“Excuse me, Izzy,” Mr. Townsend says, straining to stand.
I shoot over to help him out of his armchair, ignoring the teeny flutter of irritation I feel at the diversion. Mr. Townsend has sat here so often we just leave his reading glasses on the side table now, and there’s a Mr. Townsend–shaped dip in the cushion. If anyone else sits in this armchair, everyone in the lobby tends to look alarmed until the encroacher feels uncomfortable and leaves again.
“I think I may have done something rather unhelpful,” he says, leaning on my arm. “I couldn’t help but overhear . . . As I understand it, the Christmas card that Louis received last year wasn’t intended for him? And your . . . unique handwriting . . .”
“Yes. The card was meant for Lucas.”
“Ah,” Mr. Townsend says, holding his fingers delicately to his lips. “In that case, you might want to sit down for this, dear.”
I let him transfer his hand from my arm to the back of the armchair, and I take a seat, though sitting down is the last thing I want to do. I’m absolutely buzzing, desperate to find Lucas, desperate to apologise and kiss him and tell him—God. I don’t know. Hopefully I’ll know when I see him.
“Louis told Lucas,” Mr. Townsend says, “about the card, that is. And . . . well, Lucas was rather . . .”
“No,” I breathe, gripping the chair’s arms. “No. Was he really upset?” I stare up at Mr. Townsend. This is a disaster.
“Devastated, actually. I think he cares for you very deeply, my dear.”
I whimper. When I think of everything I’ve put Lucas through this year, I can hardly believe he cares about me at all. No wonder he’s always snapped back at me when I’ve given him attitude. He must have thought I was completely unreasonable, hating him without ever offering an explanation. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, liquid eyeliner forgotten, and curse my stupid pride. Why didn’t I just have an adult conversation with him about that Christmas card? Why didn’t I just suck up the embarrassment and say, Hey, why did you laugh at me for saying I was infatuated with you? And why did you kiss my flatmate under the mistletoe instead of me?
“He said he wanted to go home,” Mr. Townsend says.
I glance at the Bartholomew clock above the front desk and do my usual calculations. Lucas will probably be back at his flat by now. At least I know not to waste time going to the gym first.
“Thank you,” I say, moving to stand.
Mr. Townsend lays his hand on my shoulder. “He said he wanted to go home,” he says.
I look up at him.
“I explained to Lucas that I am lucky enough to have accumulated a lot of money in my life, and that every Christmas I like to find ways to spend it that bring the world a bit of joy. It’s something my wife started with me—we’d sit at our front window and watch the world go by all year, and then by December, we’d have an idea of everyone who needed a helping hand. The little girl who yearned for a bike like her brother’s, the lady who wished she could afford to visit her new grandchild . . .”
I reach up and squeeze his hand on the armchair, and he smiles down at me.
“The family whose insurance company won’t pay for a few more days at the hotel.”
My eyes widen as the penny drops.
“And the young man who is heartbroken and homesick at Christmas, who can’t afford to go back to Brazil.”
Oh. Oh. Oh, shit.
I shoot up out of the chair. “When’s his flight, Mr. Townsend?”
Mr. Townsend looks at the clock. I wait while he does his own calculation—he’s been at the hotel long enough to know the drill.
“It departs for Faro from Bournemouth Airport in an hour and a half,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Izzy. I thought it was a good deed.”
I’m already running to the door. “Don’t worry, Mr. Townsend! Not your fault!” I yell over my shoulder, and then I stop short at the exit, spinning to look at him. “When you say lots of money . . . You don’t have a spare hundred grand to save the hotel, do you?”
He smiles. “I’m afraid that is rather too much for me.”
I sag. “That’s OK. It’s such a nice thing you do. You’ve made the Hedgerses’ Christmas.”
“And ruined yours,” Mr. Townsend says wryly.
“Not if I drive very fast!” I call, pushing through the door, wincing at the blast of freezing air. “And I always drive very fast!”
* * *
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