“I am,” I say after a pause. “But I feel guilty too. I mean, he can be nice when he wants to be—”
“That wasn’t the question,” says Seb, cutting me off. “Are you angry with him?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Yes, I am. I’m angry.”
“Well, use that anger.” He leans forward, his face animated. “Feel it. Punch your way out of the bubble like a … a ninja.”
“A ninja?” I can’t help laughing.
“Yes! You have the words, you have the ideas; I know you do. You’re bright and dynamic and basically the best person I know, and to be honest the idea that some brother of yours is making you feel the way you do makes me feel pretty livid myself. I’ve only met the guy briefly, but …”
Seb smiles, but his jaw is tight and his hand has clenched hard around his panini.
“OK, I’ll be a ninja.” I stir my coffee round, gazing into the whirlpool, trying to find some strength. “I get so nervous, though. How do you do it?”
“How do I do what?” Seb seems surprised.
“You speak up at shareholders’ meetings and people shout at you and you don’t seem to care.”
“I guess I think about why I’m speaking,” says Seb thoughtfully. “Who I’m speaking for. Who I represent. I’m speaking for people who don’t have a voice, and that inspires me. That powers me along.”
He bites into his panini, then nods at me. “Eat,” he says. “Ninjas need strength.”
I take a bite of my panini, and as I’m chewing, I feel a backbone growing inside me. I’m going to speak up for Mum. She’s the one I represent. She’s the one who doesn’t have a voice right now. And that’s going to power me along.
For the rest of the lunch, we talk about general stuff, but as we’re saying goodbye, Seb holds me by both arms and looks directly into my face.
“Ninja Fixie,” he says. “You can do it.”
He kisses me and walks away, his breath a trail of steam in the winter’s air, and I tell myself firmly, I can do this, I can do this. I can.
—
All afternoon, my jaw is firm. My mind is set. I’m going to do it. I’m going to have my say.
I stay late, wandering around the displays when everyone else has gone, remembering how I used to come to Farrs when I was a little girl and it seemed enormous. I remember hiding in cardboard boxes in the back room, and Dad “finding” me. I remember trips to the storage facility being the most exciting thing in the world. I remember breaking a plate when I was seven and being terrified and trying to mend it with Sellotape—until Mum found me, crouched behind a display, and scooped me in for a hug.
This place is my life.
There’s a sound at the door and I look up in surprise to see Bob coming in, wrapped up against the cold in his usual beige anorak, plus a scarf and woolly hat.
“Fixie!” he says. “I hoped you’d still be around. I left my pullover here yesterday.” He clicks his tongue in mild self-reproach. “I’m seeing my sister tonight, and she gave it to me for my birthday, so I want to wear it, of course. We always give each other M&S pullovers,” he adds. “You can’t go wrong, can you?”
“No,” I agree. “You can’t go wrong.”
I wait for him to pop into the back room and retrieve the pullover. Then, as he’s walking toward me, I say impulsively, “Bob, are we OK?”
“OK?” Bob instinctively glances around, as though I meant, “Bob, are we facing imminent attack?”
“OK,” I repeat. “Financially. I know you send me figures all the time, but I don’t always … I mean, recently …” I stop feebly, not wanting to admit the truth, which is: “I’ve been too wrapped up in my new love affair to look at any figures.”
Bob puffs out air, as though considering what to say, and I feel a sudden pang of dread.
“We’re OK,” he says at last. “Not bad. It’s not a disaster.”
It’s not a disaster?
I stare at him, trying not to look as stricken I feel. I was hoping for better than “It’s not a disaster.”
“Sales aren’t as good as last year, no one can deny that, but there’s a while before Christmas, so it’s still all to play for. I’m sure you’ve got lots up your sleeve,” Bob adds encouragingly, and his optimism makes me feel warm with shame. “What we really need,” he adds, as though getting to the nub of the issue, “is a bit of an upswing.”
We need a bit of an upswing. How are we going to get an upswing?
“Thanks, Bob.” I try to sound breezy, as though getting worrying news is something I deal with in my stride. “Great. Good to know. So. We’ll … work on that.”
“One thing I was wondering about, though …” Bob takes a few steps toward me, with an odd expression I can’t quite read. “These loans we’ve been making. Will this be a regular thing?”
“What loans?”
“These loans to Jake.”
The world seems to slide beneath my feet.
“What … loans to Jake?” I manage to say lightly. “I don’t … I don’t know about those, I don’t think.”
“Ah,” says Bob after a pause. “I wondered. Three bank transfers I’ve made to him since your mum left. Quite big sums.” Bob gives an awkward laugh, but his eyes are troubled. “I know your mum okayed the first one, but the last two have just been on Jake’s say-so.”
“Jake’s say-so?” I echo incredulously.
“Well, your uncle Ned confirmed it and told me not to bother your mum about it. He was quite firm on that. And obviously it’s none of my beeswax, it’s a family thing, it’s not for me to …” He takes a step backward, his eyes raised to the ceiling as though emphasizing his position, not in the family. “But like I say, it’s quite a lot of money, so I’d have thought you’d be in the loop, Fixie.”
I can’t reply. My head feels like it’s imploding. Jake’s been borrowing money from Farrs without even telling Mum? I suddenly remember him coming into the shop that time. Asking where Bob was but not telling me why. Obsessed by his phone. I remember thinking that he’s always been about more, Jake. I wondered how he was paying for it all. Well, now I know.
“Only there hasn’t been any talk of repayment, so to speak,” Bob adds distantly. “If this happens every month, it’ll make quite a hole in the books. And if your mum was looking to sell, then … Well. It’s not the best time to be losing all this cash. Although as I say, none of my beeswax.”
Finally he lowers his gaze to meet mine. I’ve known Bob a long time and I know what his kindly eyes are saying. They’re saying, “This isn’t right.” They’re saying, “Do something.”
“Right,” I manage. “Well … thanks, Bob. Thanks.” I start to walk away, then come back as a thought hits me. “Why didn’t Uncle Ned want to bother Mum?”
“Oh …” Bob’s eyes slide away again to the ceiling. “Your uncle likes feeling he’s got the power, I think. Some people are like that.”
This is so daring and disloyal a thing for Bob to say that I stare at him.
“He helped out with the lease,” I say automatically, because that’s what we always say about Uncle Ned. “He got us good terms.”
There’s a long silence. I can see a kind of ripple effect on Bob’s face. As if he’s trying to hold something back. Oh my God.
“Didn’t he?” I whisper.
“Your mum was touched that your uncle stepped in,” says Bob at last. “She kept saying, ‘Oh, Bob, he’s such a rock.’ I wasn’t going to mess that up.” His gentle eyes meet mine in a smile. “I’m fond of your mum.”
I feel like everything’s shifting in my brain.