None of my relationships have ever been like this. And as much as I think my ex was wrong to tell me I have no heart . . . as I stand here in the warmth of the Singh-Bartholomew kitchen, I do wonder if I ever really gave that heart to Camila.
“Normally I would say yes without even thinking about it,” Mrs. SB says sadly. “You know I’d love to help the Hedgerses. But I have to look after all of you, first and foremost. That’s my job, and I’ve not been doing it properly.”
Barty reaches a floury hand across to hold hers for a moment, and then resumes kneading.
“Mrs. SB, that’s not . . .” Izzy begins, but Mrs. SB waves her to silence.
“Don’t,” she says. “You’ll make me cry. Let’s talk business, please.” She sniffs. “The Christmas party.”
Izzy and I both freeze.
The Christmas party is a topic we do not discuss.
“What?” Mrs. SB says, staring at us both.
“Nothing,” I say, collecting myself first. “What was it you wanted to say?”
“I’m just wondering how you’re getting along with planning it for this year?”
“You want a Christmas party this year?” Izzy says, doing a very poor job of hiding her horror.
“Of course. It might be a last hurrah, after all,” Barty says, dabbing his damp brow.
Mrs. SB looks at us expectantly. Last year the party happened in mid December, partly because I had my flights home booked for December seventeenth, and I had led on organising the event. But it’s already December fifteenth.
“Since you’re both here for Christmas, shall we do it on the twenty-fourth?” Mrs. SB asks.
In Brazil, the twenty-fourth is the focus of Christmas celebrations—this will be perfect for me. I have no plans for the day, and a party at the hotel will be an ideal way to stop me missing my family so much.
I glance sideways at Izzy. Her face is set. No doubt she is remembering that argument on the lawns at the last Christmas party. How I’d snapped at her, how she’d screamed back. How Drew had hovered in the hotel entrance, watching, and then said to Izzy, You know, you don’t actually own either of us, though?
Which was true. But it had hit Izzy like a slap in the face.
The more I get to know Izzy this winter, the less I understand the way she reacted that night. I always assumed she’d been protecting her friend, but Drew seems to have disappeared from Izzy’s life without trace. I’d imagined they were very close, but if they were, there is no way Izzy would have let Drew go—she never seems to let any friends go.
So why was she so furious with me for kissing Drew?
I want to believe Pedro’s suggestion—that she was jealous. But even if she was . . . her reaction was so unreasonable. All year I’ve told myself that it is classic Izzy—always unreasonable, and nobody else seems to see it. But that doesn’t fit with the Izzy standing beside me now.
“Twenty-fourth is great,” Izzy says, voice strangled.
“Oh, I suppose I need to check with the builders about where we’ll have got to with renovations by then . . .” Mrs. SB glances distractedly at her phone.
I pounce. “If you are looking to delegate the work with the builders and decorators, Izzy would be an excellent choice.”
The look on Izzy’s face is one I want to see every single day. I have to look away.
“Izzy?”
“I’d love to. Absolutely. I can handle it from now on, if you just forward me everything you’ve got in terms of quotes and so on, I can just . . . take that off your plate.”
“Delegating,” Barty says, pointing a doughy finger at his wife. “See?”
“Well, thank you! Both of you. And how are you getting on with your rings?”
We exchange a glance.
“Oh,” Mrs. SB says, smile falling. “Tell me we aren’t due another showdown on the driveway. No more bigamists, please.”
“No, no,” Izzy says hastily. “Just . . . we’ve stalled a little. But don’t worry. Lucas and I are on it.”
“Good! Now, put your heads together and get to work on the party,” Mrs. SB says, waving us off. As we walk out, we hear her scolding, “Barty! You’ll knock all the air out of it if you do that!”
Izzy
Lucas tells me to meet him at the car at five fifteen. I’m there at ten past, shivering in my teddy coat and woolly hat.
Lucas arrives at quarter past on the dot. He’s changed into his casual clothes again, and under his open coat he’s wearing a soft, dark-grey jumper and jeans—he looks like a celebrity caught stepping out for a coffee on a winter morning. He’s that kind of handsome, the kind that makes you famous.