I mean, fair enough. People can look at phones. It’s not against the law.
I move my hands still lower and caress him, trying to make my meaning plain. I’ve been longing for Ryan. All I want to do is go upstairs and reunite properly and forget everything else. But Ryan doesn’t respond.
“Hmm,” he says vaguely—then he focuses on me as though for the first time. “You know what? I’m ravenous. And I’ve got a stack of washing in the hall. Jake and Leila’s machine is bust.”
“Oh,” I say, halted. “Well, I’ll put that on here. And let’s eat. We’ve got some steak,” I add, opening the fridge and peering in. “Does that sound good?”
“Awesome,” says Ryan, wandering out. “Tell me when it’s ready. I’ll find something on telly.”
As I get the frying pan from its rack, I don’t know exactly how to feel. Deep down, I was hoping that Ryan would sweep me upstairs at once and ravish me. And even more deep down—like, fathoms down—I was hoping he might say something like, “Fixie, I love you.” Or: “Fixie, I’ve always loved you, it’s always been you, have you never realized that?”
No, stop it. Let’s not aim too high.
Anyway, this is better than rushing off for instant sex the minute I set foot inside the door. It’s far better.
Isn’t it?
Yes, I tell myself firmly. It’s definitely better. Because he wants to be with me for me. Not simply for sex but as a person.
The TV comes on in the other room, and the familiar sound fills me with a sudden wave of warmth. Of course this is better. Of course it is! Here we are, a proper domesticated couple, making supper and asking about each other’s day. It’s what I always wanted. Coziness. Intimacy. We may not live together, but it’s as good as.
As I start to peel a potato, I find myself humming happily. There was Mum, saying Ryan was flaky. And Hannah, saying it would never last. But they were both wrong. He’s here! With me! All the troubles of the day are starting to recede, even Uncle Ned. The point is, if you have someone to come home to, nothing’s that bad, and now I have Ryan to come home to. My teenage self still can’t quite believe it, but it’s true! Ryan Chalker is here and he’s mine.
Twelve
A month later, Mum is in Paris. I can’t quite believe it, but she is. She’s posted a million pictures of herself and Aunty Karen on her new Facebook page. (Mum? Facebook?) There are shots of Mum at the Eiffel Tower, Mum sitting at a pavement-café table, and Mum with Aunty Karen in white robes at a spa. (Mum? A spa?)
As I say, it’s unbelievable. Although, to be fair, there’s a lot about life at the moment that I can’t quite believe. I can’t believe that Ryan and I are still together as a couple, in a solid domestic routine that makes me want to hug myself with joy. He comes round at least twice a week and I cook for him and we watch telly and it’s lovely. It’s low-key. It’s mellow. All the things I never dared to dream that Ryan and I might be.
Nor can I believe that we’re hosting a party tonight at Farrs to “reposition” ourselves—Jake’s word, not mine—for which he’s hired a red carpet and a photographer and a DJ and a bouncer. (A bouncer?)
But above all, I can’t believe what Hannah is telling me about her and Tim. This can’t be right; it can’t.
We’re in the back room at Farrs, touching up our makeup together. Jake has renamed the room “Backstage” for tonight and has equipped it with three bottles of champagne, one of which Hannah immediately opened.
“He just announced it,” she’s saying miserably, taking a gulp. “He sat down on the sofa and said, “ ‘I don’t want a baby anymore.’ ”
“How can he not want a baby anymore?” I say, incredulous. “Your whole life has been about trying for a baby.”
“I know! He says he’s changed his mind. He says he’s allowed to change his mind and he doesn’t have to explain it. What kind of person says that?”
Tim, I silently answer.
“Maybe he’s just having a wobble,” I say. “Take him out to supper, have a glass of wine, and talk it through.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She looks doleful. “I dunno. We’re not getting on too well.”
“Really? Why not?”
“It’s my fault.” Hannah hesitates. “I’ve been off my game. We had a big row at the weekend. I … I put my foot in it. I upset him.”
“How?” I can’t help asking. Tim is basically made of Teflon. I can’t even imagine Hannah upsetting him.
“It’s kind of mortifying.” She stares into her glass.
“What?” I say, agog. “Hannah, come on. What?”
“We were at this dinner party,” says Hannah reluctantly. “The talk turned to male circumcision and sex. I’d been working since six A.M., by the way,” she adds defensively. “My brain was fried. I couldn’t think straight.”
“I’m not going to judge you!” I exclaim. “What did you say?”
“OK.” She breathes out. “So everyone was discussing whether circumcision affects sex. And I said to Tim, across the table, ‘Well, you’re not circumcised, are you, babe? And it doesn’t make you any less sensitive.’ ”
“What’s wrong with that?” I say, puzzled. “I mean, it’s a bit indiscreet …”
“You don’t understand.” Hannah shakes her head wildly. “He looked at me with this horrible flat look, and he said, ‘But, Hannah, I am circumcised.’ ”
“Oh my God!” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Is he?”
“Yes! He is! He always has been! I don’t know what happened. I must have had a brain-freeze.”
“Shit!” I quell a sudden terrible urge to laugh. I mustn’t laugh.
“It was so embarrassing.” Hannah screws up her face in agony. “The whole table heard. They were like, ‘How can you not know if your own husband is circumcised or not? Have you never even noticed?’ They teased us all evening. And Tim …” She pauses. “He didn’t take it very well.”
“Huh,” I say, regaining control of myself. “That’s understandable.”
“I know. I mean, what he should have done was say nothing. How would anyone have known? I told him that afterward. I said, ‘Why did you even open your mouth?’ But it didn’t help.”
“Right,” I say, a bit lost for words. “Well—”
“How could I forget my own husband’s penis?” Hannah’s voice rises in agitation. “His penis?”
“Er.…” I peer at her strained face. “Hannah, don’t take this the wrong way, but is there any chance you’re pregnant already? You might have got … I dunno. Pregnancy tension or whatever?”
“No! I haven’t got pregnancy tension; I’ve got trying-for-pregnancy tension!” Hannah erupts. “It’s turning me into a madwoman! How do people do it?”
“I have no idea,” I admit. “Look, try to forget about it. You’ll pull through. Tim and you are solid.”
“Yes.” Hannah seems to calm down a bit. “Maybe. Anyway, this is your evening. Let’s not talk about me anymore. It looks amazing out there!” She gestures toward the shop floor.
The place has been transformed for the party. Jake closed early and brought in a team of removers. They’ve packed away about half the stock, got rid of the display tables, put up lights and a bar for drinks. A DJ has set up speakers and a laptop. There are also massive posters everywhere, with Nicole’s face blown up huge and MEET THE FACE OF FARRS, printed at the bottom.
I mean, to be fair, it does look amazing. It just doesn’t look much like a shop. Let alone our shop.
“So, who’s coming tonight?” inquires Hannah.
“Up to Jake.” I spread my hands. “This is his thing. He says it’s a ‘curated’ guest list.”
“Oh, curated,” says Hannah, and shoots me a sardonic look, which I return.
Hannah is the only person to whom I will ever be disloyal about the family, because basically she is family. So she knows what I think of Jake. And all Jake’s ideas.
“He went through the customer database,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “And he chose all the ones with posh post codes.”
“Posh post codes!” echoes Hannah incredulously. “What counts as posh?”
“God knows. And he’s got an ‘influencer’ coming. This YouTube girl called Kitten Smith. And the local press. And we’ve all got to look ‘glamorous and sophisticated.’ Jake gave all the staff a lecture today. Poor Morag looked totally freaked out.”
“Well, you look very glamorous and sophisticated,” says Hannah loyally, and I roll my eyes with a grin. I went to get a blow-dry this afternoon, but no way was I splashing out on a new dress, so I’m in the dark green shift I wore to be Nicole’s bridesmaid. “What does your mum think?” Hannah adds. “Isn’t this costing a fortune?”
“Mum’s OK with it,” I say with a shrug. “She says it’s Jake’s thing and it’s harmless enough.”
I try not to give away my sense of betrayal. I phoned Mum up two weeks ago because I was worried about all Jake’s grandiose party plans. I wanted her to agree with me and tell him to rein it in—but she said, “Ah, love, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” in her easy way. And I didn’t want to press it and cause stress and ruin her holiday. So here we are.