolute rubbish!” exclaims Sebastian indignantly. “I’m offended by how rubbish he was. I’m shocked!”
His outrage is so comical, I break into laughter—although I can tell there’s genuine grievance there too.
“How was he rubbish?” I can’t help asking.
“The first session, all he did was describe how he won a bronze in Vancouver. Today he described how he just missed a bronze in Sochi. I could have got that off Wikipedia in five minutes, if I were interested, which I’m not.”
I can’t help laughing again. “What about exercises?”
“He revealed the insightful information that lunges are a good idea and suggested I come back twice a week for the next six months.”
“What a rip-off!” I say in heartfelt tones.
“Exactly!” exclaims Sebastian. “I’m glad you agree. I’m sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.” He glances at the map on his phone and I see an icon of a cab coming up the High Street. “Anyway, enough of that. How’s life been treating you?”
I open my mouth to say, “Fine,” but it doesn’t seem honest, somehow.
“Actually, my mum’s been in hospital,” I say instead.
“Oh no.” He looks up from his phone in dismay. “And here I am going on … Is there anything I can do?”
This is such a kind, ludicrous instinct that I can’t help smiling again. What on earth could he do?
“It’s fine. She’s better. She’s off on holiday.”
“Oh good,” he says—and he really seems to mean it. At that moment a minicab pulls up and he signals to the driver. “This is me,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”
“Bye,” I say, as he opens the car door. “I’m sorry Acton hasn’t been kind to you. Collapsing ceilings and dodgy workout gurus. We must do better.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he says with a grin. “Acton has a place in my heart.”
“We do have an amazing Thai restaurant here,” I say. “If you’re into Thai food.”
“I love Thai food.” His eyes crinkle at me. “Thanks for the tip. Oh, and remember.” He pauses, his hand on the car door. “I still owe you one. I’m serious. You haven’t forgotten?”
“Of course not!” I say. “How could I?”
I watch as the cab drives off, still smiling at his good-humored outrage—then head on my way.
—
The little exchange has buoyed my spirits, but as I get back to the house I start to feel flat again. I reheat the pasta sauce, inhaling the delicious scent, then put on The Archers, because that’s what Mum would do too—but it feels fake. I don’t listen to The Archers, so I don’t know who any of the characters are.
“Hey, Fixie.” Nicole wanders into the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. I’m hoping she’s going to offer to help, but she doesn’t even seem to have noticed that I’m cooking. She leans against the counter, picks up the chunk of Parmesan I was about to grate, and starts to nibble it. “So I’ve had a great idea,” she says thoughtfully. “I think we should have yoga at the shop.”
“Yoga?” I echo. “What do you mean? Like … a yoga section?”
“Yoga sessions,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “We should run sessions in the evenings. I could do them.”
I put my wooden spoon down on Mum’s bunny-rabbit ceramic spoon rest (￡6.99, bestseller at Easter) and peer at her to see if she’s joking. But she meets my gaze with a full-on, Nicole-taking-herself-seriously expression. The thing about Nicole is, she’s all vague and wafty until she wants something, whereupon she can suddenly become quite gimletty and focused.
“Nicole, we’re a shop,” I say carefully. “We sell saucepans. We don’t do yoga.”
“We have the Cake Club,” she counters.
“Yes, but that’s a selling event. We sell cake tins and stuff. It enhances our business.”
“Loads of shops do all sorts of evening events,” she responds. “It would build up the clientele.”
“But where?”
I’m picturing the shop, trying to imagine even two people putting down yoga mats, and I’m failing.
“We’d have to move a few things,” she says breezily. “Get rid of a couple of displays.”
“Every night? And then put them back?”
“Of course not!” She rolls her eyes. “Permanently. There’s too much stock, anyway. Even Mum says so. It’s overcrowded.”
“We can’t get rid of whole displays of stock to make space for yoga lessons!” I say in horror.
“Well, that’s your opinion,” says Nicole calmly.
“What about the cleaners? They start at six P.M. When would they get in?”
Nicole stares at me blankly as though she never even realized the shop gets cleaned every night.
Oh my God. She didn’t realize the shop gets cleaned, did she? She lives on another planet.
“We’d sort it,” she says at last with a shrug. “Like we do on Cake Club night.”
“OK,” I say, trying to be positive. “Well, would you sell any stock?”
“We’d be doing yoga,” says Nicole, frowning. “Not selling things.”
“But—”
“You’re trying to find problems, Fixie,” she adds.
“So Mum only left, what”—I look at my watch—“four hours ago. And already you want to change things.”
“You should be more open-minded!” retaliates Nicole. “I bet if I rang Mum now, she’d love the idea.”
“She would not!” I say hotly. I feel so sure of myself, I almost want to dial Mum’s number and prove it. But of course I won’t.
“You should do yoga yourself.” Nicole eyes me dispassionately. “Your breathing is really shallow. Look.” She points at my chest. “It’s stressing you out.”