face is burning with mortification all the way down in the lift. But by the time I’m pushing my way out into the freezing air, I’m seeing the funny side of it.
Kind of.
I mean, you have to see the funny side of things, otherwise…what? You start brooding morosely on why he’s with someone so blinkered, and what does he see in her, and how can anyone be that rude, and…
Oh God. I am brooding morosely. Stop it, Fixie.
A thought suddenly occurs to me and I pull out the coffee sleeve. I know it’s only a silly game, I know it’s meaningless, but I might as well see what he wrote. I pause in the street, breathing out steam in the cold air and reading his handwritten words:
You saved my life, Fixie. To repay you that is impossible. Just know that from now on I owe you everything.
And underneath is his signature.
I read the words twice over, hearing his voice in my head, seeing his warm, honest smile in my mind’s eye. My eyes become a little hot. Then I shove the coffee sleeve back in my bag and stride on, down the pavement, shaking my head almost angrily. Enough. It’s all stupid. I need to forget about it.
Sixteen
And I do. I manage to put him out of my mind. At least, most of the time. It’s easy enough to throw myself into the shop, what with Christmas heading toward us like a high-speed train and Stacey wanting to sell “Fifty Shades of Farrs” stockings, each containing a spatula, two clamps, and a rolling pin. (I don’t want to know.)
Mum’s been away for nearly three months, I realize one morning, with a jolt. It’s already November. She’s got to come home soon, surely? She loves the run-up to Christmas and all our traditions. We’d normally be making our Christmas cake around now, but I don’t want to do it without her, so I haven’t even bought the ingredients.
I’m at the shop one morning, watching Nicole put away her yoga stuff after an early-morning class, feeling pinpricks of frustration. She still doesn’t do it properly. The customers will arrive and she’ll be putting all the wrong things on the wrong display tables. We had to sell a toaster for a fiver the other day because she’d put it on the £5 table. It’s so annoying. And it’s even worse now we have all our Christmas displays up, because if you keep moving them, they start to look shabby. The gingerbread house on the front table already looks a bit disheveled. We’ll have to make another one.
I spray “Yuletide scent” around the place to give it some atmosphere (£4.99 and easily as good as a posh brand) and tidy up the display of festive napkins. Nicole is wandering over, clutching three yoga mats, and I’m about to say something to her about being more careful with the stock—but to my surprise she looks twitchy and worried. If she’s any animal right now, it’s Anxious Rabbit. I thought yoga was supposed to calm you down?
“Nicole, are you OK?” I say at last, and she jumps about a mile.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “Yeah.”
She’s not, though. She leans against the counter and chews a nail and I notice that it’s red and raw already. It’s not as if Nicole and I are the kind of sisters who share confidences—or anything, in fact—but she looks strained and Mum’s not here and I have to say something.
“Nicole, what’s up?” I persist. “Come on. Tell me.”
“Well, OK,” she says at last. “Drew wants me to go to Abu Dhabi.” She throws the words out in a tremulous voice, as though saying, “Drew’s having an affair.” Then she adds, “He wants me to visit him.”
“Right,” I say carefully. “I mean…that seems like a good idea, doesn’t it? In fact, I spoke to him about it recently.”
“He basically gave me an ultimatum!” Nicole seems astounded. “He was like, ‘Nicole, I’ve had enough. I want to see you.’ ”
“Well, isn’t that natural? I think he just misses you.”
“He’s so judgmental,” she continues as though she didn’t hear me. “He was like, ‘We’re married, Nicole.’ And ‘You promised to come out.’ I was like, ‘Stop criticizing me, Drew. You’re so negative.’ ”
I look at her beautiful brow, all creased up with distress. I’ve wondered about a million times in my life what it’s like to be Nicole—and now I’m getting a bit of an inkling. When you’ve been adored and admired