“Jake’s say-so?” I echo incredulously.
“Well, your uncle Ned confirmed it and told me not to bother your mum about it. He was quite firm on that. And obviously it’s none of my beeswax, it’s a family thing, it’s not for me to …” He takes a step backward, his eyes raised to the ceiling as though emphasizing his position, not in the family. “But like I say, it’s quite a lot of money, so I’d have thought you’d be in the loop, Fixie.”
I can’t reply. My head feels like it’s imploding. Jake’s been borrowing money from Farrs without even telling Mum? I suddenly remember him coming into the shop that time. Asking where Bob was but not telling me why. Obsessed by his phone. I remember thinking that he’s always been about more, Jake. I wondered how he was paying for it all. Well, now I know.
“Only there hasn’t been any talk of repayment, so to speak,” Bob adds distantly. “If this happens every month, it’ll make quite a hole in the books. And if your mum was looking to sell, then … Well. It’s not the best time to be losing all this cash. Although as I say, none of my beeswax.”
Finally he lowers his gaze to meet mine. I’ve known Bob a long time and I know what his kindly eyes are saying. They’re saying, “This isn’t right.” They’re saying, “Do something.”
“Right,” I manage. “Well … thanks, Bob. Thanks.” I start to walk away, then come back as a thought hits me. “Why didn’t Uncle Ned want to bother Mum?”
“Oh …” Bob’s eyes slide away again to the ceiling. “Your uncle likes feeling he’s got the power, I think. Some people are like that.”
This is so daring and disloyal a thing for Bob to say that I stare at him.
“He helped out with the lease,” I say automatically, because that’s what we always say about Uncle Ned. “He got us good terms.”
There’s a long silence. I can see a kind of ripple effect on Bob’s face. As if he’s trying to hold something back. Oh my God.
“Didn’t he?” I whisper.
“Your mum was touched that your uncle stepped in,” says Bob at last. “She kept saying, ‘Oh, Bob, he’s such a rock.’ I wasn’t going to mess that up.” His gentle eyes meet mine in a smile. “I’m fond of your mum.”
I feel like everything’s shifting in my brain.
“Bob,” I say bluntly. “Tell me the truth. Who really negotiated the lease?”
“Your uncle made a call or two,” says Bob after a pause. “Didn’t really help things along.” He gives a gentle, reminiscent laugh. “He put his foot in it, to tell you the truth. Insulted the lady at the property company.”
“So it was you who got us that great deal.”
“They were good terms, yes,” says Bob, with the barest hint of pride. “It was the least I could do for your dad.”
I rub my head, feeling suddenly almost tearful. “Bob … I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say,” Bob replies in his mild way. “I was pleased to do it. If you do speak to your mum,” he adds, “give her my regards.”
I watch as he makes his way out of the shop, his shoes squeaking on the floor. I half want to run after him and beg for more advice—but he’s done more than enough. He’s gone the extra mile. Now it’s my turn to go the extra mile. But in which direction?
My brain is boiling over with new information. With worry. With indecision. At last I start dialing Mum’s number, then stop, then start again. Not because I’m going to rat on Jake, but because I need to know, I need facts. What’s going on?
“Hello! Fixie?” a cheery familiar voice answers. “That you, love?”
“Hi, Aunty Karen,” I say, trying to sound relaxed and calm. “Is Mum there, by any chance?”
“Oh, darling, she’s fast asleep. Feeling a bit poorly. She’s come down with a virus or something. Overdid it with our trip to Granada, probably. We only got back last night. Oh, Fixie, it’s fabulous! The tiles!”
“What about Mum?” I say anxiously. “Is she OK?”
“I’ll take her to the doctor tomorrow,” says Aunty Karen reassuringly. “If they don’t give her any medication, I know where I can get some, dirt cheap. Now, love, I’m trying to persuade your mum to stay with me for Christmas. You wouldn’t mind, would you? You’re all grown-ups. Probably off doing your own thing!”
I stare at the phone, dismayed. Christmas without Mum? Without Mum?
I’ve always assumed she’ll be home by then. I’ve always had that thought there in my mind, like an anchor: Mum’ll be home.
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound as hollow as I feel. “Well … you know. Mum should do what she wants.”
“That’s what I said!” cries Aunty Karen triumphantly. “I said, ‘You relax, Joanne! I’ll cook, and it’s eggnog all the way!’ ”
“Well, give her my love,” I say, forcing a bright tone. “I hope she gets better soon. Keep me posted. And let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
“Of course,” says Aunty Karen comfortably. “And are you all OK? Jake? Nicole?”
“Yes, we’re fine.”
“Oh, and how’s the shop?” she adds. “I know your mum’ll ask me. She’ll say, ‘Didn’t you ask about the shop, Karen? How could you not ask about the shop?’ She loves that shop like another child!”
Aunty Karen hoots with laughter and I look around at the shop that Mum loves so much, feeling even more hollow.
“It’s … great!” I say. “All good.”
“Marvelous. Well, take care, Fixie!”
“You too,” I say, and ring off feeling like I always do after conversations with Aunty Karen: as though a tornado has blown away.
So that road is closed. I’m not bothering Mum about Jake, not when she’s ill. I’m going to have to do this on my own.
Come on, Fixie. Come on.
I catch sight of my own reflection in the shop-front glass and do a sudden impulsive front kick, punching the air like a kickboxer. Then I do another, then another, moving forward, panting a little with the effort. My chin is jutting out and my expression is fierce and I probably look like an idiot—but I don’t care. I feel stronger with every kick. I can do this.
Ninja Fixie. Bring it on.
Twenty-two
Uncle Ned has booked yet another grand restaurant for our meeting, this one on Piccadilly. As I’m on the way there, I cut through a shopping arcade to get out of the freezing cold and am immediately hit by warmth and light and a smell of cinnamon. The marble-floored atrium is filled with pop-up stalls selling scented candles and seasonal goods. Christmas songs are blaring through the sound system. A full-sized snowman is wandering around, making children laugh. It’s all very festive, only I don’t feel in a festive mood. I feel jagged and angry.
I’m striding along, practicing what I’ll say to Jake, ignoring invitations to try out smoothies and massage chairs—when a familiar voice hits my ears and I stop dead. No way.
No way.
“I’m a makeup artist,” he’s saying. “And you have a really interesting face, did you know that?”
I swivel slowly on my heel, and there he is. Ryan Chalker. As handsome as ever, wearing a black shirt and trousers, standing next to a pop-up stall covered in pots of face cream.
I wait for the familiar reaction to hit me. I wait for my breath to shorten and my heart to swoop. But the magic has gone. After all these years, the magic has gone. All I can see is a smooth-faced chancer. He’s addressing a frowsy-looking woman in a parka, and I can tell, he’s getting through to her.
“You remind me of this model I used to work with on magazine shoots,” he says brazenly, and I breathe in sharply with indignation. Since when did Ryan work on magazine shoots as a makeup artist?
“Really?” I can see the woman blossoming under his compliments.
“You have beautiful skin,” he assures her. “But I bet your husband tells you that every day.”
God, he’s good. Of course the husband never says a word to her, and now this woman is putty in Ryan’s hands.
“Who does your eyebrows?” he demands now.
“I do,” she admits.
“No.” Ryan’s eyes widen. “They’re amazing! Don’t let anyone touch them. Are you over thirty-five?”
“A bit.” The woman flushes.
I mean, she’s about fifty. Even I can tell that.
“Not by much,” says Ryan firmly. “So tell me, darling, do you use eye cream?”
“A bit.” Her eyes swivel evasively. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Ryan looks devastated. “Sweetheart, look after your skin. I don’t care whose products you use, but for me, start using eye cream, yeah? I’m going to give you a free sample …” He’s swiftly undoing a little pot. “Can I put this on you? You don’t mind?”
He smears some goo on the woman’s face, then brandishes a mirror at her. “Can you see that? Can you see the transformation? And that’s on one use! It’s not surgical, but it’s surgical.”
It’s not surgical, but it’s surgical? Is he even allowed to say that?