“He’s secretive,” says Leila. “He doesn’t even tell me everything. He wants everyone to think he’s …” She pauses as though thinking how to put it. “Winning. Master of the universe.”
“I thought maybe he was burned out from too many deals.”
“It’s the opposite!” Leila replies, her voice wavering between a sob and a laugh. “It’s not enough deals! It’s no income! Nothing to pay the mortgage!”
“But you’re still with him?” I blurt out the question before I can stop myself. For a moment Leila stops filing my nails and I worry that I’ve offended her. But when she looks up, her gaze is nothing but wistful.
“Jake’s been good to me. I’m not going to abandon him, just because …” She hesitates, her eyes dimming slightly. “I know some people find him a bit … much. But he’s got a softer side, you know.”
“I know.” I nod.
“Jakey talks about life. He has interesting ideas. He’s fun. He wants to do things, you know? Some men, they don’t want to do anything or go anywhere.”
“Jake’s never had that problem,” I say in wry tones, and Leila smiles, then wipes her wet eyes and resumes filing.
When both my hands are done, she pats them dry and starts to apply a base coat.
“Did you choose a color yet?” she asks, and I point randomly to the lilac nail polish.
“Lovely choice!” says Leila, and she starts to unscrew the pot. And we’re both so calm and peaceful now, I almost don’t want to ruin the atmosphere, but I have to ask one more question.
“So what’s Jake going to do now?”
Leila exhales in a shuddery breath and stares down at the nail-polish pot, blinking hard.
“Get some money from somewhere,” she says at last. “I said to him, ‘Jakey, get a job! A job!’ But you know what he’s like.…”
“Where will he get more money?” I say bluntly.
Slowly, Leila’s skinny arms and shoulders rise up in the most hopeless shrug I’ve ever seen. For a few moments we’re both silent, because what is there to say? Then Leila’s eyes brighten.
“I could put a shimmer on top of the lilac,” she says. “I’ve got a lovely new product, shall I show you?”
I know displacement when I see it. Her hands are trembling as she reaches for the pot and her eyes are shadowy and I decide we’ve talked enough about Jake.
“That sounds amazing,” I say, as warmly as I can. “Leila, you’re brilliant.”
And she is brilliant. As I’m heading to Seb’s later, I keep staring at my immaculate shimmery lilac nails and thinking, I should get Leila to do this every week.
But that’s only about 5 percent of my brain. The rest is remembering Jake’s angry bravado. And Leila’s shadowy eyes. And that bare wall with wires hanging out of it. All my adrenaline from earlier on has seeped away, leaving me flatter than I’ve been for ages. I feel pale and washed out and strained.
Seb buzzes me in and I travel up in the lift to his flat. He’s waiting there, the front door flung open.
“So, did you do it?” he asks at once, his face bright and expectant. “Were you Ninja Fixie?”
I stare at him for a moment, rewinding to the restaurant. Yes, I was assertive. I said what I thought. I was Ninja Fixie. But that all seems dwarfed now by my discoveries about Jake.
“Yes!” I say. “Kind of. Uncle Ned was offended. He stormed out.”
“Excellent!” Seb grins. “Every good shareholders’ meeting needs someone storming out in dudgeon. Come on, sit down and relax. You look knackered.” He kisses me and ushers me in, and I follow, my head still trying to make sense of the evening.
“Oh, you’ll never guess what,” I say, suddenly remembering. “I saw Ryan.”
“Ryan?” Seb echoes, his face instantly tightening, and I immediately regret mentioning him.
“Only for, like, a nanosecond,” I say quickly. “I definitely put him straight.”
“Good,” says Seb, after a pause. “Glad to hear it. So, a good evening?”
I sink down at his little kitchen table, feeling my last vestiges of energy slip away. “Actually, no. It was awful.”
I fight an urge to burst into tears. I think a kind of delayed shock is hitting me. Shock at Jake’s aggression toward me. Shock at the truth behind it.
“Awful?” Seb hands me a glass of wine. “Why?”
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s … well, it’s Jake.”
“What about Jake?”
I hesitate, sipping the wine, trying to work out what to say. I can’t blurt out that Jake’s in debt. Leila told me in confidence and he’s family and it might not be as bad as she thinks and … I just can’t, not even to Seb.
“He’s got some issues,” I say at last. “Work issues. It’s all quite worrying.”
“Right,” says Seb carefully. “But that’s his problem, isn’t it? Not yours?”
“But it involves Mum,” I say despairingly. “I have to do something, but I don’t know what.…” I rub my face. “Everything’s got worse than I thought.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Seb peers at me anxiously for a moment, then reaches for a plate on the counter. “Have some fudge.”
I stare incredulously at the crumbly, delicious-looking cubes. “Is that homemade fudge?”
“I thought you might like a treat when you got back. I like making fudge,” Seb adds with a shrug. “It’s easy. I’ve been making it since I was seven.”
I take a piece and put it in my mouth and it’s like a burst of comfort. Sweet, rich, total indulgence.
“Thank you,” I say, after a few moments of chewing. “Thank you for making me fudge.”
“Well, you did save my life,” says Seb, glancing at the coffee sleeve, which is just visible in my tote bag. “Fudge is the very least I owe you.” He shoots me a teasing grin, but this time I don’t smile back. I don’t know why, but his words have flicked me on the raw. I can’t smile. I can’t joke. I don’t find the coffee sleeve charming or amusing anymore; I find it grating.
I finish my piece of fudge, then say, without looking at him, “Are we going to do this forever?”
“Do what?” Seb sounds confused.
“Tit for tat. I owe you. You owe me. Would you have made me fudge if I hadn’t saved your life?”
“Of course!” Seb gives a shocked laugh. “It’s only a joke!”
“Well, maybe I’m tired of the joke,” I say, still staring down at the table. “Is it never going to end? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours? Backward and forward, totting up what we owe each other, and we’d better settle up or else?”
I’m speaking faster and faster, and my face is getting hot. I don’t feel totally in control of myself.
“Fixie,” says Seb. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I say miserably. “But I wish you’d just said, ‘I’ve made you some fudge.’ The end.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” says Seb, a hint of impatience in his voice. “All friends do favors for each other.”
“Maybe they do, but they’re not counted out. They’re not itemized. They’re not presented on a spreadsheet.”
“No one’s got a spreadsheet, for God’s sake!” exclaims Seb angrily.
“What’s this?” Getting to my feet, I take the coffee sleeve out of my tote bag and brandish it at him.
“For fuck’s sake!” Seb sounds hurt. “I thought it was fun.”
“Well, I thought so too,” I say, my voice trembling. “But it doesn’t feel like fun anymore.”
“Why not?” he demands, almost furiously.
“Because I want to love you!”
My words spill out before I can stop them, and at once I catch my breath. I’m about to say hurriedly, “I didn’t mean it,” but that would be a lie. Because I did mean it. So I just stand there, panting slightly, my face turning deep crimson.
“Well, I want to love you,” says Seb, after what seems like an endless pause. “Is there a problem with that?”
My stomach starts turning over painfully. We hadn’t ever used the word love, and now we’ve both said it. Seb’s eyes meet mine, infinitely affectionate and warm, and I know this is my cue to run into his arms and forget everything else … but I can’t. I have to make my point.
“There’s a problem with this!” I jab despairingly at the coffee sleeve. “Love isn’t transactional! It’s not about what can you do for each other.” I gaze at him, desperate for him to understand. “Love means all debts are off.”
“Well, they are off!”
“They’re not! Even if I get rid of this”—I thrust the coffee sleeve back into my tote bag, then jab my head—“they’re here!”
For a moment we’re silent. The air between us is crackling with tension. I feel like love is on the other side of an invisible wall and neither of us knows how to get there.
“What do you want from me, Fixie?” says Seb at last, sounding a little weary, and I swallow hard, my head racing with thoughts.
“I wish we could go back to that coffee shop,” I say at last. “And we’d meet. And you’d say, ‘Hi. I’m Sebastian.’ And I’d say, ‘Hi. I’m Fixie.’ And there wouldn’t be any favors or owing or receipts or tallies or anything.”
“Yes. Well.” Seb shrugs unsmilingly. “You can’t go back in time and do life a different way. That’s not how it works.”
“I know.” I feel a prickle of irritation. “I was just saying. You asked.”
“Have another piece of fudge,” says Seb pleasantly, but with an edge to his voice. “With no debt or obligation attached whatsoever.”