Quick, Fixie. Go.
Before I’ve even thought clearly what’s happening, I’m diving across the table, like a rugby champion scoring a try, cradling the guy’s laptop. And, a split second later, a whole section of the ceiling crashes down on top of me, in a gush of plaster and water.
“Argh!”
“Oh my God!”
“Help!”
“Is it an attack?”
“Help that girl!”
The screams around me are a din in my head. I can feel someone pulling at me, saying, “Get away from there!” But I’m so worried about the laptop getting wet that I won’t move from my rigid protective position until I feel paper towels being thrust at me. The water has finally stopped cascading, but plaster is still falling in bits from above, and as I raise my head at last, I see a freaked-out audience of customers watching me.
“I thought you were dead!” says a teenage girl so tearfully I can’t help laughing—and this seems to set off everyone else:
“I saw that water dripping! I knew this would happen.”
“You could have been killed, innit!”
“You need to sue. That’s not right, ceilings falling down.”
A moment ago we were all strangers in a coffee shop, studiously ignoring each other. Now it’s as though we’re best friends. An elderly guy holds out his hand and says, “I’ll hold your computer while you get dry, dear.” But I don’t want to give it up, so I awkwardly mop myself with one hand, thinking, Of all the days, of all the days …
“What the hell?”
It’s the guy. He’s come back into the coffee shop, and he’s staring at me, his mouth open. Gradually the excited comments die down and the coffee shop falls silent. Everyone’s watching the pair of us expectantly.
“Oh, hi,” I say, speaking for the first time since I was drenched. “Here’s your laptop. I hope it isn’t wet.”
I hold it out—it isn’t wet at all—and the guy steps forward to take it. He’s looking from me to the ravaged ceiling to the puddles of water and plaster, with increasing disbelief. “What happened?”
“There was a slight ceiling incident,” I say, trying to downplay it. But like a Greek chorus, all the other customers eagerly start filling him in.
“The ceiling fell in.”
“She dived across the table. Like lightning!”
“She saved your computer. No question. It would have been ruined.”
“Ladies and gentlemen.” A barista raps on the counter to gain our attention. “Apologies. Due to a health-and-safety incident, we are closing the coffee shop. Please come to the counter for a takeaway cup and complimentary cookie.”
There’s a surge toward the counter and the most senior-looking barista of them all comes up to me, her brow crumpled.
“Madam, we would like to apologize for your discomfort,” she says. “We would like to present you with this fifty-pound voucher and hope that you will not …” She clears her throat. “We will be glad to pay for the dry-cleaning of your clothes.”
She’s looking at me beseechingly and I suddenly realize what she’s driving at.
“Don’t worry,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m not going to sue. But I wouldn’t mind another mint tea.”
The barista visibly relaxes and hurries off to make it. Meanwhile, the guy in the suit has been scrolling through his laptop. Now he looks up at me with a stricken expression. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved my life.”
“Not your life.”
“OK, you’ve saved my bacon. It’s not just the computer—that would have been bad enough. But the stuff on the computer. Stuff I should have backed up.” He closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head as though in disbelief. “What a lesson.”
“Well,” I say, “these things happen. Lucky I was there.”
“Lucky for me,” he says slowly, closing the laptop and surveying me properly. The late sun is full on his face now. His eyes are so green and woodlandy, I find myself thinking briefly of deer in dappled forest glades; leafy branches; peaty scents. Then I blink—and I’m back in the coffee shop. “It wasn’t lucky for you,” the guy is saying. “You’re a mess and your hair’s wet. All on my account. I feel terrible.”
“It wasn’t on your account,” I say, embarrassed under his gaze. My T-shirt feels wet, I suddenly register. But how wet?
Wet-T-shirt-contest-level wet? Is that why the whole coffee shop was staring at me? Because my T-shirt is, in fact, transparent?
“The ceiling fell in,” I continue, folding my arms casually across my chest. “I got wet. Nothing to do with you.”
“But would you have dived in that direction if you hadn’t promised to look after my laptop?” he counters at once. “Of course not. You obviously have very quick reactions. You would have dived out of harm’s way.”
“Well, whatever.” I shrug it off.
“Not whatever.” He shakes his head firmly. “I’m indebted to you. Can I … I don’t know. Buy you a coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“A muffin?” He squints at the display. “The double chocolate chip one looks good.”
“No!” I laugh. “Really.”
“What about … can I buy you dinner?”
“I’m not sure Briony would appreciate it,” I can’t resist saying. “Sorry, I overheard you talking.”
A wry smile comes across his face and he says, “Touché.”
“Anyway, it was nice to meet you,” I say, taking my mint tea from the barista. “But I’d better get going.”
“There must be something I can do to thank you,” he insists.
“No, really, nothing,” I say, equally firmly. “I’m fine.”
I smile politely, then turn and head toward the door. And I’m nearly there when I hear him shout, “Wait!” so loudly that I swivel back. “Don’t go,” he adds. “Please. Just … hold on. I have something for you.”
I’m so intrigued, I take a few steps back into the coffee shop. He’s standing at the counter with a cardboard coffee sleeve and a pen, and he’s writing something.
“I always pay off my debts,” he says at last, coming toward me. “Always.” He holds out the sleeve and I see that he’s written on it:
I owe you one.
Redeemable in perpetuity.
As I watch, he signs it underneath—a scribbly signature I can’t quite make out—and puts the date.
“If you ever want a favor,” he says, looking up. “Something I can do for you. Anything at all.” He reaches in his pocket, pulls out a business card, and then looks around, frowning. “I need a paper clip … or any kind of clip …”
“Here.” I put down my cup, reach into my Anna’s Accessories bag, and pull out a diamanté hair grip.
“Perfect.” He affixes the business card to the coffee sleeve with the hair grip. “This is me. Sebastian Marlowe.”
“I’m Fixie Farr,” I reply.
“Fixie.” He nods gravely and extends a hand. “How do you do?” We shake hands, then Sebastian proffers the coffee-sleeve IOU.
“Please take it. I’m serious.”
“I can see.” My mouth can’t help twitching. “Well, if I need any ‘forward-looking investment opportunities,’ I’ll let you know.”
My tone is a little mocking, but he doesn’t pick up on it—in fact, his green eyes light up.
“Yes! Please do! If that’s the case, we can set up a meeting; I’d be delighted to give you some advice—”
“It’s not the case,” I cut him off. “Far from it. But I appreciate the offer.”
Belatedly, he seems to realize I was teasing him, and his face flickers with a smile.
“Something you actually need, then.” He’s still holding the coffee sleeve out to me, and at last I take it.
“OK. Thank you.”
To humor him, I put the coffee sleeve into my bag and pat it. “There we are. Safe and sound. And now I really must be going. I have a family party I need to get back for.”
“You think I’m joking,” he says, watching as I pick up my cup. “But I’m not. I owe you one, Fixie Farr. Remember that.”
“Oh, I will!” I say, and flash him a last, cheerful smile, not meaning a word of it. “Absolutely. I really will.”
Four
Ryan isn’t at the house yet. Nor Jake.
As soon as I get inside, I sidle to the sitting room and glance through the door crack, ready to dart away. If they were anywhere they’d be there, sitting on the sofa, swigging beers. But they’re not. I’m safe.
I head toward the kitchen at the back, passing Nicole en route. She’s photographing a paper garland hanging from the wall. I guess it’s a party decoration, although our house barely needs any more embellishment. Over the years, Mum has covered every wall with family photos, collages, and box frames full of mementos. She’s really artistic, Mum, and so is Nicole, but that gene totally missed me out, just like the supermodel-looks gene. Both Jake and I inherited Dad’s dark-hair dark-eyes combo, which I guess you could call “striking.” But Nicole is heart-stoppingly beautiful, even if she never did quite make it as a model. The line of her jaw, the turquoise of her eyes, her slanty eyebrows … it all adds up to something magical. Even I want to stare at her all day, and I’m her sister.
“Hi, Nicole,” I greet her, and Nicole nods, squinting at her phone. Although she’s married, she’s living here for a few months, because her husband, Drew, has gone to work in Abu Dhabi for six months, setting up a computer system for some multinational, and Nicole refused to go.
“Abu Dhabi?” she said, as though that was all the reason she needed. “Abu Dhabi?” Then she added, as the clincher: “What about my yoga?”