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What does he think, that he can get this past her beady eye? Mum notices everything. Every sale, every refund, every email. A course on Not Being Greg. I scan the figures — and nearly fall over flat. Our shop is called Farrs. May I? As I taste, I can see what he means. Our oil tastes thinner in comparison. But you have to know your customers. You have to know their limits. Always is. Posh estate agent clothes. Navy blazer, tie, shiny expensive shoes.
And at the very sight of him, I feel a rush of familiar feelings attacking me, like flapping ravens. This is nothing new. That would be glamorous and interesting. Because I barely ever open my mouth, and when I do, I start to stammer. I have opinions, I have ideas. I really do. I can assert myself. But around Jake, and even sometimes Nicole, I think twice before I venture my thoughts.
Your business went bust. This is how he talks with them. Then he darts the tiniest of looks at me, which I can read completely. He wants non-existent millionaire customers.
Will our customers appreciate it? Oh God.
Even though the ravens are batting their wings in my face, I have to persevere. For Mum. Get their mediocre taste buds used to finer flavours.
They seem too stunned to move. But, kudos to the posh: they have impeccable manners. Simon and Clive glance at each other and tacitly seem to agree to wrap up. As they drive away from the front of the shop, Jake and I both draw breath to speak — but he gets in first. Nice work. Leila always reminds me of Bambi. Not actual family. Not yet.
How could you just leave Leila like that? And now, just the thought of Mum is calming me down. Mum runs the family, the home, the business … basically everything.
Our anchor. When Dad died suddenly of a heart attack, it was like something exploded in her. She says she channels Dad in everything she does and that he talks to her every night. Which sounds weird — but I believe her. Not Mum. Try again. Ah, a paring knife. I know what I want to say to him. Articulate, passionate words about the business. About what we do. About Dad. Leila is poised like me, waiting, her eyebrows anxiously winged together. Pretty and gentle and never judges anyone. She just accepts everyone for who they are, Jake included.
Finally, Jake stops swinging the keys and comes to. I have no idea what kind of thoughts have been transfixing him. Nothing special. Basically still an adoring simper. I stare at him, frozen. Back to the UK? Back home? Back to me? And he was asking after you. I think. I was instantly fixated by him. By the time I joined secondary school, Ryan and Jake were best friends and Ryan used to hang around our house every weekend, cracking jokes and flirting with Mum.
Unlike every other boy in that year, he had flawless skin. He knew how to style his hair. He had money, too. Everyone whispered about it. Some relative had left him a small fortune. He always hosted parties and he got a car for his seventeenth birthday.
Ryan and Jake used to drive around London in it, roof down, music blaring, like a couple of rock stars. In fact, it was Ryan who introduced Jake to that posh, flash, hard-partying set. The pair of them used to get into the kind of clubs that you read about in tabloids, and would boast about it at our house the next day.
There was such a buzz around them, and suddenly I was part of it too. Ryan could be genuinely kind as well. They started to laugh at me and jeer, and Ryan whipped round before anyone else could, and lashed into them. I treated it like a joke. But inside I was smitten. I felt as if we were connected now. The time in Pizza Express when he kissed me lingeringly on greeting me. The time he squeezed my thigh. The time he asked if I was single at the moment.
Over the years I watched and secretly wept as he dated what seemed like every girl in West London and never looked my way. Then, five years ago, he moved to LA to be a movie producer. He flew back to London all the time and he always came to see Jake, in a blast of light and excitement. His wavy blond hair was permanently sun-bleached. He had endless stories of celebrities. Who does he mean, Tom? But Ryan was lodged in my heart.
At last he ran out of steam, and I could see him looking at me. Like, really looking at me. We left about three minutes later. And then he went back to LA. I mean, of course he went back to LA.
What did I expect: that he was going to propose? Not even in my own head.