She smiles, sniffing. “I know you can. You like to get things done and you like perfection.”
I incline my head. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t precisely a compliment,” she says, patting at the cushions on the settee until they’re lined up just right. “I’m the same. And I’m brilliant at what I do. But I’m not brilliant at everything, and I find that very hard. Is this ringing any bells?”
I believe I am being Mrs. Hedgers–ed.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m . . . I can be . . . uncompromising.”
This time her smile is smaller. “The perfection you’re always chasing, Mr. da Silva—no amount of hard work will get you what you want. Trust me. I’ve worked very, very hard.”
She wheels towards the mirror, beginning to fix her make-up. It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture for a woman I see as so put-together, and I’m sure it’s very deliberate.
Mrs. Hedgers catches my eye in the mirror. “The ring Mr. Townsend gave you. May I give you some advice about it?”
I watch my own expression shift ever so slightly in the mirror: eyes a fraction wider, eyebrows flinching. Today has been the strangest day. The hotel has been a meaningful part of my life since my very first shift here, but this winter it seems to have woven itself through every element of me—I am hardly surprised to find yet another guest involving themselves in my personal life. Perhaps because I’ve spent all winter involving myself in theirs.
“A ring can make a good thing stronger and a bad thing weaker. You need to be as whole as you can be before you put one on your finger. So all I’d say is . . . don’t ask the question until you feel sure of her answer.”
This is precisely how I described my ideal proposal when I first spoke about marriage with Izzy all those weeks ago, under the fairy lights: I thought I would ask the love of my life to marry me, and I’d know she would say yes. But Mrs. Hedgers is right to suspect that I’m running away with myself. Since yesterday, my mind has been playing out the future, already thinking of all the ways I could lose her, and suddenly the idea of securing Izzy Jenkins in marriage is extremely appealing. I want her to be mine before she realises she’s far too good to be.
I’d considered this February, when we go to Brazil together. Or summer at the latest.
“When you know she loves you, and you trust it—ask her then. That’s my opinion,” Mrs. Hedgers says, flashing me a freshly lipsticked smile. “For what it’s worth. Which, by the way, is a lot. Hard work doesn’t get you everything, but it does help with the pay cheques, I find. Now, I must go and find my better half, and then I must thank the man who has saved my Christmas.” She swallows. “Please remind me that there is no shame in accepting help.”
“There is no shame in accepting help.”
She nods, pulling her hair up and clipping it in place. “Sometimes you do need someone else to say it,” she says. “I don’t know why, but you do. Right. Shall we?” She gestures towards the door.
Izzy
I’m dotted in face paint. The band is playing Harper Armwright’s “December Kisses,” and a group of tipsy ladies are dancing an unrelated Scottish reel by the front desk; Charlie and Hiro are here, our very first success story of the Ring Thing, enjoying a glass of mulled wine by the fire with Mr. Townsend. Arjun has finally stopped laughing about the fact that I’m now Lucas’s girlfriend （“I am never going to let you live this down, Jenkins, you know that, right?”） and has even taken a short break from the kitchen to enjoy the festivities.
I am full to the brim with happiness. For a bright, freedom-filled moment, the future of the hotel doesn’t seem to matter, because right now we’re at our very best. Forest Manor Hotel is glowing with festive joy, and if you squint a bit, the sleet coming down outside the windows might even pass for snow.
And it’s almost time for Lucas’s Christmas present. Planned and pulled together late last night, in whispered phone calls taken while hiding in his bathroom, because until yesterday I was genuinely planning to buy him a lump of coal.
I just have one last thing to do before the clock strikes six, and it’s going to be unpleasant, no matter how joyful the mood in here.
Last week, I decided that unfinished business is bad for the soul, so I offered Drew Bancroft a job.
Well, only three hours’ work, making cocktails with Ollie. I’m not that nice. But I thought an olive branch was overdue, and I kept thinking of her Instagram post about how she couldn’t find work. Before I knew it, I’d DMed her.