A funny limerick could go either way. She’s quick to laugh, but she is very funny, too, and I am not convinced Louis can match her sense of humour.
I should give him an answer along these lines. There’s no reason not to help him. But then I see the calculating look in Louis’s eye—the same expression he wore when he first saw the damage to the hotel ceiling all those weeks ago. And there it is again: the sensation I felt when Izzy slipped into the swimming pool with him.
“I would go for a classic date,” I find myself saying. “Red roses and champagne at an expensive restaurant.”
“Yeah?” Louis says, frowning slightly. “She doesn’t seem that traditional to me.”
“Deep down she is highly conventional,” I say, returning my attention to my computer screen.
“Right, well, thanks, mate,” Louis says, and even though I’m not looking, I can still sense that charming, easy smile which has no doubt got him very far in life.
I look down at my phone as he walks away and see a new message from Uncle Ant?nio. He has sent me a link to an article with no message accompanying it. The article is called “Ten Signs You’re Not Fulfilling Your Potential （Even If You Think You Are）。”
I turn my phone over and take a deep breath, trying to remember what really matters to me. My mother, my sister. Their happiness, and—increasingly—my own. All the small ways in which I make a difference to people’s lives here.
But with Louis’s expensive cologne still in the air, it’s harder than ever to remember that the life I’ve built here is more than good enough for me.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
On Sunday morning, it is so cold my breath is snatched from my throat. The forecast predicts heavy snow, though the British forecast is always promising extreme weather which usually ends up as drizzle, so I’m not too alarmed.
Izzy is at Brockenhurst station before me, dressed in fur-lined boots and a hooded, padded coat that reminds me of a sleeping bag. She is video-calling someone—no doubt one of her countless friends. As I approach, I recognise this one: Jem, a tall, smiling woman with box braids, multiple face piercings, and a small, yappy dog. She used to live nearby and visited the hotel regularly, carrying the dog under an arm. The last time I saw her was a couple of months ago, when she came to say goodbye before she moved away. She and Izzy had hugged for so long that I’d wondered if the dog was still breathing in there.
“Have Grigg and Sameera got a big Scottish Christmas planned?” Jem is saying.
“Yeah!” Izzy says. Her voice is a bit too bright. “Yeah, can’t wait. And you’re going to have a . . . have a . . .”
Jem starts laughing. “Even Izzy Jenkins cannot put a positive spin on Christmas with my family. I am fucked.”
“You’re going to have a . . . Christmas!” Izzy says, laughing, too. “And then it will be done, box ticked, and next year you’ll spend it here with me.”
“Yeah,” Jem says, smiling. I glance at her over Izzy’s shoulder. She is wearing a furry hat that I’m sure I’ve previously seen on Izzy, her eyebrow piercings glittering beneath it. “That’s more like it. I’ll be so jel of you getting buzzed with your buddies all Christmas.”
Izzy catches sight of me behind her. “Got to go! Give Piddles a cuddle from me. Love you so much!”
“Love you, too, little pigeon,” Jem says, blowing a kiss at the screen before she disappears.
I come to stand beside Izzy.
“Piddles?”
“The dog. Yappy and nasty. Unless you’re Jem, in which case, adorable and misunderstood.”
“And little pigeon?”
“It’s an inside joke. An affectionate nickname. You wouldn’t understand.”
I just raise my eyebrows at that. There is something scrappy about a pigeon that suits the version of Izzy I have come to see this winter—perhaps I understand better than she thinks.
We join the nearest queue as the train pulls in. I pre-booked my seat, but Izzy didn’t, and after I tut about this, she looks very smug to find an available seat directly opposite mine.
I plan to spend the train journey working on a draft budget for Mrs. SB, but it’s hard to concentrate. Izzy has removed her many layers and is playing solitaire with a set of battered playing cards, wearing a baby-blue top with no straps.
“Want to play something?” Izzy says.
I’ve been staring at her cards in an effort not to stare at the smooth white skin above that blue top. I think for a moment.