the High Street. “Anyway, enough of that. How’s life been treating you?”
I open my mouth to say, “Fine,” but it doesn’t seem honest, somehow.
“Actually, my mum’s been in hospital,” I say instead.
“Oh no.” He looks up from his phone in dismay. “And here I am going on…Is there anything I can do?”
This is such a kind, ludicrous instinct that I can’t help smiling again. What on earth could he do?
“It’s fine. She’s better. She’s off on holiday.”
“Oh good,” he says—and he really seems to mean it. At that moment a minicab pulls up and he signals to the driver. “This is me,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”
“Bye,” I say, as he opens the car door. “I’m sorry Acton hasn’t been kind to you. Collapsing ceilings and dodgy workout gurus. We must do better.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he says with a grin. “Acton has a place in my heart.”
“We do have an amazing Thai restaurant here,” I say. “If you’re into Thai food.”
“I love Thai food.” His eyes crinkle at me. “Thanks for the tip. Oh, and remember.” He pauses, his hand on the car door. “I still owe you one. I’m serious. You haven’t forgotten?”
“Of course not!” I say. “How could I?”
I watch as the cab drives off, still smiling at his good-humored outrage—then head on my way.
* * *
—
The little exchange has buoyed my spirits, but as I get back to the house I start to feel flat again. I reheat the pasta sauce, inhaling the delicious scent, then put on The Archers, because that’s what Mum would do too—but it feels fake. I don’t listen to The Archers, so I don’t know who any of the characters are.
“Hey, Fixie.” Nicole wanders into the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. I’m hoping she’s going to offer to help, but she doesn’t even seem to have noticed that I’m cooking. She leans against the counter, picks up the chunk of Parmesan I was about to grate, and starts to nibble it. “So I’ve had a great idea,” she says thoughtfully. “I think we should have yoga at the shop.”
“Yoga?” I echo. “What do you mean? Like…a yoga section?”
“Yoga sessions,” she says, as though it’s obvious. “We should run sessions in the evenings. I could do them.”
I put my wooden spoon down on Mum’s bunny-rabbit ceramic spoon rest (£6.99, bestseller at Easter) and peer at her to see if she’s joking. But she meets my gaze with a full-on Nicole-taking-herself-seriously expression. The thing about Nicole is, she’s all vague and wafty until she wants something, whereupon she can suddenly become quite gimlety and focused.
“Nicole, we’re a shop,” I say carefully. “We sell saucepans. We don’t do yoga.”
“We have the Cake Club,” she counters.
“Yes, but that’s a selling event. We sell cake tins and stuff. It enhances our business.”
“Loads of shops do all sorts of evening events,” she responds. “It would build up the clientele.”
“But where?”
I’m picturing the shop, trying to imagine even two people putting down yoga mats, and I’m failing.
“We’d have to move a few things,” she says breezily. “Get rid of a couple of displays.”
“Every night? And then put them back?”
“Of course not!” She rolls her eyes. “Permanently. There’s too much stock, anyway. Even Mum says so. It’s overcrowded.”
“We can’t get rid of whole displays of stock to make space for yoga lessons!” I say in horror.
“Well, that’s your opinion,” says Nicole calmly.
“What about the cleaners? They start at six P.M. When would they get in?”
Nicole stares at me blankly as though she never even realized the shop gets cleaned every night.
Oh my God. She didn’t realize the shop gets cleaned, did she? She lives on another planet.
“We’d sort it,” she says at last with a shrug. “Like we do on Cake Club night.”
“OK,” I say, trying to be positive. “Well, would you sell any stock?”
“We’d be doing yoga,” says Nicole, frowning. “Not selling things.”
“But—”
“You’re trying to find problems, Fixie,” she adds.
“So Mum only left, what”—I look at my watch—“four hours ago. And already you want to change things.”
“You should be more open-minded!” retaliates Nicole. “I bet if I rang Mum now, she’d love the idea.”
“She would not!” I say hotly. I feel so sure of myself, I almost want to dial Mum’s number and prove it. But of course I won’t.
“You should do yoga yourself.” Nicole eyes me dispassionately. “Your breathing is really shallow. Look.” She points at my chest. “It’s stressing you out.”
I want to retort, “It’s not my breathing that’s stressing me out!”