The Wake-Up Call(11)

“I’m less than a year into the course, Uncle, and I’m doing it part-time.”

“There’s no room for part-timers in this world, Lucas,” Ant?nio begins.

I cut him off before he gets into full flow. “I mean, I’m doing it while working at the hotel. I need the practical experience as well as the degree.”

“Hmm, well. I hope they know you’ll be their boss one day soon.”

My stomach tightens anxiously. I’m not doing the course out of a desire to take over Forest Manor. But as soon as Ant?nio says it, that old impulse kicks in: I need to work harder, I need to be pushing for a promotion, I need to do more, do better . . .

“Listen, Lucas, I think you should come home at Christmas.”

I clench my teeth. “I can’t afford it. The flights are too expensive. I’ve booked to come back in February.”

“February is the worst time to come home. Carnival, all the tourists . . .”

“I’ve made my decision,” I say again. It’s best to be strong with my uncle—if you’re anything but assertive, you’ve already lost. “I have to go. Speak soon.”

After ending the call, I pull up my banking app, and then I shut it again very quickly, because the only thing guaranteed to make my mood worse is seeing quite how large that minus number has grown in the last few weeks. I’m still throbbing with all those old feelings, sweating them out beneath my thick coat. I can’t feel the cold wind now. A phone call with my uncle: the perfect way to warm up in an English winter.

I head back to the hotel entrance, with its rounded privet hedges and its big stone steps. As I walk into the lobby, I eye Izzy’s ridiculous rubble nativity scene. For an unpleasant moment, I’m reminded of last year’s Christmas party—Izzy had set up a nativity for that, too. I remember walking past it with Drew, just a few moments after she’d introduced herself. God, could that be more Izzy? she said. Who else would make the camels pink? The memory makes me wince.

I approach the front desk. Mrs. SB is there with Izzy, their heads bent close together, inspecting something. I am immediately suspicious.

“These could be worth a lot!” Mrs. SB says.

Izzy looks up, her hand flying to the thin gold chain she’s wearing around her throat.

“You want us to sell these?”

“Of course. Why not?” Mrs. SB says.

“Mrs. SB, I get it, I know how important the money is, but . . . these aren’t just pieces of jewellery. They’re wedding rings. Engagement rings,” Izzy says, her voice rising. “These are little love stories, right here in this box.”

I look over their shoulders. There are five rings lying haphazardly on a folded piece of yellowing kitchen paper inside a Tupperware box. One of them is diamond studded; another sports a giant emerald at its centre, framed by two pink stones. Each one has a tiny sticker looped around it with a date printed in different handwriting.

“What is all this?” I ask.

“They’re from the swimming-pool lost property,” Izzy says to me. “I want to return them.”

“Return them? Aren’t we supposed to be making money, not giving it away?” I ask, and then I catch Izzy’s expression.

She’s really upset about this. Her eyes are swimming. She blinks fast and looks away again.

“Losing a wedding ring isn’t like losing an umbrella,” she says. “I know the law says you have to keep items for a reasonable length of time—but what’s reasonable when it’s something with such sentimental value?”

At the mention of the law, Mrs. SB looks a little distressed.

“Oh, well . . .”

“Just give me one week. Please, Mrs. SB. We’re doing brilliantly at selling off the other items already. But do we really want to be the sort of hotel that pawns off someone’s wedding ring?”

“Yes?” I say.

“No,” Mrs. SB says with a heavy sigh. “No, I suppose we don’t. Thank you, Izzy.” She squeezes her shoulder. “Our resident angel. You mustn’t let us lose our heart here, all right, dear?”

I stare between them, and then back at the rings. What has heart got to do with it? These are just expensive items of jewellery. Who’s to say they’re more sentimentally valuable to people than their favourite umbrella?

“You can’t be serious,” I begin, but Mrs. SB is already striding off towards Barty, who has just appeared in the doorway, wearing a panicked expression and holding two laptops at once.

“One week!” she calls over her shoulder at Izzy, who immediately starts checking the dates on each ring. “And then our duty is done!”

“There is no duty here,” I say. “These are just the same as all the rest of the junk in there.”

Izzy brandishes an old booking book at me. There was a digital system before I arrived at Forest Manor, though a very bad one—and yet Izzy still insisted on writing things in that book as well as putting them on the computer. She continues this practice now, even with our superior new online system. It is one of the many ridiculous things she does.

“What’s the date on that one?” she asks, pointing to the gold wedding ring I’ve picked up between thumb and forefinger.

“The first of November, 2018,” I say. “Do you honestly think you can find the owner of a ring that was lost here four years ago?”