“I just ran into that Mrs. Hedgers, the career coach, outside. She’s very . . .” Mandy flaps a hand in front of her face as if to cool herself down, though it’s two degrees outside, and not much warmer in here—we’re trying to skimp on the heating as much as we can without pissing off the guests. “She’s a lot, isn’t she?”
I remember what Mrs. Hedgers said to me about switching off and I wince. Last night, after going for drinks with my school friends, I spent two hours trying to work out the logistics of getting to a hen-do in January, concluded it would cost me ?380, agonised about whether I could bail on these grounds, and then fell asleep on the sofa in front of the latest series of Married at First Sight: Australia, which I’d promised Jem I’d watch so that we can re-create our old MAFSA nights when we next Zoom.
I’m not sure that counts as switching off.
“What did she say to you?” I ask, diving into the next lost-property box. This one is pens. Even I think we probably shouldn’t have kept all these.
“She asked if I had trouble asserting myself,” Poor Mandy says. “I said I’m not sure, but I don’t think so? And then she told me all sorts of information about the value of strong boundaries, and now I feel a bit . . .” She plonks herself down in her chair. “Funny.”
I bite my lip, giving Mrs. Hedgers a smile and a wave as she passes on her way to Sweet Pea. Mandy definitely has trouble asserting herself. She’s ridiculously amenable. Does that mean Mrs. Hedgers was right about me, too?
When I’m at work, I’m always giving a little extra, going a little further, being a little nicer. But I wouldn’t want to be any other way—I like being brilliant at my job. I like being the person who brings that sparkle. That’s how everyone sees me and that’s who I want to be.
If I’m completely honest, though, I do sometimes wish I could dial it down a notch and spend the day with unwashed hair and a bad attitude. Just sometimes. And it’s not like I really get much of a chance to do that outside of work, either—I’m always with people, and lately, since Jem, Grigg, and Sameera have moved away, those people aren’t my people. They’re not the people I can completely switch off with. I have to be nice, bouncy people-person Izzy all the time.
Except with Lucas, obviously.
Mandy leans across to answer the phone. “Hello, Forest Manor Hotel and Spa.” She glances at me. “No, Lucas isn’t here right now, but I can take a message?”
Poor Mandy writes something down in her usual, painstakingly slow fashion. Is this how people achieve neat handwriting? Not worth it, I say.
I bob up to read over her shoulder.
Call back about wedding ring. Urgent. And then a phone number.
Shit, shit, shit.
“I’ll take that to Lucas,” I say, swiping the note off the desk.
“Oh, thank you, dear!” calls Poor, innocent Mandy as I walk away.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
All’s fair in love, war, and petty workplace feuding, right?
I tap the number Poor Mandy wrote into my phone and then crumple the note in my hand. I seem to have ended up in the spa. I was heading in the direction of the restaurant bin, but chucking the note away felt just a bit too unscrupulous. However, if it were to happen to get wet, and the number were to be lost until, say, I had managed to return my ring first . . . After all, I’m so close. Graham will drop in any moment now to claim his wife’s lost ring.
I sidle towards the swimming pool, note in hand. The water slops and echoes in the still, thick air.
“What’s that?”
I spin around and my foot slips on the wet floor. For an awful, teetering moment, I think I’m in danger of falling on my arse on the tiles in front of Lucas da Silva, as if the universe has decided I have not humiliated myself enough in front of this man. I right myself just in time. He folds his arms and a smile tugs at his lips.
I’m still clutching the note.
“It’s just . . . a thing,” I say, then pull a face at myself. “It’s a thing Mandy gave me,” I go on, rallying. “Not important.”
“Is that why you were holding it over the swimming pool?”
I look at his face—all smugness and chiselled jaw—and I narrow my eyes.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were. Almost.” He holds his hand out. “Mandy said you had a note for me.”
“Ugh. Fine. But I wasn’t going to drop it in the pool.” I hand it to him; then, without much grace, I add: “Probably.”