“Three times a week?” Seb seems taken aback. “No! Not that I know of. Maybe once a month. Why?”
“No reason.” I swallow hard. I’m trying to stay composed, even as everything comes crashing down inside me. Ryan wasn’t playing pool. He was with other women. Maybe that Erica he kept talking about. He never wanted to be cozy and intimate and domesticated. I was a free meal and a back rub twice a week.
At last, Seb moves forward a step. I shoot a glance at him and see a troubled, earnest gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But that man is … He’s not good. In my opinion. How long have you known him?”
“All my life,” I retort roughly. “Since I was ten.”
“Ah.” His face crinkles in an expression I can’t read.
“We were only in a casual thing,” I say quickly. “It was no big deal. So.”
But it’s far too little, far too late. I can tell from Seb’s face that he knows I’m devastated. His woodland eyes are alive with sympathy. His brow is furrowed with pity for me. I can’t stand it.
“Anyway. Clearly Ryan and you didn’t work out professionally. Which is a shame. Thank you for explaining it all to me.” I gather my coat and bag with trembling hands.
“Fixie, I’m so sorry.” Seb is watching me. “I didn’t mean— I had no idea—”
“Of course not!” My voice is shrill. “And that’s not why—I simply wanted to find out what had gone wrong professionally with you and Ryan. I was simply interested. You did me a favor, and it went wrong so—” I break off as a new thought hits me. “You did me a favor,” I repeat more slowly. “You hired Ryan. And your company suffered as a result. So now I owe you one.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Seb with a short laugh. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do.”
“You don’t! Fixie, we’re even.”
I can sense his eyes trying to meet mine, his smile trying to lighten things, but I can’t be lightened. I’m heavy and sad and there are tears gathering behind my eyes.
I grab the coffee sleeve, not meeting his eye, and take a pen from his desk. Underneath the Paid I wrote before, I scribble some new words:
I owe you one and I’ll never be able to pay you back. So. Sorry about that.
I sign it, then drop the pen down.
“Bye,” I say, and I turn and go. I can hear Seb saying something else, calling something, but I don’t stop to listen. I need to leave.
—
By the time I get back to Acton, I feel exhausted. I’ve tried out every phrase in my head, every accusation. I feel as though I’ve had about six rows with Ryan already.
I’m already mentally batting away the patronizing response that I know will come my way. He’ll try to look all surprised, like I’m being possessive and unreasonable. He’ll say, “Fixie, I said we shouldn’t rush things, remember?” The thought makes my heart pump with outrage. Not rushing things is not the same as sleeping with two other women on the side. It is not.
When I think how I believed his version of everything, how I rationalized everything he said and did, I feel warm with stupidity. But he was so convincing.
Wasn’t he?
Or maybe I just wanted to believe him, a little voice says in my head. Maybe I ignored what I didn’t want to see. Painful realizations are filling my head, one after another, till I close my eyes to escape them. I can’t think about all my mistakes now. It is what it is.
The party is pretty much over as I burst back into the shop. None of the staff are left, nor Hannah. Leila is sitting on a chair, scrolling through her phone, and Jake is talking to some jowly guy in a pink shirt, but I can’t see Ryan anywhere.
“Oh, Fixie,” says Leila, looking up. “There you are.”
“Where’s Ryan?” I demand, and Leila opens her eyes wide in astonishment.
“Didn’t he tell you? Hasn’t he texted? He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“He went to catch a train. He’s staying with his cousin in … Leicester?” She crinkles her brow. “Something like that. The Midlands, anyway. He says there are more opportunities for him outside London.”
“The Midlands?” I stare at her. This makes no sense. He can’t have just left.
“I said to him, ‘What about Fixie?’ but he said you’d understand and you’d talked about it and everything.” Leila looks innocently at me. “He said you’d be OK.”
We’d talked about it? That’s what he said? But that’s—
And suddenly I can’t believe I’ve fallen for anything Ryan’s said, ever. He’s just a lie machine. That’s what he is, and it’s taken me this long to work it out.
“He was in a real mood,” adds Leila regretfully. “He kept saying there was nothing for him in London anymore. He was telling us all about losing his job. You know, that Seb guy sounds awful.” She surveys me with her doe-like mascaraed eyes. “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”
I stare at her, barely hearing the question. I’m still a bit dazed. Ryan has lied about everything and now he’s gone and I don’t even get to have it out with him. My pent-up rage and humiliation have nowhere to go except right back into my heart.
“What’s he like?” Leila persists, and I blink at her, coming to. “Is he as bad as Ryan says? Because he sounds like a monster!”
I flash back to Seb in his office. Gazing at me with those troubled eyes, understanding everything. His tactful words. His hair askew. His remorse at having upset me. Trying to cheer me up. Telling me we’re even.
I’m suddenly gripped by a wish. I wish … I wish …
But I can’t finish the thought. I don’t quite know what I wish. Just that things weren’t like this.
“Seb?” I say at last, and exhale long and hard. “He’s not that bad. No. He’s … he’s not that bad.”
Thirteen
Two weeks later Mum is in St. Tropez with Aunty Karen. She keeps sending me long texts about the marina and the boats and the sunshine, and I know I should send her a proper reply—but I can’t face it. Once I start typing to Mum, everything will pour out, and I’ll start sniveling all over my keyboard.
So instead I’m zapping her lots of smiley faces and emojis of shiny suns and sailboats and dodging the truth altogether. (Maybe that’s what emojis were invented for in the first place, and I’ve just been using them wrong. They’re not there to convey thoughts in a fun way; they’re there to lie to your mum.)
I’ve also sent three texts to Ryan. One very dignified and calm. One a tad less dignified and less calm. One totally desperate and shameless, trying to give him an opportunity to prove he isn’t as bad as I think.
Then I made the even bigger mistake of showing my texts to Hannah and she recoiled in horror. She threatened to come and confiscate my phone at night when I was asleep. She said she had a spare key and she’d creep through the house if need be. And I thought, Actually, she might. So I stopped.
And Ryan never replied to any of them. Nor left me a voicemail or an email, nor any messages at the shop. Nor a letter. (I mean, clearly he wasn’t going to write me a letter; I don’t know why I asked the postman if he’d dropped any envelopes.) But it’s fine, because I’m a strong-minded person and my strategy is: Simply stop thinking about him.
Well, I’m still thinking about him, obviously. Now and then. The name Ryan does pass through my thoughts; how could it not? But then, there are plenty of other things to think about right now. Like the fact that Jake still hasn’t produced a budget for the relaunch party, so I still don’t know how much he spent on it. And the fact that Nicole canceled Cake Club last night without telling me, so she could hold a mind-body-spirit talk in the store, and I’ve already had four irate emails. And the most pressing fact of all: that I’ve promised Hannah I’ll have a chat with Tim about trying for a baby. She wants me to find out why he changed his mind and, if possible, change it back.
Change it back? Me? How am I supposed to change Tim’s mind back? How am I even supposed to bring up the subject? I’ve known Tim a long time, but family planning is definitely not the kind of conversation topic we normally cover.
Hannah sounded so pleading, though, I found myself promising I’d have a go. She told me she’d bring him into the shop one day after work and I should “engage him in conversation about babies.” Only it should seem “natural.”
“I don’t want him to know I’ve spoken to you,” she said adamantly. “I want him to think he’s changed his mind back independently. OK?”
“Er … right,” I said. “Of course. Sure.”
I thought I’d have some time to prepare, but it’s the next day, and here they are already, at 5:30 P.M. Hannah must have made Tim leave work early, I realize. And left work early herself. Clearly this is a high priority.
Oh God. So, no pressure, then.
“Hi, Hannah; hi, Tim!” I greet them, trying to sound natural. “What a surprise to see you!”
“Hi, Fixie!” replies Hannah stiltedly. “Yes, it was a spontaneous decision to come. I’m going to look at blenders for a birthday present. You keep Tim company.” And she strides off to the back of the shop without a backward look. Tim and I are alone. It’s my cue.