I take a deep, calming breath. Once this wedding is over, Lucas and I can go back to alternating shifts wherever possible. These days, things don’t go well if we’re at the front desk together for too long. Mrs. SB says it “doesn’t seem to create quite the right atmosphere.” Arjun, the head chef, says, “When Izzy and Lucas are on shift at the same time, the hotel is about as welcoming as my grandmother’s house,” and I’ve met Arjun’s grandmother, so I can say with confidence that this was a very rude remark.
But Lucas and I are the most experienced front-of-house staff at the hotel, and we’re the ones who manage weddings, which means that for the next two days, I have to endure nonstop Lucasness.
“Come up to the landing,” Lucas barks. “See what I am seeing.”
He’s always so commanding. When I first met Lucas, I thought his Brazilian accent was so sexy—I forgave his rudeness, called it a translation issue, decided he meant well but things didn’t quite come out right. But over time, I have learned that Lucas has an excellent grasp of English—he is just an arse.
I traipse up to the central landing, where the staircase splits in two, and take it all in. Our lobby is huge, with a gigantic wooden front desk along the left-hand side, old-fashioned keys dangling on the wall behind it. There’s a worn circular rug over the original brown and cream tiles, and a soft-seating area by the tall windows looking out at the lawn. It’s gorgeous. And in the last eight years, it’s become a home to me—maybe even more so than the little pastel-coloured flat I rent in Fordingbridge.
“This is a classy hotel,” Lucas says. “The fairy lights look cheap.”
They were cheap. What does he expect? Our budget is—as always—non-existent.
“This is a family hotel,” I say, just as the Hedgers family walk into the lobby, right on cue. Three kids, all hand in hand, the littlest one toddling along in a snowsuit with his pudgy fingers tucked inside his sister’s.
“Wow!” says the oldest, stopping in his tracks to stare at my sparkling bannister. The youngest almost takes a tumble; his sister yanks him upright. “That looks so cool!”
I shine my smuggest smile in Lucas’s direction. He continues to glower. The children look slightly disconcerted, and then intrigued.
I have noticed this phenomenon before. Lucas should be terrible with children—he’s huge and scowly and doesn’t know how to talk to them. But they always seem to find him fascinating. The other day I heard him greet Middle Hedgers （real name: Ruby Hedgers, age six; favourite hobbies include martial arts, ponies, and climbing things that aren’t safe） by saying, “Good morning, how did you sleep? I hope well?” It is exactly what he says to adult guests, delivered in the exact same tone. But Ruby loved it. “Oh, I slept all night,” she told him with great importance. “When it was seven on my clock, I got up and stood by Mummy and Daddy’s bed until they woke up, too, and Daddy didn’t think I was there, so he screamed, and it was so funny.” To which Lucas nodded, quite serious, and said, “That sounds like a horrible way to be woken,” and Ruby descended into fits of giggles.
Bizarre.
“The children like the fairy lights,” I tell Lucas, spreading my hands.
“The children also like shoes with wheels in them, and Haribo, and they will eat Arjun’s ice-cream sundaes until they are sick,” Lucas says. “Children cannot be trusted.”
I glance at the grown-up Hedgerses to make sure they aren’t offended by Lucas’s comments, but they’re ushering the kids into their room and don’t seem to have heard. They’re in Sweet Pea, because Mrs. Hedgers is a wheelchair user—the lifts have been broken for over a month now, and it’s been a nightmare with only five downstairs bedrooms.
“No fairy lights on my side. We should take those ones down, too.”
“Oh my God! Can’t you just compromise and say, fine, let’s use fairy lights but more sparingly, or something?”
“They hurt my eyes. It’s a no.”
“When you work with someone you can’t just say It’s a no and leave it at that.”
“Why not?”
“You have to meet me halfway.”
“Why?”
“Because! It’s reasonable!”
“Ah. Reasonable like reorganising the stationery every time you are on shift so that I can never find things?”
“That’s not why I do it. I do it because your way is—”