Pedro swears. “You have a direct message from someone with fifteen million followers here. And . . .”
“There you are,” Arjun says, barging into the spa with his chef’s hat in hand and some tapenade on his forehead. “There’s a Harper Armwright outside the hotel with a six-piece band. What the fuck?”
“Oh, yes, Harper,” Poor Mandy says dreamily. “She’ll be here to collect her wedding ring.”
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
I’ve heard of Harper Armwright. She did a duet with Michael Bublé; Izzy has one of her old CDs in her box o’ bits. But I’m not a fan, particularly—I would choose Los Hermanos over Harper Armwright any day.
And yet even I feel somewhat starstruck when I see her outside the hotel. She carries herself like she’s special. It’s in her every move: the slow turn of her head, the set of her shoulders, the thoughtlessness with which she leaves the car door for somebody else to close. And it’s in the warm, well-practised smile she gives us, with an extra special moment of eye contact for Sameera, who is hopping on the spot and whining Oh my God it’s Harper actual Armwright under her breath.
“You must be Lucas,” Harper says to me with a voice like honey. She holds out her hand for me to shake. “One half of my Christmas miracle.”
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
We manage to smuggle her in under Izzy’s woolly hat and a pair of sunglasses I keep in my glove box. It’s her security team who draw attention. I glower at them when they refuse to look less conspicuous, and they glower right back. I have the vague sense that I may have found my people.
“I must have lost it when the paparazzi turned up—we left this place in such a hurry,” Harper says, sliding the ring slowly onto her finger and breathing out. “All those years it was just sitting here? It’s like . . . Wow.”
We’re in the lost-property room. It seems to pale around Harper’s glow. This woman belongs on stadium stages and in penthouse suites—as much as I am proud of Forest Manor Hotel, this is not the part of it I would most like her to see. Izzy shifts a couple of steps to her left, covering the sun-bleached section of wall where a large box sat for many years.
“My wife was gutted. She made it herself, did you know that? It’s completely unique, and it slots perfectly beside hers.” She smiles down at the ring on her hand. “When a friend sent her your Instagram post about this cute mission you’re on? To return all those lost rings? And then you put up a pic of this one earlier today and I just thought, No way. But there it was.” She shakes her head in wonder. “It’s literally priceless, this ring.”
We all wait with bated breath. Mrs. SB is gripping Barty’s arm; Izzy has her bottom lip between her finger and thumb. Poor Mandy is staring at a fixed point on the wall, fingers tapping at her sides as though she is still subconsciously responding to direct messages.
Nobody has said the word reward yet. But everyone is thinking it.
We wait. Harper keeps smiling. One of her security guys checks his watch.
“Now, since I’m here,” Harper says, looking between us and dialling her smile up a notch, “how about a little set?”
“A set! Right!” Mrs. SB says brightly. “Lovely.”
Izzy and I exchange a glance. No reward? But Harper Armwright must be worth about half a billion pounds.
“Ollie!” Mrs. SB calls suddenly.
I turn to see Ollie standing open-mouthed in the doorway.
“Is that . . .” he begins, voice hoarse.
“Yes, dear, Harper Armwright,” Mrs. SB says briskly. “I’m going to need you to help her get set up for a performance.”
“Per . . . formance . . .” Ollie whispers, clutching at the door frame, as though perhaps he might otherwise not be able to remain standing.
“My fans will be so excited—we’ll do a reel, yeah?” Harper says to one of the members of her team, who nods enthusiastically, whipping her phone out. “I’ve already told them how super-cute this place is. It’ll be perfect. So Christmas.”
Barty’s phone sings out the old Nokia theme tune. Harper jumps slightly and then stares in fascination as he pulls out his 1990s mobile phone.
“Sorry,” Poor Mandy says, coming to life and snagging her glasses down from the top of her head. “You told your fifteen million followers that our hotel is super-cute?”
“Yuh-huh,” Harper says as she waits for her security guy to declare she’s safe to leave our lost-property room. “Can I get one of those?” she asks a member of her team, pointing to Barty’s phone.