The Wake-Up Call(89)

“Anyway. Wish me luck, lad,” Louis says with a wink, and then he claps me on the arm.

I twitch. I am one scrap of self-control away from spinning around and punching him in the stomach.

“See ya,” he says, strolling away with a smile.



* * *



? ? ? ? ?

That’s it. It’s finished. If there’s even anything to finish. I was never hers and she was never mine, so I suppose there’s no break-up here. Just me, opening myself up to someone who’s chosen someone else.

And why wouldn’t she? Despite everything I’ve done, when she looks at me, she sees a man who’s not good enough. And for all the effort I’ve made to fight those feelings, for all the times I’ve hung up on my uncle and told myself You’re doing great, it’s really fucking hard to believe I’m worth something when the woman I love thinks a cuz?o like Louis is a better man than me.

I look up to find Mr. Townsend watching me. I turn away sharply, aware of the tears in my eyes.

“Son,” he says, “are you all right?”

I breathe out slowly, trying to get control of myself. “No,” I say. “I’m not. I want to go home.”





Izzy


No. No no no no no no no.

Louis and I are in the turret room, at the window where Lucas gave me Brazilian food and introduced me to his family. The sun is setting above the trees, gorgeous in powder pink.

I have the card in my hands. The card. It has two cute penguins on the front, both wearing Christmas hats. I never thought I would see this card again.

It’s a lot smaller than I remember. I am holding it with my fingertips, as though at any moment it might explode.

“Louis.”

I open the card and in comes a wave of shame and humiliation as I remember writing it, how brave I’d felt. Putting myself out there. Being bold. Living life to the fullest, just like my parents always wanted.

Dear Lucas, it says. I have a confession to make.

“Louis . . . this wasn’t your Christmas card.”

For the first time since I’ve known Louis, he looks unsure of himself.

“Pardon?” he says, ducking his head to look at it with me.

“Lucas.” I press my hand to my forehead. Oh my God. “I wrote this for Lucas.”

“Then why does it say . . .” He trails off. “You have really bad handwriting,” he says after a moment, and there’s an edge to his voice now.

“I am so sorry, Louis.”

“So it’s Lucas you want, then,” Louis says, stepping back slightly. The sunset bathes us in rosy light; it’s a very romantic setting. I suppose that’s why he got the card out. The perfect moment. “It’s always been him?”

The question floors me. Because . . . well, yes, it has, really. I’ve cursed him and crossed him and kissed him, but yeah, it’s always been him, hasn’t it? Nobody has ever made my cosy warm heart beat the way he does.

I was infatuated then, and if I am entirely honest with myself, I’m infatuated now.

And he never knew. He never knew.

“I really am so sorry, Louis. But I need to go, I’ve got to . . .”

He frowns, interrupting me. “Your colleague, that sorry-for-herself one, she gave the card to me. She said it was for me.”

I wince. Poor Mandy has never complained about my handwriting, but Lucas always says she gets him to translate half the stuff I write down. I thought he was exaggerating. It’s always perfectly clear to me.

“I guess she must’ve read it wrong, too. I’m sorry.”

Louis’s expression shifts. He seems to go from affable to calculating in a flash.

“Does Mrs. SB know you and Lucas have been getting off with each other on company time?”

I stare at him. “What? No, she . . . But we haven’t been . . .”

I trail off. Because, well, we have, a bit.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Dob me in?”

I’m kind of joking, but Louis just looks at me appraisingly for a moment.

“Do you know how many women would kill to have me take them to the Angel’s Wing?”

“Excuse me?”

“You think you’re really special, Izzy, with your multicoloured hair and your cute ‘mission’ to save this hotel. But the truth is you’re just a mousey little nobody in a dead-end job. It’s kind of sad.”

My mouth drops open. Louis’s nastiness is so sudden and so unexpected that his words don’t really land at all—in fact, as he slicks back his hair and adjusts his expensive jacket, I find myself wanting to laugh at him.

“A mousey little nobody? Oh, Louis.” I shake my head, shoving the card into my back pocket. “You know what’s really sad? The fact that you seem to think you’re somebody.”

I spin towards the door, already moving. I don’t have time for this slimeball—I need to find Lucas. I need to explain. God, what’s he been thinking all this time? What was he thinking when we had that screaming match after the Christmas party last year? What was he thinking when I said I hated him, couldn’t trust him, never would?

I want to cry. It’s as if the last year has shifted like an optical illusion, and suddenly I’m seeing a completely different picture. I just—I just have to find Lucas.