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.
“No. Frankly, I don’t.”
“Well, I guess I’m just not as strong as you thought,” I snap miserably. “Sorry.”
“Oh, you don’t have to apologize.” His eyes are so hard and unforgiving, I wince. “Your life. Do what you want.”
Do what I want? How can he be like this?
“Seb …” I stare at him, tears hot behind my eyes. “Look. I know you’re angry. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. But let me tell you why I’m here.”
“Really?” he shoots back, so viciously that I inhale in shock. “I have a better idea, Fixie. Let’s not talk about it. What do you want? Money?”
I stare at him, stung. Money? And I’m about to retort, “Don’t be silly, all I want is a bit of advice for Jake or maybe a contact, or even just a hug would do.…” when something in me snaps. If we don’t love each other, then why am I even hesitating?
“Well, you do owe me,” I retort, slapping the words down between us. And instantly Seb’s face goes blank and kind of scary-looking.
For a few moments neither of us speaks. The air feels hazy with tension. I feel like I’m in a bad dream and I need to wake up. I need to start again. Say different things. Make things go another way.
But I can’t. This is life.
“Yes. I owe you,” Seb says at last, his voice sounding like it belongs to someone else. “How much? Wait, I’ll find a checkbook.”
He gets up without looking at me, heads to a filing cabinet, and roots round in a low drawer. I watch him, motionless, faint with misery. I’ve achieved what I came here to do. So why do I feel so hollow?
Why am I here, anyway? What am I doing?
Trying to keep a grip on things, I remind myself of the facts. Jake. Debt. Family.
Except, sitting here, the facts seem to be taking a different path in my head. I’m thinking this all through in a way I haven’t before. Suppose Seb gives Jake a lump of cash. What then? What have I achieved? He’ll only spend it on a load of expensive lunches and tell us lots of bullshit about “deals” and we’ll be back to square one.
As Seb opens and shuts drawers, I’m light-headed with confusion. I feel like everything is out of my grasp. I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to come here. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have anything. Except the knowledge that I’ve destroyed any hopes of being with Seb.
I feel a dart of anguish, so painful that I drop my head into my hands. Random thoughts are running through my head, in such a bewildering stream that I