“I may not have been entirely serious,” he cuts me off, midstream. “My flaw is: I like to wind people up. Sorry. And by the way, do call me Seb.” He shoots me a mischievous grin and I can’t help laughing, even though my heart is still thudding in delayed panic. What if that had been true, about the grandmother?
Or what if it had been the grandmother’s ashes? I flinch as the horrifying thought strikes me. What if I’d come into his office, a total stranger, and messed with a memorial to a beloved relative?
“You seem worried,” says Seb, eyeing me curiously.
“I was just thinking, what if that was your granny’s ashes?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“Ah.” He nods. “Yes, that would be awkward. Thankfully, my granny’s ashes are safely interred in a churchyard.”
It’s my cue to sit down, but somehow I can’t stop talking. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
“We scattered my dad’s ashes at sea,” I hear myself saying. “It was a disaster. We threw them toward the waves, but it was so windy, they blew back in our faces, and Mum was batting at them, saying, ‘You get in the sea, Mike, you obstinate sod; you know it’s where you want to be,’ and then this dog came running up—” I break off. “Sorry. Not relevant.”
His whole family died, I remember, in a horrifying rush. And I’m standing here talking about ashes. Shut up, Fixie.
“Well,” says Seb after a pause. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes! Sorry. Let’s … yes.”
Why did I even have to touch that vase? I’m thinking as he ushers me into a chair. I feel so angry with myself. Can’t I learn? Can’t I change?
Yes, I resolve. I can change. And I’m going to. The next time something bugs me, unless it’s super-important and vital, I’m leaving it. I am leaving it.
“I must hear, though,” Seb adds as he sits down. “What happened with the dog?”
“You don’t want to know.” I roll my eyes expressively and he laughs—the open, boyish laugh I remember from the coffee shop. Then silence falls and he regards me expectantly.
It’s time to say what I’m here to say. But I still feel rattled. I need a moment to compose myself.
“I like your office,” I say.
“Oh, good,” he says. “I’m glad.”
“Some offices seem to say, ‘Be afraid,’ ” I blabber on desperately. “But this one seems to say …” I cast around for inspiration. “It says, ‘Let’s get on with things; this is going to be great.’ ”
“Ha!” Seb seems delighted by my analysis. “I like that.”
I sip my coffee, playing for time, and Seb sips his too, and there’s one of those expectant, silent beats.
Come on, Fixie. Say it. Just say it.
“So anyway, I’m here to claim my IOU,” I say in the lightest manner that I can.
“Great!” He looks genuinely pleased. “I hoped you were.”
A tiny part of me relaxes. So he hasn’t forgotten about it. And he doesn’t seem offended. On the other hand, he hasn’t heard what I want yet.
“OK. So.” I take a sip of coffee, once more playing for time. “First of all … I have to ask you something. Were you serious?”
“Of course I was serious!” he says, sounding surprised. “I made you a genuine offer. I’m indebted to you and I want to pay you back for your kindness in any way that I can. Have you still got the coffee sleeve?” His mouth curves into an amused smile.
“Of course!” I produce it from my bag. “You’d better check it.”
He reaches over, takes it from me, and gives it a mock-serious examination. “Yes,” he says at last. “I hereby pronounce this to be authentic.” He pushes it back across the desk, then faces me squarely. “So, what can I do for you?” His eyes suddenly light up. “Did you want to take me up on the investment advice? Because—”
“No. Something else.” My stomach is churning hard, but I have to press on. “Something …” I swallow. “A different thing.”
Oh God, come on. Say it.
“Of course. Anything at all. What? Not a chocolate chip muffin, after all?” he adds with another laugh.
“No, not a chocolate chip muffin,” I say, digging my nails into my palm, willing myself to say it. “Not a chocolate chip muffin.” I force myself to look up and meet his gaze. “A job.”
“A job?” I see the shock pass over his face before he can dissemble. “Sorry,” he adds hastily as he notices my expression. “I don’t mean to sound … I just didn’t … A job. Wow. OK.”
As he’s speaking, I can see his brain working. I can see the cogs whirring. I don’t need to point out, “You said ‘anything at all.’ ” He’s pointing it out to himself.
“I know it’s big,” I say quickly. “I mean, it’s really big. But I thought … maybe we can help each other? I overheard you talking in the coffee shop, saying that you couldn’t find the right person to fill a junior position. You need someone dynamic, who’s been in the real world, who doesn’t mind working hard, someone who wants to learn, someone who isn’t the typical graduate … someone different.”
As I’m talking, I can see his expression changing from wary to eager. He leans forward, gazing at me as though for the first time.
“Yes,” he says emphatically, as I come to a finish. “Yes. Yes! And I’m sorry I reacted the way I did—because what am I thinking? You’d be a perfect fit for us! I’ve already seen how you react in a crisis. I’ve seen how quick and forward-thinking you are. You’re bright, you’re positive, you’re honest.…” His gaze flashes toward the vases, then glints teasingly at me. “You clearly have great attention to detail.… Basically I can say, without any further ado, we’d love to have you on the team. We’ll need to talk about pay, of course.…”
My face is growing red. Shit. Shit. I need to stop this.
“Wait!” I cut off his surge of enthusiasm midstream. “No! That isn’t … I’m sorry. I should have … You don’t understand.” I rub my face awkwardly. “Sorry, this is my fault. I thought I’d said …”
“Said what?”
“It’s not for me. The job, I mean.”
“Not for you?” he says blankly. “But—”
“I’m claiming the job on behalf of someone else. A … a friend.” I clear my throat, trying to sound confident. “I’m transferring the debt.”
The light in his eyes has faded away. For a few moments he’s silent—then he says, “But I wanted to repay you, not someone else.”
“It will be repaying me! Honestly it will. I really want to do this person a favor.”
His gaze moves to the cardboard coffee-cup sleeve lying on the desk. Again I can see he’s thinking hard. “Does our agreement allow for transfer?” he says carefully.
“Why not?” I say robustly, because I anticipated he might say this. “Every other kind of debt can be passed on. There’s a market in debt, after all.”
“Maybe there is,” he says wryly. “That’s not necessarily a good thing.”
“Well, anyway. That’s … that’s what I’d like. Please.”
There’s silence. Seb’s eyes have darkened a few shades. He picks up a stapler and starts fiddling with it, as though trying to delay his decision.
“You want me to give a job to a total stranger,” he says at last.
“I’m a total stranger,” I counter. “And you were hiring me a moment ago, weren’t you?”
“You’re not a stranger! At least—” He stops himself mid-flow, as though confused by his own thoughts, and I suddenly wonder if he feels the same way I did in the coffee shop. I heard him talking on the phone and I thought, I get you. Maybe he thinks that about me.
I mean, some people are like that. You instantly relate to them. Whereas others you bash away at for years, but you’ll never understand them, not in a million years. (Uncle Ned.)
“So, who is it?” I can tell Seb’s trying to be positive and fair-minded. “Does she have any investment experience?”
“It’s not a she; it’s a he.”
“Ah.” Seb’s face changes again, in some infinitesimal way. “Well … does he?”
“No. But isn’t that the point? You said you want someone with experience of the world. Well, no one’s got more experience than Ryan! He’s started his own business, he’s battled his way through Hollywood—”
“Hollywood!” Seb sounds astonished.
“He tried to make it there as a producer, but he found it so dishonest. So slippery. He’d love to apply all his business principles to something more worthwhile—and what you do is worthwhile. I’ve seen you on YouTube,” I add. “It’s so inspiring, how you give all those company directors a hard time about their pay.”
“Well.” Seb shrugs. “It’s what I believe in.”
“And so does Ryan!” I say quickly. “He wants to make a difference to the world. Like you.”
I’m hoping I’ve said enough to persuade him, but Seb shakes his head.
“I’m afraid I’m having trouble processing this,” he says. “A Hollywood producer wants to take on a junior role at an ethical-investment firm? A low-salaried, unglamorous research role? Excuse my skepticism, but—”
“He’s not a Hollywood producer anymore,” I cut in bluntly. “He lost everything. He’s had a terrible time and he knows he needs to start again from the bottom, but he’s willing to work, to learn, to roll his sleeves up and get his hands dirty.… I mean, should he be punished because he tried and failed?” I lean forward, my voice rising passionately. “He’s so talented, he has so much to offer … but he feels washed up. Most people wouldn’t even give him a chance. But maybe you could be that person. You could change his life forever. And maybe that would be worthwhile too.”