To be fair, Nicole and Jake have both worked their socks off. We’ve run as many late-night shopping events as we can, with different themes and promotions. It’s been pretty exhausting, and we’ve had to reprioritize a bit. The house is a mess, the kitchen is a tip, we haven’t even thought about our own Christmas, and we’re all a bit frazzled … but it’s worth it.
Jake even managed to be polite to the customers last night at our first-ever seniors’ event. He appeared truly delighted to see my lovely shuffly brown-mug customer, whose name turns out to be Stanley. He was also über-charming to Sheila and Sheila’s mother, aged ninety-eight, who told Jake about six times how handsome he was and how she’d always wanted a toyboy.
Morag has never looked happier—she’s got completely free rein now and is making loads of plans for the New Year. I’ve made a few plans of my own too. I’m going to launch cooking lessons for customers, once a month. I’ll call it the Dinner Party Club, to go alongside the Cake Club, and I’m already working on menus. I’ve even wondered if I might get back into a bit of catering, for customers, as a sideline. I mean, why not? Suddenly everything is feeling possible.
Meanwhile, the Farrs Instagram page has changed from pictures of Nicole to photos of customers and cakes and—my idea—Farrs’ items in funny locations around London. There’s a food mixer in a phone box and a chopping board balanced on top of a red pillar box, and Vanessa even posted a picture of a Jell-O mold on her judge’s chair in court.
As I head outside to give Jake a cup of tea, he greets me with “Five days till Christmas! Ho ho ho!” We had a small staff debate about whether ho ho ho was quite right for a gingerbread man, with Greg claiming it was copyright Santa Claus. But I thought ho ho ho sounded festive and jolly. And these days, what I say tends to go. (Then Stacey wanted to join in and found a Gingerbread Girl costume online. Oh my God. Totally inappropriate. Plus she would have got hypothermia standing out there in stockings and suspenders.)
“Here you are, Gingerbread Man,” I say, handing Jake his cup of tea.
“Gingerbread Guy,” Jake corrects me, as he always does, and I roll my eyes at him. I think Gingerbread Guy is un-Christmassy—but if he wants to be Gingerbread Guy in his own head, let him.
“Oh, I’ve got a message from Leila,” he adds. “Everyone’s invited over for drinks on Christmas Eve. Six o’clock; bring a bottle.”
A year ago, Jake would never have hosted a “bring a bottle” party. He would have been all grand and served champagne and boasted about the canapés. He’s a different person these days. Kind of chastened—but also more relaxed, as though he doesn’t need to pretend anymore. His eyes aren’t strained. He laughs more. I think Leila’s dad treats him pretty brusquely, and a few times Jake has said maybe he and Leila should move into our place.
But I think it’s great. I think Leila’s dad is exactly what Jake needs right now.
“Wonderful,” I say. “Tell Leila I’ll be there.”
“She said, if you want to bring anyone …” Jake trails off cautiously and shoots me a questioning look.
“No.” I force myself to smile. “Just me.”
I haven’t confided in Jake about Seb—our relationship hasn’t changed that much. But from his expression I’m pretty sure that Leila has filled him in.
So he’ll know that I was with Seb … and then somehow I wasn’t anymore. He’ll know how devastated I’ve been. What he won’t know is that I’ve replayed our last couple of days over in my mind almost obsessively, and I still can’t work out quite how everything disintegrated.
What happened? One minute Seb and I were happy, the next we were shouting, the next we couldn’t even look each other in the eye. All in a blink. And if I could go back, if I could only go back …
No, I tell myself furiously. Don’t think that. Seb said it himself: “You can’t go back in time and do life a different way.”
I take a piece of gingerbread from Jake’s basket and munch it, trying to get a grip on myself, but it’s not easy. Thinking about Seb and what might have been fills me with such pain I can barely breathe.
Which is why I try not to do it. But I can’t help myself.
He’s back with Briony. Which shouldn’t have shocked me but did. I discovered it from looking on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. She’d posted a picture of the pair of them, smiling at the camera, captioned: Back together after a blip, all good now!!
And my heart kind of caved in on itself.
I was the blip.
I didn’t feel like a blip. I felt like more than a blip. But there it is in black-and-white: blip. And there’s no reason whatsoever for me ever to run into Seb again—London’s a big city—so that’s it. The end. I’ll never quite know why we broke up. Or how you can be the happiest you’ve ever felt with someone and then the saddest.
“Fixie?” Jake’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I realize my damp eyes are giving me away.
“Right. Yes. Christmas Eve! It’ll be fun!” I say, my voice a little shrill, blinking furiously. “Although I’ve got nowhere with my Christmas shopping; is there anything you want?”
We talk for a bit more, then I head back inside to the familiar colorful buzz of the shop. Morag has just found a new source of picnicware, all printed with daffodils and perfect for summer, and we’re both oohing-and-aahing over the catalog when I hear a loud, hideously familiar voice: “Can I get some service?”
My stomach plummets to the floor. For a moment I can’t even move for horror—then, very slowly, I turn my head, knowing exactly who I’m going to see.
It’s her. Whiny.
She looks spectacular. She’s in a white cable-knit turtleneck with a faux-fur vest over the top and shiny riding boots. Her skin is glowing with fake tan and her black jeans fit her snugly and her hair is all glossy under the lights.
“Oh, hi, I’d forgotten this was your place,” she drawls, her eyes running over me with gratification.
She hadn’t forgotten. I know what this is: It’s payback for the skating.
“Welcome to Farrs,” I say, feeling like a robot. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” she says carelessly. “I’ll just browse all your little things. I haven’t even thought about Christmas yet. Seb’s such a great chef and it’s the first Christmas we’re spending together, just the two of us … so the pressure’s on!” She laughs merrily. “Seb’s so sweet, though; he keeps saying he’ll cook everything. He’s an angel.” Her eyes slide to mine. “As you know.”
As I know. Is she trying to torture me? Well, yes, of course she is.
“Stacey,” I call out, my voice husky because I’m actually finding this really difficult. “Could you … This customer needs …”
But my voice doesn’t rise above the hubbub strongly enough. Stacey’s head doesn’t turn.
“So, I’m finally moving in with him,” Briony says, as though we’re having a cozy girls’ chat over coffee. “About bloody time! I said to him, ‘Seb, we’re a couple! Let’s behave like one!’ And he agreed. He was like, ‘I’ve been a bit mad these last few weeks. I don’t know what got into me.’ And we’re off to Klosters on Boxing Day, so, you know. Back to normal.”
“Right,” I manage. My head is pounding as though I’m about to vomit, but I force my lips into a smile.
“Hi, Lucia!” Briony suddenly waves at a girl I’m sure I’ve seen in here before, with glossy blond hair to match Briony’s and a navy coat. They kiss each other and Lucia brandishes a basket cheerfully at Briony.
“I’m going to go mad,” she says. “I love this place. I come in for cling film and leave with ten bags of stuff. But why did you suggest meeting here?” she adds curiously. “I know about it, but I’m local.”
“Oh, I just heard about it,” says Briony, her eyes sliding again to mine and away again.
“If I can help you with anything, please let me know,” I say, still with my stiff, pleasant smile, then turn away.
And I know I should leave—but I can’t bring myself to. I head to a nearby display, pointlessly rearranging a row of eggcups, my ears straining to hear their conversation.
“You should have brought Seb,” Lucia is saying as she looks at serving dishes. “He’s the real chef, isn’t he? You’re so lucky.”
“Oh, he’s amazing,” agrees Briony smugly. “Makes me breakfast in bed all the time. I’m going to put on twenty pounds!”
She’s speaking far more loudly than she needs to, and, again, I know I should walk away; I need to save myself from this. But my legs just won’t do it.
“Oh well, wait till you’ve got your home gym,” says Lucia easily. “You’ll both be so buff! By the way, I can come round and help clear out that room, after all. The removers are coming at ten tomorrow, aren’t they? Will they bring boxes?”
My hand freezes over an eggcup. Removers? Are they finally clearing out that second bedroom, then? Has Briony managed to get through to Seb? Is she more sensitive than I realized? Did she succeed where I failed? I can’t help feeling a twinge of envy, which is unworthy of me. If Sebastian is moving forward, then that’s good, whoever achieved it.