“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?”
So Drew left for Abu Dhabi and they’ve sublet their flat and Nicole is back in the family house for a bit. The fridge is full of probiotic yogurt, and her strandy ethnic necklaces are all over the place where she leaves them, and every morning I hear her podcast telling her soothingly not to judge herself, while pipe music plays.
I know Nicole’s finding it tougher than she thought, Drew being away, because she sighs a lot and peers at her phone and tells everyone she meets how she’s got separation anxiety. I feel sorry for Drew too. He phones us on the landline whenever he can’t reach Nicole on her mobile and often ends up talking to Mum or me. I’ve heard all about the vicious heat and his insomnia and the in-office battles he’s having with someone called Baz. The last time he phoned he sounded quite poorly, so Mum and I ended up googling illnesses and sending him links.
He and Nicole were only together for a year before they got married, and he works pretty hard in IT, so I didn’t know Drew that well at the wedding last year. But I’ve spoken to him so much on the phone since he’s been away, I’ve got to know him far better. He’s got a great sense of humor and I can see why Nicole married him. Although I can’t see why she hasn’t gone to Abu Dhabi with him. They must have yoga courses there, surely?
“Oh, Nicole, did you get my message?” I say, remembering. “I spoke to Drew last night and apparently it’s not malaria.”
“Oh, good,” says Nicole absently. “Isn’t this great?” she says with more animation, holding up her garland. “I’m putting it on Pinterest. It’s like, it’s …”
I wait for her to finish—then realize that she has. Nicole quite often drifts away into blankness while you wait there politely.
“Amazing,” I say. “Where’s Jake?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“But he said he was on his way to the house to help Mum, what, two hours ago?”
Nicole shrugs and takes another photo of her garland.
“So who has been helping Mum?” I know I sound accusing, although the truth is, I feel defensive. I should have come home to help Mum, not gone shopping, let alone stopped at a coffee shop.
“I have!” says Nicole, sounding injured. “I’ve been doing decorations!”
“Right,” I say carefully. “But I meant the food and tidying up and everything?”
“I need an artistic outlet, OK? I’m coping with a lot of stress right now, Fixie.” Nicole shoots me a baleful look. “My husband’s on the other side of the world, in case you’d forgotten. I’m experiencing separation anxiety. I need to look after myself.”
“Well, I know, but—”
“My yoga teacher says if I don’t find ways to self-care, I might end up with mental-health issues.” She throws the phrase out like a trump card.
“Right,” I say after a pause. “OK. Er … sorry.”
I hurry on to the kitchen and push the door open to find Mum bent over the kitchen work top, just as I guessed she would be. She’s still in her apron and jeans, her graying hair pulled into a scrunchie, laboring over a sheet of pink sugar paste with a plastic cutter. She has a smear of icing on her earlobe and her usual daytime makeup look—i.e., none.
Has she taken some time out, washed her hair, or applied a face mask? No, of course she hasn’t. I shouldn’t think she’s planned what to wear either. The challenge with Mum’s birthday party every year is getting her to actually go to the party.
“Hi, Mum!” I greet her, but she cuts me off, her brow creased with concentration. She’s naturally beautiful, Mum, with high strong cheekbones and a thin vibrant face. You can see where Nicole got it from. “Can I help?”
“Shh! Wait!”
All her attention is on crafting a peony out of sugar paste. Painstakingly, she winds the cut-out shape into a flower and attaches a green sugar-paste leaf.
“Beautiful.” I applaud.
“It works, doesn’t it?” Mum pops the peony on a frosted cupcake, then taps the plastic cutter. “This is good. Well priced too. I think we should stock it.”
Mum is never knowingly under-tasked. Right now not only is she preparing cupcakes for her own birthday party, she’s simultaneously trying out a product for the shop. Mum would never stock a product unless she believed in it. So every pan, every food storage container, every fancy culinary gadget, has to pass the Mum Test. Does it work? Is it good value? Will our customers actually use it?
“Vanessa will love this,” she adds.
“Definitely.” I nod, smiling at the thought of Vanessa, with her patchwork waistcoats and red raincoat and boundless enthusiasm. Vanessa is one of our most regular customers and a member of the Cake Club, which we run every Tuesday evening. Morag does demonstrations at a portable cooking station and everyone shows off their own efforts. We’ve got a customer board in the shop, filled with photos of cakes, plus an Instagram page. It’s one of the things that makes Farrs so speciaclass="underline" our community.