“You don’t have any irons in the fire,” Leila cuts him off sorrowfully. “You don’t.”
A police siren blares in the next street and for a moment no one speaks, and I suddenly find myself thinking of Ryan. Jake’s too much like Ryan. It’s as if he’s still trying to be Ryan. Just like he always has done, since they were teenagers. All big names and swagger. It was Ryan who made living like a millionaire seem normal to Jake. Of course, Jake was always ambitious; he always wanted money. But even so, I wish he’d never met Ryan. That neither of us had.
“My dad’s here to take me home,” says Leila, raising her chin. Her skinny legs are encased in tight jeans and high-heeled boots and her nails are works of iridescent art. She looks so dignified, I want to hug her. “All your stuff’s in the van. Dad says you’re welcome to come and live with us for a bit.”
“You’ve moved out my stuff?” Jake reels, as though under a fresh blow.
“We’re renting the flat out, Jake,” Leila says, as though explaining to someone very stupid. “I had to.”
“All right, love? I’ve had to move the van, bloody traffic wardens.” We all look up as a gruff voice hails Leila. It’s her dad, Tony. I’ve met him a few times; he has a building firm in Northwood. He’s a big, strong guy with callused hands, and he runs his eyes up and down Jake’s smart suit with barely concealed contempt. I’m not sure they’ve ever really got on. “If you’re in trouble, I can give you a job on the site,” he adds to Jake in short tones. “You’re unskilled, so it would be basic pay.”
“Thanks, Dad,” says Leila. Her eyes fix on Jake like lamps, and I can see her message: “Thank my dad.”
“Thanks, Tony,” says Jake, sounding as though the words are choking him.
“Right. Well.” Tony strides away and Leila totters after him.
“Wait, Dad. I’ll come. Give me a sec.” She turns to Jake again on her clippy-cloppy heel, her delicate face full of a strength that makes it even more beautiful than usual. “We’ll be in the van for ten minutes, OK? You can come to ours—or we can deliver your stuff somewhere else. But if you come with me, you’ve got to want to come. You’ve got to want it, Jakey. You and me …” Her voice begins to tremble. “We can be something. It’s not about you buying me stuff or being a hero or how many clubs we go to. It’s about you and me making plans and enjoying life together and … and being us. But you’ve got to want to be us, Jakey.” She points at him and then herself with her slender fingers. “You’ve got to want to be us.”
She finishes and there’s a breathless beat. Then she turns back and hurries toward her dad, who links his arm in hers and together they disappear around the corner, while I resist the urge to shout, “Go, Leila!”
I risk a look at Jake—and feel a pang of shock. He looks ill. He’s sunk onto his haunches and his head is bent and his shoulders are heaving. At last he raises his head, and he’s not crying but he looks close.
“You fucking ganged up on me,” he says, his voice muffled. “You’re family.”
“That’s why we ganged up on you,” I say. “Because we’re family. Because we care about you.”
I used to yearn so hard for the sunshine of Jake’s approval. But now I’m feeling a different kind of glow. Conviction that we’re doing the right thing.
“So, what, you think I should work on a building site?” he says with a miserable glare. “That’s what you think of me?”
“Why shouldn’t you work on a building site?” I say, in sudden fury. “Who do you think you are? Jake, stop trying to be posh. Be proud of where you came from. Leila’s right, you’ve got to want to be who you are. And you’re Jake Farr. Be proud of that.”
For a moment Jake just stares ahead as though he hasn’t heard me.
“Be proud of being Jake Farr,” he says at last, his voice empty. “Proud of what? I have nothing.”
He buries his head in his hands again, looking desolate, and I have a flashback to my own desolation when Farr’s Food went under. The grief I used to feel when I looked at my green aprons under the bed. I felt as though life would never be good again.
But maybe I was lucky, I find myself thinking. We’ve all got to have some kind of failure in life, and I had mine early. I got back on my feet. I learned that failing doesn’t mean you are a failure; it just means you’re a human being.
“You have Leila, who’s awesome,” I say robustly. “You have us. And you have Farrs. Not the ‘Notting Hill Family Deli.’ ” I can’t help adding a little dig. “Farrs.”
Jake doesn’t even move, and I hunker down beside him, trying to think how else to get through to him.
“Dad was so proud of you, Jake,” I say, more gently. “He didn’t care about being smart or having designer suits or making more money than anyone else. D’you remember what he used to say? ‘Do an honest day’s work, sleep an honest night’s sleep.’ ”
“I haven’t slept properly for weeks,” says Jake after a pause. He turns his head and I don’t know if it’s the light, but he looks more haggard than I’ve ever seen him.
“Oh, sleep is vital,” says Nicole at once. “Vital. Like, I haven’t been sleeping well either, and it’s been really bad for me? I have some essential oils I can give you,” she adds.
“There you go,” I say to Jake. “Essential oils. That’ll cure everything.” I’m trying to lighten the mood, and I think his mouth twitches a bit. Just a bit. “Will you be able to pay off your debts now?” I add more seriously.
“Yes,” says Jake, looking away. “Pretty much. Although if I clear them it doesn’t leave me with anything to do business with.” I sense he can’t stand discussing his finances with his little sister but realizes he has no choice.
“So actually you’re not in bad shape.” I shrug. “You only owe Farrs, and you can pay that back, easy.”
“How?” Jake demands, as though I’m playing a trick on him. “How can I do that?”
“Work,” I say simply. “You work it off.”
As I say the words, I suddenly realize a weird thing. My voice is steady. My words are clear. And there aren’t any ravens flapping around my head.
Maybe they’ve flown away.
Twenty-five
Jake’s on Gingerbread Man duty. Ten hours a day, he stands outside Farrs, dressed in a Gingerbread Man suit, calling, “Come on in! Gingerbread houses at Farrs! Christmas decorations at Farrs! Biscuit cutters at Farrs! Ho ho ho!” He has flyers to hand out and samples of gingerbread and special-offer coupons.
He wasn’t supposed to be doing it all day—I originally planned for us to do shifts. But we were trying to sort it out at a staff meeting, and everyone was arguing about what times they wanted, when Jake suddenly said, “OK, enough. I’m Gingerbread Guy. End of.”
We all stared at him and I said, “All day long?” Whereupon he said, deadpan, “Beats hanging around in store with you lot.” And after a moment (when we were sure he was joking), we all laughed.
Now that Jake’s relaxed a bit, now that he’s not chasing millions and just working at Farrs every day, he’s actually quite cheerful. He’s funny. He and Stacey have a good line in banter, and Greg keeps trying to get him to start a Staff Mixed Martial Arts Group, with a membership of two: Jake and Greg. (Bob said no.)
“So you basically want to beat me up, Greg,” Jake said at last, and Greg got all bulgy-eyed and said that was a complete misunderstanding of the skills and artistry of MMA, while Jake winked at me.
As for his Gingerbread Man skills, it turns out they’re great! The promotion is working better than I could have dreamed: The gingerbread houses are flying off the shelves, along with all the Christmas baking equipment. Morag—our new director—sat down with me one evening and we completely refreshed our stock. We went out on a limb on a few festive items that we both felt instinctively were right—and they’ve totally outperformed. The mixing bowl decorated with gingerbread men sells out as soon as we put it on the shelves, and the holly-leaf version is nearly as popular. In fact, we’ve had to start waiting lists.
It’s three weeks since Bob’s gloomy assessment, and even he blinked in surprise as he came in last Saturday. The place was buzzing. Jake was calling out, “Get your gingerbread house! Three for two on gift wrap!” Nicole was assisting Morag with a children’s table decoration activity, while their parents all browsed the shop. There was a happy hum of chatter and the tills were bleeping nonstop. We won’t know till January how everything’s shaken down, but it’s looking OK. It’s looking better.