You know. I understand why people say that about love now: there’s no quantifying this. It is too enormous—too dizzyingly deep.
And it’s true that I’ve thought of marrying her. If I could, if this world were perfect, I’d dredge the ocean for that ring from her father, the one she lost, and I’d get down on one knee and hand it to her. But this world isn’t perfect, and neither am I. Sometimes things are lost, and you grieve for them, and they change you, and that’s OK.
It might not be perfect to propose with the emerald ring, but it would be beautiful. It has a story—a legacy. It’s part of the family she found here at the hotel.
“I can’t possibly accept this from you,” I say, but even I can hear that my voice is a little less convincing now.
“Keep it in your pocket until you need it,” Mr. Townsend says just as Mrs. Hedgers enters the room, trailing tinsel behind her.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says as she leans to tape one end of the tinsel to the edge of the window frame. “Izzy’s orders.”
Mr. Townsend presses the ring into my hand and cups it in his own. I shake in his grasp, and we stay like this, both holding that ring; for a moment it holds two messy love stories inside its loop. Then Mr. Townsend removes his hands, and it’s just one love story. Mine, for a while. Until I give it to Izzy, and it becomes hers.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
For an unpleasant half hour, it seems nobody will come to the Christmas party. Our invitations suggested a start time of two p.m.—Izzy wanted the children to be part of the celebration. The plan was that people would come and go when it suited them.
But it doesn’t seem to be suiting them to come at all.
“They’ll turn up,” Izzy says, adjusting yet another candle.
She has done a beautiful job in here. We’ve made the lobby the centre point of the party—it’s where the face painting and the magician are set up, along with the live band, a collection of jazz musicians who once played a wedding here and have been kind enough to help us out with a cut-price performance. The buffet is through in the restaurant, and our bar is filled with comfortable seating. Ollie is in charge of cocktails in the orangery, a role that he accepted with much grumbling and thinly disguised delight.
I doubt Izzy can tell, but I am even more nervous about this party than she is. My Christmas present for her will be revealed tonight, and I am having sudden terrors that I didn’t get it right. After all, I planned it before the two of us got together. And I’ve taken a bit of a risk.
“Rather quiet, isn’t it?” Mr. Townsend says, shuffling over.
Izzy looks irritated, then melts when she realises it’s Mr. Townsend speaking.
“They’ll come,” she says. “Where are the Hedgerses? They always bring the fun. Lucas, will you give them a knock?” On seeing my expression, she adds, “It’s not intrusive, it’s helpful! I promise they won’t mind.”
I shoot her an unconvinced look and get a tongue-out face in return. I head to Sweet Pea. Mrs. Hedgers opens the door: she looks completely different from the woman I saw just a couple of hours ago, in the orangery. Her hair is loose around her shoulders for the first time since I’ve known her, and there are tear tracks on her cheeks.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, already backing away, but she beckons me in and wheels herself back inside. I have no choice but to catch the door and follow her or let it shut behind her.
I step inside, feeling uneasy. I don’t enter rooms while guests are present, generally—it feels like I am doing the same thing Louis did when he stepped behind the front desk.
“Lucas,” she says, reaching up to the dresser for the tissues and neatly blowing her nose. “I was hoping to catch you, actually. The children are in the gardens with my husband, burning off some energy before they’re expected to socialise with people who may not appreciate the degree of barging that takes place on a regular Hedgers-family Saturday.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” I say, already backing towards the door.
“Stay,” Mrs. Hedgers says.
It’s more command than request. I do as I’m told, holding my hands behind my back, hovering in front of the door.
“My husband finally told me what Mr. Townsend did for us. And do you know what I felt? I felt irritated. Irritated that we’d had to accept charity and irritated that I hadn’t won. I hadn’t beaten the insurance company. It hadn’t gone my way.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can understand that.”