“Uncle Ned,” says Mum with a beam.
My stomach drops like a stone. Uncle Ned? Uncle Ned is the solution?
“Right,” I manage, in a strangled voice, which Mum takes as a sign of approval.
“I’ve spoken to him and he’s promised to keep an eye on things while I’m away,” she says happily. “He’s got a good business head. We can trust him.”
I don’t even know what to say. Uncle Ned?
“He’s so good to us,” adds Mum fondly. “I know he’ll be a comfort.”
“He’s not good to me!” I want to wail. “And he won’t be a comfort!”
“It’s an idea,” I say at last, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “Definitely. But I’m just wondering—is Uncle Ned the right person?”
“You know how helpful he was over the lease when Dad died,” Mum reminds me. “I’ll feel happier if he’s here to support you.”
I want to yelp with frustration. OK, maybe he did help with the lease—but that was nine years ago. What’s he done since?
“I know you don’t like some of the old-fashioned things he says,” adds Mum, pinkening. “And nor do I for that matter. But he’s family, love, and he cares about Farrs. That’s what counts.”
There’s a light in her eyes—the determined light that appears when she talks about family. She’s made up her mind. And I can’t say anything to worry her. So I smile my most cheery smile and say, “Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out. The most important thing is that you have a fantastic break. You look so glamorous already!”
I reach out to touch her dangling, sparkling earrings, incongruous against her graying workaday hair. (Aunty Karen’s hairdresser in Spain has already been booked.)
“It’s hard to go away and leave you all!” says Mum, with a little laugh, and I can see traces of anxiety appearing in her face. “Harder than I thought. Even now I’m wondering … do I actually want to do this?”
Oh God. She can’t backtrack now.
“Yes!” I say firmly. “You do! We’ll be fine.”
“Just don’t lose the shop, Fixie. Or let the family break up.” Mum gives the same odd little laugh.
I think she’s only half joking. I think she has secret deep-down worries, like I do. “You’re the glue,” she adds. “You can keep everyone together.”
I can what? I almost want to laugh, because she’s so wrong. Mum’s the glue of this family. She leads us all. She unites us all. Without her we’re just three disparate siblings.
But I don’t give away my real thoughts for a nanosecond. I need to bolster up Mum before she decides not to go away after all and do a sixteen-hour shift at the shop instead.
“Mum, listen,” I say, with as much confidence as I can muster. “When you get back, we’ll be sitting around that very table to celebrate.” I gesture at the gateleg oak table. “The shop will be in great shape. And we’ll be a happy family. I promise.”
Eight
After Mum and Aunty Karen have left the next afternoon, everything feels flat. Jake and Leila disappear off to the pub and I decide to make a Bolognese for supper, because that’s what Mum would do. But even as I’m cooking, it isn’t the same. I’m not filling the house with the same magical, Mum-like atmosphere. I don’t feel warm or cozy or reassured.
To be honest, it’s not just because Mum’s gone that I feel so flat. It’s that I haven’t heard from or seen Ryan since the party. Not a visit, not a phone call, just a single text: Sorry about your mum.
The day after the party, he went to Sonning to visit his family, and then it was as if he’d disappeared into a black hole. He didn’t reply to any of my texts. A couple of times Jake said, “Ryan says hi,” and that was the sum total of our communication. To be honest, I didn’t mind too much. He wasn’t the priority; Mum was. But now I can’t help thinking: What happened?
I stare at the pan dispiritedly and give it a stir—then turn it off. I’ll pop out for some ice cream. You can’t go wrong with Ben & Jerry’s when you need a pick-me-up.
As I’m hurrying along the High Street, I see a guy with frondy hair walking ahead of me, with a brisk determined stride. At once I think, Is that the guy from the coffee shop? Followed by, No, don’t be silly, it can’t be.
Odd that my mind has instantly gone there, though. And even odder that I’m faintly blushing. What’s that about? I haven’t even thought about him since that day.
Well, OK, maybe I have, once or twice. Just his eyes. There was something about his eyes. I’ve found myself picturing them now and then—that flecked, leafy green-brown color.
The man ahead of me stops to consult his phone and I catch sight of his face—and it is him! It’s Sebastian … whatever he’s called. He glances up and sees me approaching—and at once his face creases into a smile of recognition.
“Oh, hello!” he says.
“Hi!” I come to a halt. “How are you?” I meet his woodlandy gaze—then quickly look away again before I overdo the eye contact.
“Good! Just waiting for a cab.” He gestures at his phone, and I see the map of a cab-company app.
“Back in Acton!” I say. “Or are you local?”
“No. I’ve been here for …” He hesitates. “A thing.”
“Oh, right,” I say politely, because it’s none of my business—and it feels as though the conversation should perhaps end there. But Sebastian’s face is animated; his brow is creasing up; he seems like he wants to share his thoughts.
“As it happens, I’ve been consulting ‘the skiing workout guru,’ ” he suddenly says, making quote marks with his fingers. “Did you know that the skiing workout guru lives in Acton?”
“No,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t even know the skiing workout guru existed.” I nearly add, “I’ve never skied in my life,” but I can tell Sebastian is on a roll.
“Nor did I, till my girlfriend gave me two vouchers for my birthday and insisted I go to see him. So I went. Twice.”
“Right. And how was he?”
“Absolute rubbish!” exclaims Sebastian indignantly. “I’m offended by how rubbish he was. I’m shocked!”
His outrage is so comical, I break into laughter—although I can tell there’s genuine grievance there too.
“How was he rubbish?” I can’t help asking.
“The first session, all he did was describe how he won a bronze in Vancouver. Today he described how he just missed a bronze in Sochi. I could have got that off Wikipedia in five minutes, if I were interested, which I’m not.”
I can’t help laughing again. “What about exercises?”
“He revealed the insightful information that lunges are a good idea and suggested I come back twice a week for the next six months.”
“What a rip-off!” I say in heartfelt tones.
“Exactly!” exclaims Sebastian. “I’m glad you agree. I’m sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.” He glances at the map on his phone and I see an icon of a cab coming up 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.”