You. Not we.
Has she mentally left already?
There’s a pause and I sip my tea, not quite knowing what I’m going to say next. Morag is so sensible, I think, as I stare at her practical hands with their transparent nail polish. She knows the customers. She knows buying. She knows pricing. She’s the one who should have been sitting round the table all this time, making decisions with me. Not Nicole. Not Jake. Not Uncle Ned.
“Morag, if we can persuade you to stay with us,” I hear myself saying, “I’d like you to be a director.”
The words are out before I’ve even stopped to consider them. But the minute I’ve uttered them, I know they’re right. Morag makes this place what it is. She should have ownership.
“A director?” Morag peers at me, startled.
“We haven’t valued you nearly enough,” I say. “And I’m sorry. Morag, please stay.”
“So this is a bribe,” she says at once.
“It’s not.” I shake my head vigorously. “At least, it’s not meant that way. It’s recognition. Of everything that you do.”
“A director,” says Morag slowly, as though getting used to the idea. Then she looks at me suspiciously. “Is your mum in agreement with this? Your mum’s big on family. I’m not family.”
Family first runs through my mind. Family bloody first. I’m not saying Dad was wrong, I’ll never say that, but maybe I’m starting to see “family” differently. It’s not just the people you share genes with; it’s the people you share loyalty and friendship and respect with. It’s the people you love.
“You’re part of the Farrs family,” I say. “And that’s what counts.”
“Fixie, you didn’t answer the question,” says Morag sharply, and I think, That’s why we need her: She doesn’t miss a trick. “Does your mum even know you’re offering me this?”
“I haven’t asked Mum, but I don’t need to.” I look at Morag resolutely. “I know she’ll agree.”
I’ve never felt so positive in my life. I know this is the right thing. Mum charged me with keeping this shop safe, and that’s what I’m doing.
“Well, I’ll think about it,” says Morag, finishing her tea. “I’d better get back to the shop floor.”
And she’s so calm, so unruffled, so impressive, that I cross my fingers all the way back to the cash desk and think, Please stay, please stay, please stay.
I think she will.
—
For some reason we get a group of Japanese tourists in that morning, looking for Union Jack memorabilia. Morag, Stacey, and I sell twelve mugs, sixteen cushion covers, and a calendar to them, while Greg attempts to “speak Japanese” in phrases he’s picked up off manga cartoons. Although none of the Japanese people seem to understand a word.
“What were you saying?” I demand, as soon as they’ve all left.
“Not sure,” he admits. “Kill, probably.”
“Kill?” I stare at him. “You were saying kill in Japanese?”
“It might not have been,” he says after a moment’s thought. “It might have been decapitate.”
“Decapitate?” I echo in horror. “You greeted a group of customers with the word decapitate?”
“They didn’t understand,” Stacey chimes in. “They just thought he was an idiot. How’s your boyfriend, Fixie?” she adds seamlessly, blinking at me.
“Oh,” I say, taken off-balance. “He’s … Um. Yes.”
Trust Stacey to catch me off guard. Avoiding her curious eyes—Greg looks pretty interested too—I glance at my watch.
“All good,” I add briskly. “In fact, I have to go. And, new rule,” I add over my shoulder as I head off to get my coat. “Anyone who says decapitate to a customer gets fired.”
“Well, that’s unfair,” I can hear Greg grumbling behind my back. “What if it comes up in normal conversation?”
“Normal conversation?” says Stacey mockingly. “What kind of sicko are you, Greg? I’ve never even said the word decapitate.”
“You just did!” points out Greg triumphantly. “Just did!” And I can’t help biting my lip, trying not to smile. They might be a bit dysfunctional … but I do love our staff.
Seb and I haven’t actually fixed up a time to meet, so as I leave the shop, I text him:
On way to you now. Is that OK?
Almost immediately he fires back a reply:
Fine.
I compose another text—Great, see you soon—and am hesitating over whether to add a kiss when another text pings into my phone. It’s from Seb again, and as I read it, I feel a bolt of shock.
Why do you want to meet?
I’m so disconcerted, I stop dead on the pavement. Why do I want to meet?
Why?
For a few moments I don’t know how to reply. What does that even mean? Isn’t it obvious why I want to meet? Pitching Jake’s request is the last of my priorities. I want to see Seb. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to say how sorry I am that I crossed the boundary of his brother’s room. I want to tell him that I’ve tried to take his advice, I’ve tried to be tough with Jake, but sometimes I just don’t feel strong enough.
I want him. That’s all. I want him.
I walk forward, trying to get my head straight, trying to work out what to say, and as I do, I feel more and more upset. Why do you want to meet? That’s not a friendly question. That’s not a kissing-and-making-up question. Does he not want to kiss and make up?
As the thought hits me, I feel suddenly empty and scared and a bit stupid. Have I read this all wrong? Have I assumed …
Oh God. Does he see everything differently from me?
Are we over?
The thought sends unbearable pain ricocheting around me. Over. We can’t be over. I need him. I close my eyes, trying to breathe steadily, willing it not be true. It can’t be. It can’t be what he wants. But why else would he send such a formal, distancing text?
I read the words yet again—Why do you want to meet?—and they’re plain hurtful. Where’s the intimacy? Where’s the affection? What are we, business associates?
My head is throbbing and I think I might start crying if I let myself. But I’m not going to. I’m Ninja Fixie. I’m tough. If he wants to be businesslike, I can be businesslike.
I type a new text, my thumbs jabbing the keys so hard I keep misfiring, but I don’t care, I have to let out some of my hurt.
There’s a business thing I wanted to ask you about.
I send the text, then wait breathlessly. Two can send hurtful messages. Two can play at being distant and formal. A moment later my phone pings:
Fine.
I stare at the single word, feeling a fresh stabbing in my heart. Why is he like this? Why has he given up on us? We had a row last night. A row. Couples have rows. Is he really going to throw it all away because I made one stupid mistake?
As I scroll backward and forward on my phone, reading all the texts we’ve exchanged today, I just don’t get it. He sounded OK this morning. Not exactly ebullient, but not cold either. He sounded like he wanted to see me.
Now, however, he sounds cold and detached and not the Seb I know. Let alone the Seb I’m in love with. What’s happened? Why?
But I can’t answer any of these questions standing here, motionless. So at last I force myself onward, my feet feeling heavy. I was so looking forward to seeing him. But now I’m dreading it.
—
I arrive at the building and Seb greets me himself at the lift and I instantly know: It’s worse than I expected.
“So,” he says. “Hi.” He extends a hand, but he doesn’t kiss me. His face is taut. His eyes are dark and ominous and keep looking past me. I shake his hand, feeling a bit surreal.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“No problem.”
He ushers me into his office as though I’m a stranger, asking politely if I’d like a coffee. All the time, his body language is wretched: stiff and tense, keeping his distance, swiveling away from me at every chance. And I keep thinking, Is this is a joke? Are we really acting like this? But it doesn’t seem to be a joke.
As I’m waiting for him to return with my coffee, I look around his office. It’s so much more characterful than his flat. So much more homey, with all the books and photos and the colorful rug.
This is his home, I suddenly realize. So his flat is … what?
Limbo. The word comes to me, unbidden. His flat is limbo. Empty and unloved and kind of waiting. And suddenly I’m desperate to talk to him about this. But how can I when we’re as stiff as two cats preparing to fight?
He comes back in with two mugs, and I look up, hoping that maybe now things will relax—but if anything he looks less friendly than before.
“What can I do for you?” he says, sitting down, and I feel a surge of fresh hurt. Fine. If he wants to play it like that, then fine.
“I’m here for a favor,” I say shortly. “Not for me, for someone else. For—”
“Yes, I can guess,” he cuts me off.
He sounds so hostile, I flinch. He looks as though he’s bubbling with outrage. Hatred even. And, OK, I know he told me to be tough with Jake. I know I’m doing the opposite of what he advised, coming here for a bailout. But does he have to be so sanctimonious?
“I don’t expect you to understand,” I say.