The Wake-Up Call(58)
Mr. Hedgers gives me a tired, grey smile. “Thank you,” he says. “And if you wouldn’t mind not mentioning to Annie that I asked . . . She hates the idea of charity.”
Once we’ve removed Winston from the playground—a process that reminds me of levering a barnacle from a rock—I update Izzy on the situation with the insurer. She looks incensed as we make our way to Opal Cottage, her fire-streaked hair bouncing on her shoulders.
“Why are they being such arseholes? It’s not like the insurers don’t have the money.”
“It’s just business to them,” I say, and then swallow back any further insights on this topic in the face of the furious glare she shoots my way.
“Well, it’s real people, not just numbers. Those poor kids. This is all so unsettling for them anyway. And we’ve made the hotel so homely for them!” Izzy tears up slightly. “I chose Ruby’s favourite star to go on the top of the tree!”
How did I ever, ever hate this woman?
“The finance spreadsheets you’ve been working on,” Izzy says, looking up at me. “Is it—is it very bad?”
It was bad before the ceiling fell in. In an attempt to recover from the losses of the pandemic, we’ve accumulated debts, we’ve skipped essential maintenance, and we’ve cut room prices to try to stimulate demand—a move that hasn’t paid off. We have very few bookings, which in turn makes it hard to secure investment. Mrs. SB and Barty often say they are not “numbers people,” and it is obvious that the hotel was not run economically even when it made a healthy profit. The result is that now we are in real, serious trouble.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “It is very, very bad.”
Izzy sighs as she knocks on the door of Opal Cottage, pulling her coat closer around her.
“Oh, perfect!” Mrs. SB says.
She is already turning around by the time the door is open, walking back into the cottage. We step into the warmth, shedding our coats and hanging them on the wonky iron hooks beside the door.
“I’m baking!” Mrs. SB says.
Izzy and I exchange a glance. We have never known Mrs. SB to bake. When we step into the kitchen, it becomes clear what this actually means: Barty is kneading bread in an apron and Mrs. SB is reading him instructions from an AGA recipe book.
We explain the Hedgerses’ financial situation as Barty slaps away at his dough and Mrs. SB tells him he’s not put enough yeast in. He takes this well. I watch them as Izzy talks. How they just slot together, even when they’re quietly annoying one another. I’ve never looked at other couples like this before, but suddenly—now that I’ve realised how I feel about Izzy—I’m seeing everyone in a different way. I want to sit them all down and ask them, how did you do it? How did you get from strangers to this, where you’re like one person split in two?
None of my relationships have ever been like this. And as much as I think my ex was wrong to tell me I have no heart . . . as I stand here in the warmth of the Singh-Bartholomew kitchen, I do wonder if I ever really gave that heart to Camila.
“Normally I would say yes without even thinking about it,” Mrs. SB says sadly. “You know I’d love to help the Hedgerses. But I have to look after all of you, first and foremost. That’s my job, and I’ve not been doing it properly.”
Barty reaches a floury hand across to hold hers for a moment, and then resumes kneading.
“Mrs. SB, that’s not . . .” Izzy begins, but Mrs. SB waves her to silence.
“Don’t,” she says. “You’ll make me cry. Let’s talk business, please.” She sniffs. “The Christmas party.”
Izzy and I both freeze.
The Christmas party is a topic we do not discuss.
“What?” Mrs. SB says, staring at us both.
“Nothing,” I say, collecting myself first. “What was it you wanted to say?”
“I’m just wondering how you’re getting along with planning it for this year?”
“You want a Christmas party this year?” Izzy says, doing a very poor job of hiding her horror.
“Of course. It might be a last hurrah, after all,” Barty says, dabbing his damp brow.
Mrs. SB looks at us expectantly. Last year the party happened in mid December, partly because I had my flights home booked for December seventeenth, and I had led on organising the event. But it’s already December fifteenth.
“Since you’re both here for Christmas, shall we do it on the twenty-fourth?” Mrs. SB asks.
In Brazil, the twenty-fourth is the focus of Christmas celebrations—this will be perfect for me. I have no plans for the day, and a party at the hotel will be an ideal way to stop me missing my family so much.
I glance sideways at Izzy. Her face is set. No doubt she is remembering that argument on the lawns at the last Christmas party. How I’d snapped at her, how she’d screamed back. How Drew had hovered in the hotel entrance, watching, and then said to Izzy, You know, you don’t actually own either of us, though?
Which was true. But it had hit Izzy like a slap in the face.
The more I get to know Izzy this winter, the less I understand the way she reacted that night. I always assumed she’d been protecting her friend, but Drew seems to have disappeared from Izzy’s life without trace. I’d imagined they were very close, but if they were, there is no way Izzy would have let Drew go—she never seems to let any friends go.