“She is a very talented colleague,” I say.
I hate that I’m still like this, even with Ant?nio so many thousands of miles away. Even with my own car, my own flat, my own job, my own degree—almost. But these traits are so deeply engrained, I don’t know how to unlearn them.
In my embarrassment, I almost miss something important that Mr. Townsend says: that Izzy likes things with stories behind them. It only comes to me on the drive home, with everyone chatting away in the back seat. Izzy has looked at me—really looked at me—just a few times in the last few weeks, and every single time it’s been a moment when I’ve let her see something that I don’t necessarily want to show her. Telling her why I exercise. Sharing why I raise my voice sometimes, and why I so badly want to change that. Moments when I showed her there’s a story to me.
It’s an uncomfortable realisation. I don’t like to share personal matters with anybody—it’s not how I was raised. But I don’t want to be that way. I would like some of Izzy’s courage, her openness. I would like to believe that I can let a person see me, and that once they have, they might think more of me, not less.
Izzy
I am so glad Mr. Townsend took that well. I’m not sure I could have handled it if the Ring Thing backfired again. I’m frazzled enough today as it is. Torturing Lucas has been fairly torturous for me, too—I really hoped he’d cave and follow me into the lost-property room when I was getting changed.
“Never leave again,” Mrs. SB says when we return. She gives Mr. Townsend a stern look. “And you, sir, have used up your I’m-a-guest privileges.”
“I only requested two of them,” Mr. Townsend points out, making his way over to his armchair. “Don’t blame me for the stowaways.”
“You rascal,” Mrs. SB says to Barty as he swoops in to kiss her across the desk. “You’d better have saved me a doughnut.”
Barty looks guilty. I’m pretty sure he ate at least four.
“Another ring down, then!” Ollie says.
He’s crossing the lobby with a specific, bent-kneed dash that means he cannot be seen through the window on the restaurant door. Arjun-dodging has become a habit for anyone who has had to play sous-chef this winter, but Ollie is particularly good at it.
“No reward, though,” he says as he joins us at the desk. “Yesterday Mrs. SB told me we’re probably going bust and losing all our jobs. So could you crack on and return a really expensive one, maybe? Save the day a bit?”
“Ollie, that is a very abbreviated version of our sensitive employee–employer chat. But yes,” Mrs. SB says, holding out a pile of post to me, then turning it upside-down so the FINAL NOTICE is on the bottom instead of the top. “Just one more reward like the Mattersons gave us could make all the difference now.”
“The last ring does look fancy,” I say, trying not to laugh as Lucas notices that Mrs. SB has adjusted his desk chair, and makes a visibly painful effort not to object to this. “Maybe it’ll be fifth time lucky.”
The final ring is a stylish band, beaten silver, slightly askew. I love it. It’s not as beautiful as Maisie’s ring, but it’s clearly designer, and I bet whoever owned it was interesting—you can just tell.
Arjun pops up in the window of the restaurant door. “Ollie!” he barks.
“Balls,” says Ollie, trying a belated duck.
“I can still see you!”
“He’s had me dicing on and off since Tuesday,” Ollie says miserably, dragging his feet as he turns towards the kitchen. “If you do get a massive reward for that last ring, will you buy me an invisibility cloak?”
“You told me yesterday that you were loving the chance to help prepare the food,” Mrs. SB says.
“Yes, but I’ve got blisters,” Ollie says mournfully as he walks into the kitchen with the air of a man tasked with saving the planet against his will.
“He really dons that chef’s hat with a flourish now, doesn’t he?” Mrs. SB says dryly as we watch him through the door.
“He’s doing brilliantly, to be honest,” I say.
“I know. He’s a star. You’re all stars. This is good for him,” Mrs. SB says with a nod towards the kitchen. “He likes to be pushed. Whereas you two . . . You like a little healthy competition.” She smiles at us, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of the woman she must have been when she and Barty first fell in love: a few years younger than him, and much less conventional. “I happened to hear that you had a bet running on two of those first rings. Shall we introduce another?”