The Wake-Up Call(27)

“How was your date?” I ask in a low voice as she pulls it around herself, tucking it under her arm.

Louis has just stepped through to the men’s changing room. I relax a little as the door shuts behind him.

“You’ve been here pretty much the whole time,” Izzy says. “You tell me.”

“You won every race,” I say, setting down the bag and folding my arms across my chest. “So I’d say he’s no match for you.”

“Maybe I’m not looking for a guy who tries to outperform me,” she says, widening her eyes slightly as she tucks the towel tighter. Our voices echo in here, the water lapping quietly beside us.

“Oh, he was trying.” I smirk. “I know his type. Pushy. Likes to win. Compensating for something, no doubt. He just wasn’t fast enough.”

“Really?” She tilts her head. “He seemed like the perfect gentleman to me.”

“You think that’s what you need?”

She raises her eyebrows, incredulous. “You think I need something else?”

“I think you’re getting bored of men who will roll over for you on your command,” I say, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve seen your boyfriends, hanging around, waiting for you to tell them what to do next, chauffeuring you home in their beaten-up cars . . .”

Her eyes flare with real irritation. “That’ll be your first job,” she says. “When I win the bet. Chauffeuring me home in your beaten-up car.”

“My car is spotless.”

“Actually,” she says, “it got a little scratched this evening. Someone in a Smart car is no good at manoeuvres.”

“You wouldn’t,” I growl. “That is . . .”

“Seriously extra,” she says, and she’s laughing now. “No, I wouldn’t. But it’s got you raging, hasn’t it?”

It’s true. I am tense; heat is pounding through me.

“Big muscles, fancy car . . . You sure you’re not compensating for something?” she calls as she walks off into the changing room.



* * *



? ? ? ? ?

On Thursday afternoon, as I settle back at the front desk after a frantic day sorting lost property, my sister messages me on the family WhatsApp group. Lucas, saudade! Está gostando do clima de Natal brit?nico?

She wants to know if I’m enjoying my English Christmas. Messaging me via the family group is an unsubtle reminder that I’ve been too quiet, and probably a sign that my mother is worrying.

Uncle Ant?nio isn’t in the family WhatsApp group. I occasionally feel guilty about this, but I can’t quite bring myself to set up another space in which Ana and I will inevitably feel inadequate.

I flinch suddenly as something lands on my head, and spin around to find Izzy behind me. I catch the reindeer antlers she just tried to put on me.

“No,” I say.

“It’s not festive enough around here!” she complains, adjusting her own antlers. Her hair is pulled back in a bun again, like it was that night at the pool. “It’s December now, and the builders won’t let me decorate the bannisters yet, and my nativity is gone . . .”

“What about that?” I say, pointing to the enormous Christmas tree occupying much of the lobby.

It took Izzy half a day to decorate that tree. At one point she suggested abseiling down from the scaffolding to get the star on the top, and I don’t think she was joking. I stayed out of it, which means that the whole thing is completely overdone, but I am trying to learn when to pick my battles. I can live with too many baubles on the tree.

Though it does annoy me. All the time. A lot.

“Everyone has a Christmas tree,” Izzy says, waving a hand. “We need to step it up a gear. We may not have a full house, but the restaurant is booked to capacity most nights up to Christmas—and all the diners will be walking through this lobby, wondering if maybe they should come for a weekend when the renovations are done . . .”

She’s right. Despite the building work, we need to be a good advertisement for the hotel at the moment. I look around at all the mess and wince.

“Tidying all this lost property would be a start.”

“Most of this is waiting for buyer collection. Which, by the way, was all organised by me. What have you sold lately?”

I scowl. “Today, I took a whole box of items to auction. I raised almost a thousand pounds. All you do is fiddle around pairing socks and trying to match sets of earrings.”

“Yeah, well, you keep bagsying all the high-value items!” Izzy says, then answers the phone as it rings. “Oh, hi! Thanks for calling back! Yes, I’d love to speak to Hans about the ring.” She swivels in her chair to direct the full strength of her smugness in my direction. “Fantastic. Whenever’s good for him.”

Merda. I haven’t got any further with mine since Ruth’s attempted fraud, which was all extremely uncomfortable. There are still four contenders who haven’t replied to my calls or follow-up emails. I mentally bump everything else on my to-do list. This is my new priority.

“Ooh, antlers!” coos Poor Mandy as she staggers into the lobby under the weight of her two giant Sainsbury’s bags. She untangles them from around her shoulders and they land on the lobby rug with a thud as she digs out her phone—case flap dangling—and starts snapping photographs of us. “Lucas, dear, put yours on, too! This will be wonderful on the Facebook.”