My fingers flex at the thought of having access to the sums behind the hotel’s decisions. I’ll get to see how Forest Manor really works. All the moving parts. I can do more than just raising a few hundred pounds with old lost-property rubbish—I can help.
“I like numbers,” I tell her, the ache in my chest subsiding. “Just send it all my way.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” She squeezes both our arms and heads off towards Opal Cottage.
We watch her go.
“I appreciate what you said,” I tell Izzy eventually. “About spreadsheets. When I have the opportunity, I would like to tell Mrs. SB that you, too, deserve a chance to expand your skills here at the hotel.”
“What?”
“I mean . . . There’s a lot more you could be doing here, too.”
She bristles. “I’m doing plenty, thanks. And you’re welcome. Just . . . Go gently when you get back to her on the figures, OK? Some of us are humans, not robots.”
She walks away through the rose bushes, towards the hotel. The word robot stings like a slap. I’m human, too, I want to say. When you’re unkind to me, it hurts.
My phone flashes up a reply from Ana as I follow Izzy back inside. Ana has sent my photo back with a large red circle around the tiny portion of Izzy’s shoulder that is visible in the photograph.
Quem é essa pessoa???
Oh, porra. She wants to know who it is.
? uma mulher?? says my mother.
Merda. Now they’ve clocked it’s a woman. But how? It’s about three millimetres of white shirt and . . . oh. A telltale strand of long pink hair. Damn.
I hesitate, wondering how to play this. My mother and sister are convinced I need a girlfriend, despite the fact that I have functioned happily for several years without one. And when I did have one, I was mostly quite miserable.
??! LUCAS?!
That’s from Ana. I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger.
? só uma colega de trabalho, I type. Just a colleague.
Ela é bonita? Ana asks.
My thumb hovers. If I say yes, she’s pretty, then they will not be satisfied until Izzy is flying over to Brazil for a large family wedding. So the obvious thing to do is to say no, she’s not pretty. I glance across at Izzy as we step back into the lobby, watching as she tucks her hair behind her ear with a small, impatient hand, her gold hoop earring swinging as she walks.
I write, She is very difficult to work with. We don’t get along, in Portuguese, and then wait to see if I get away with sidestepping the question.
Ent?o ela é linda! Ana writes. So she’s beautiful, then!
I click away from the chat. I can’t have this conversation right now. I’m meant to be working.
Izzy
I’m just starting to think that my big fat gold ring is a big fat dead end when I finally get a hit on Friday.
Hi, Izzy,
Thanks very much for your email. It reminded me how nice your hotel is—I’ll definitely be booking another stay soon!
I smile to myself. If you put good stuff out into the universe . . .
I’m almost certain that ring belongs to my wife. She’s actually bought a new one since we lost it, but we’d still love to have it back. I’ve attached a photo of the ring on my wife’s hand, and the engraving. Does it match?
Yours,
Graham
It absolutely does match. I lean back in my desk chair, soaking in the feeling as I gaze up at the staircase behind the scaffolding. Winning is the best.
I snap another photo of the ring, then hit reply on Graham’s email. I frown—the address he’s responded to me from is slightly different from the one I used for him. Just to be safe, I put the other one in the CC line, too.
Hi, Graham!
Fantastic news! Please do drop in as soon as possible to claim your wife’s ring back! I’m so happy it’s found its way back to you. And what a lovely picture of the two of you on your wedding day! Here’s another snap of the ring itself so you can see that the engraving matches
All the best,
Izzy
After hitting send, I belatedly wonder if that might have been one too many exclamation marks. I’ve always been partial to an exclamation mark. Full stops just seem so . . . grown-up. When I stop wanting pick-and-mix for dinner, that’s when I’ll start using full stops. That’s real adulthood.
“Golly,” Poor Mandy says, marching in and hefting her bag down into a space between lost-property boxes.
I love how Mandy has taken our lost-property project in her stride and not once complained about the mess—if only Lucas could be more Mandy.