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