The more I get to know him, the better I like him. His thoughts are straightforward. His take on life is wry but optimistic. We’ve talked for hours, and I haven’t once winced or frowned or thought, He thinks what? So many guys seem great until you actually find out what’s inside their brain, whereupon you run for cover, panting, “Oh my God, lucky escape!” to yourself. But I’ve spent two weeks exploring Seb’s brain and I haven’t stumbled on any gnarly knots of anger or walls of arrogance. Nor has he told any tasteless jokes and expected me to fall about in hysterics.
The only trip wire—the only one—is his brother’s stuff. His brother’s room. That whole situation. A couple of times I’ve suggested helping him sort out the magazines and he’s batted me away. Once or twice I’ve mentioned James’s room in passing and he’s changed the subject.
Then one day, when he was out, I took the key—it’s on a hook in the kitchen; it’s not hidden away—and very quickly opened the door and peeped inside.
I think I’d imagined a neatly kept bedroom with a few pieces of memorabilia around the place. I hadn’t imagined what I saw: a shambolically untidy, dusty room, with a screensaver still alive on the computer screen and a wizened apple core on the desk and a recycling bin overflowing with empty water bottles and the duvet rumpled as though it hadn’t been touched since—
Then I realized the truth. It hasn’t been touched since.
I stood there for a while, very still, my head teeming with thoughts. Then I locked the door again and put the key back in the kitchen. I was remembering Seb’s resolutely calm, almost upbeat demeanor when he talked about his family. The words he said, almost like a mantra: “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ve moved on, I’m at peace with it.”
At peace? With a dusty room that hasn’t been touched for two years and is locked away from view?
That evening I plucked up courage and ventured, “Seb, about your brother. You said you were at peace with … what happened.”
“I am,” he said, so convincingly that he would fool anyone. Except a girl who can’t leave things alone.
“Right. Great!” I hesitated, then forced myself to press on: “I mean, maybe one day you should clear up those magazines. And … will that room stay locked forever?”
For a few moments Seb was silent, turned away from me, but when at last he glanced over his shoulder it was with a sunny smile.
“I know. I’m going to do it. It’s not a big deal, really, just haven’t got round to it. So, more important, what are we going to have with this fish?”
Not a big deal?
Part of me longed to push him even further, but a wiser part told myself to leave it for now. So I moved onto the subject of salad, and I could see Seb relaxing.
Now I know him better, I’ve realized that he gets a look when you talk about his brother. Not stressed exactly but alert, like an anxious dog on the lookout for danger. And it breaks my heart a little—but I know that if I go blundering in too roughly, I’ll ruin everything.
So, for the first time in my life, I’m not rushing in. I’m not trying to fix it all straightaway. I’m biding my time. It’s nearly killing me, but I’m doing it.
And this is the only issue that bothers me. Apart from that, I’m walking around in a bubble of dazed, wondering bliss. Every morning I wake up and it’s the opposite of realizing I have the dentist. It’s realizing I don’t have the dentist but I do have the best guy in the world sleeping next to me. Nothing else matters.
Until one morning, as I’m arriving at the shop, my electronic calendar sends me an alert—Family Meeting—and I realize with a jolt that it’s tonight. I stare at the words, blinking back into reality, looking around the shop as though for the first time. Shit. I’ve been asleep on the job. There were things I planned to do for this meeting. I’ve been so swept up, I’ve let my concentration lapse. I’ve let everything lapse.
My thoughts swoop guiltily to Mum. I missed a call from her yesterday and I meant to call back, but I never did. Hastily I dial her number, but it goes to voicemail.
“Hi, Mum!” I say. “It’s Fixie calling you back; hope everything’s good … we’re all well … I’ll try you again soon. Take care, love you.”
I’m not going to tell her about Seb yet. And certainly not on voicemail.
As I tap my code into the till, I’m cursing myself. There was so much I was going to do before this meeting. I was going to read through all Bob’s emails, for a start. He sends us regular financial summaries, and I wanted to have all that information up my sleeve. I was going to research competitors’ websites. I was going to get exact sales figures on all of Jake’s new stock.
I’m humming with frustration at myself as Morag approaches me, tucking her hair nervously behind her ear.
“Fixie,” she says. “Can I have a word before we open?”
“Oh,” I say. “Yes, of course!”
I turn toward her, but for a few moments she doesn’t speak. She’s looking over my shoulder, her cheeks turning pink.
“I’ve been interviewing for other jobs,” she says at last. “I’ve had an offer from that big homewares place in Kew. Suttons. And I’m thinking of taking it.”
For a full half minute I can’t speak.
Morag wants to leave?
“Morag …” I falter at last. I’m so shocked, I can’t even frame any words.
“It’s not what I wanted.” Her mouth is tight, as though she’s trying not to show that she’s upset. “You know I love Farrs, you know that, Fixie. But …” She trails off, and I can hear that there are about a million unsaid words in that but.
“Can you tell me what …” I rub my face, trying to keep my breath steady. But now that my initial shock has died down, panic is swooping in. I can’t lose Morag, I can’t. “Could you tell me your main issues?”
“Oh, Fixie, love, you know the issues.” She exhales unsteadily. “This place has changed. Half the displays have disappeared, I don’t know what we’re supposed to be selling, all the customers are complaining.…” She shakes her head. “The Christmas-cookie promotion day was a disaster! There simply wasn’t enough stock!”
“I know,” I say with a flash of painful remembrance. “Jake wanted to promote those neon novelty lamps.”
I don’t even want to think about the neon lamps. Jake landed them on us and we’ve only sold one—and it’s already been returned.
“Yes, well.” Morag’s expression tells me what she thinks of that. “And I’ve just had to cancel Cake Club for the third time—”
“The third time?” I stare at her. “Wait. I’ve missed this. What happened?”
“Nicole, of course! It’s always Nicole. A mindfulness session it was, this time. Well, all I’ll say is, do her ‘mindfulness’ friends ever come and buy so much as a whisk? Do they?” There are little red spots on Morag’s cheeks, and I realize how angry and offended she is and how I’ve been sleepwalking my way into a total disaster.
Mum, I suddenly think. What’s Mum going to say? And my stomach spasms with fresh terror, mixed with fury at myself.
“Morag,” I say desperately. “We love you. Please don’t go.”
“Suttons have said they’ll give me a regular space for the Cake Club,” says Morag, not meeting my eye. “They want to make it bigger, serve drinks, do live Internet events, whatever that is.… I don’t want to leave,” she says, her voice sharpening with distress. “None of us do. But—”
“None of us?” I echo stupidly. “What—”
“All the Cake Club members have said they’ll come with me. They’ll come to events at Suttons. It’s not too far.”
There’s a prickling silence. The subtext is obvious: They’ll do all their shopping at Suttons too.
Fear is knotting round my throat. Mum trusted us with the shop and we’ve lost our best member of staff, plus our core customers. And I know Mum put us all in charge, but I can’t help feeling responsible. I swallow hard a few times, trying to get my thoughts straight.
“You haven’t accepted Suttons yet?”
“I’ve told them I need to think.” She finally meets my gaze, her eyes sorrowful yet resolute. “But, Fixie, there’s not much to think about.”
“Morag, let me fix this.” My words come tumbling out. “Please. Let me at least come to you with a proposal. Give me forty-eight hours to … to sort it out.”
“All right,” says Morag, and she pats my arm before she walks away. But I can see she hasn’t changed her mind.
For the rest of the morning I’m in a kind of internal frenzy. I deal with customers pleasantly—but inside I’m churning. I keep thinking, How did I let this happen? I keep looking around the shop, trying to see it through Mum’s eyes. And when I do, a slightly cold feeling comes over me. It doesn’t look right. It doesn’t look Farrs.
I’m going to have it out with Nicole tonight. And Jake. I’m going to insist on a few things. Those garden lanterns have got to go. We need all our display tables back. Nicole needs to realize we’re not a yoga center, we’re a shop. I’m going to be stern, implacable …
But, oh God.
Even as I’m having these thoughts, I know I’ll let myself down. My voice will shake. I’ll stutter and flush. The ravens will flap and I’ll crumble.
On impulse, I head to the back room and dial Seb’s number. When he answers, I launch straight in: “Seb, I don’t know what to do, I have to read the riot act to Jake and Nicole tonight, but I always let myself down, I get so nervous I can’t even speak, but I have to speak—”