* * *
? ? ? ? ?
The ink didn’t smudge. Poor Mandy must have used some kind of magical Team Lucas pen. On Saturday morning, I listen morosely as Lucas conducts a second conversation with the owner of his diamond-studded wedding ring. I’m trying to work out exactly what the complexity is here—because there’s definitely something complicated.
“Ah, I see,” says Lucas. “Today will not be possible, but . . .”
He glances at me. I make sure to look extremely busy.
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll be there.”
After he hangs up, I don’t ask. I continue not asking for as long as it is humanly possible to do so, and then I give up, because we’ve been coexisting in frosty silence ever since I arrived this morning, and I am just not a person who can handle silence.
“Well?” I say.
“I will be returning the ring to its rightful owner tomorrow.”
“Returning it to them? As in, leaving the hotel?”
“Why not? This is hotel work. Top priority.”
I suppose it is, technically. I frown.
“And you’re sure it’s her ring?” I ask.
“No,” he concedes. “But I will find out tomorrow.”
“Then I’m coming, too,” I say, pushing my chair back from the computer and spinning to face him. “I don’t trust you.”
He raises his eyebrows slowly, still sorting through old receipts. “Who will manage the front desk?”
“Ollie will do it. He owes me a favour.”
“Arjun will kill you if you take Ollie from him for a day.”
“Let me handle Arjun. I’m coming. I want to see the ring reunion anyway—this isn’t just about the bet, remember?” I say, though I have definitely forgotten this myself of late. “Whereabouts is this woman based?”
“London,” he says. “Little Venice. I’ll be booking an advance for the . . .” He checks his computer screen. “Nine thirty-three.”
“OK, great,” I say. “See you on the platform.”
“Great,” he says dryly, carefully stapling a collection of receipts together. Click, goes the stapler. As precise and meticulous and inexplicably irritating as ever.
Lucas
Mrs. SB has forwarded me the last five years of accounts, and I’ve spent four hours poring over them.
I cannot remember the last time I felt this happy.
Everything I’ve learned on my course is coming to life now that I am looking at a real hotel’s numbers—it is completely different from the test cases we’ve studied. This isn’t theoretical. This is a place I truly care about, and as I sift through all our expenditures, noting areas where we could economise, I realise how powerless I’ve felt sitting here at the front desk while the hotel falls apart around me.
“All right, Lucas?” says Louis Keele, dinging the bell a few times despite the fact that I am right here.
Well, there goes my good mood.
“Izzy about?”
“I don’t know.”
That sounded rude. I look up and try to seem polite and professional, but Louis hasn’t noticed my bad manners. He’s looking at a printout in front of me.
“Are those the hotel accounts?” he says.
I cover them with an arm, trying to make it look as though I’m just reaching for my mouse. I’m not sure what to do. Do potential investors see all these numbers? Or should I keep them hidden? I didn’t need four hours to discover that they are not very favourable. If Mrs. SB hasn’t shared this information, I certainly don’t want to.
“Why did you need Izzy?” I ask. As much as I don’t want to talk to Louis about Izzy, some distraction is required.
“I’m thinking of asking her to dinner,” Louis says, eyes still on the paperwork.
Maybe I should show him the accounts.
“Actually,” Louis says, finally looking up at me. “You might be quite useful. You know her better than I do. What’s my best angle? Red roses? Impromptu picnic? Funny limerick?” His face turns a little sly. “What would you do if you were trying to date her?”
Despite myself, I think about it. Izzy likes things that other people don’t look at twice. Cheap second-hand jewellery; those awful teen dramas nobody else admits to watching; cocktails with silly names. I once caught her googling whether you could keep a wild rat as a pet. She will not want red roses. She would prefer a bouquet of interesting weeds.
Impromptu picnic is slightly better. She likes surprises. But it’s freezing weather and she does feel the cold—when she leaves the hotel in the evening, she’s always wrapped up as if she is heading out to the Antarctic.