All thoughts of smiling evaporate.
“My box o’ bits?”
Lucas’s expression shifts from “tense and implacable” to a subtle “I tire of your nonsense.”
“The box that you keep under our desk, filled with your belongings, yes.”
“You can’t go through my box o’ bits! That’s been there for eight years!”
“That was obvious from the contents,” Lucas says. “It was easy to condense it into a smaller, more sensible container when I removed all the out-of-date packets of sweets.”
“Sweets never go off! Tell me you did not throw anything away.”
He regards me flatly. “I kick that box at least twice per day. I have asked you repeatedly to move it. Rationalising the contents seemed like a compromise. Aren’t you always telling me to compromise?”
“Excuse me? You’ve been kicking my box? There are breakables in there, you know.” Well, my Teen Wolf mug. But that is very precious.
Mrs. SB opens the door and we snap to attention. It’s obvious that her day has been a lot more stressful than mine—and mine has been nonstop chaos. She’s wearing a cardigan, but only has one arm in a sleeve. The other is just dangling down her back like a bright pink tail. She has a phone trapped between her shoulder and cheek, and her usually flamboyant eyeshadow is an ominously boring shade of taupe. She gestures us inside, cardigan arm flapping, and says into the phone, “Absolutely, yes, that won’t be a problem at all,” while pulling a face.
She flaps her hands at the armchairs in the entrance hall, where she seems to have nested, judging by the half-eaten bowl of pasta, the hooded blanket draped over a chair arm, and the important-looking paperwork strewn everywhere. Barty waves at us from the kitchen without looking up—he is literally elbow-deep in ring-binder files, his spectacles balanced on the tip of his long, aristocratic nose.
Lucas sits down gingerly, as though all the chaos might be catching. I settle in with my laptop bag clutched to my chest, trying to remember my opening lines. In the last eight years at Forest Manor, I have become an invaluable member of the team, coordinating everything from large-scale weddings to . . .
“Hi,” Mrs. SB says on an exhale once she’s hung up the phone. “You two are a sight for sore eyes. Is it still a crime scene over there?”
She waves her hands at the window that looks over the hotel. Lucas and I exchange a quick glance.
“There’s a lot going on,” I say brightly. “But things have calmed now that Barty’s sorted everyone’s temporary accommodation, and I’ve got four builders coming around for quotes . . .”
“And I have contacted three structural engineers,” Lucas butts in. “The work is far too extensive for a regular builder to manage.”
Mrs. SB’s eyes widen at far too extensive. I stay quiet. Sometimes Lucas scores my goals for me.
He doesn’t know Mrs. SB as well as I do. She and Barty opened this hotel as newlyweds, more than forty years ago—the building isn’t just where they work, it’s the child they never had. They love every inch of this place, from the quaint attic rooms to the big brass door knocker. Forest Manor was made for luxury and romance, for string quartets, slow dances, and lavish candlelit dinners. I hate watching Mrs. SB grapple with the fact that after all we’ve been through, they can’t afford to keep this magical place from falling apart.
“We’re staying open,” Mrs. SB says with resolution. “The insurers have said we can, as long as the building work is ‘sufficiently cordoned-off,’ so I’m adding ‘buy cordons’ to my to-do list. After ‘google what cordons are.’ We’ve had to cancel all the winter weddings, but we’ve still got five good suites, and the kitchen is untouched, whatever Arjun says.”
Arjun is very concerned about plaster dust. I gave this short shrift this afternoon, but you do have to manage Arjun’s ego quite carefully. I’ll send someone around later to do some token dusting around the oven and tell him it’s sorted.
“But closing all twenty upstairs rooms . . . and having builders and . . . structural engineers everywhere . . .” She rubs her forehead, pushing her glasses up onto her head. “Will the Hedgerses stay?”
I nod. “Their home insurance is covering their stay—their house is flooded,” I tell her. “They don’t have anywhere else to go, to be honest.”
“Good,” Mrs. SB says, then winces at herself. “Sorry. You know what I mean. And we’ve got Mrs. Muller, she’s here until January. We’ll need to prioritise the long-term guests, I think. The couple from New Orleans have cancelled and gone to the Pig, so we can upgrade Mrs. Muller to their room. Louis Keele has made it clear he’s keen to stick around . . .”