“This is stupid,” I whisper under my breath as I step back through into the lobby. The images play out at the back of my mind: Louis walking Izzy through the crowds of the Christmas market, lacing his fingers through hers, turning to her under the mistletoe . . .
The bell dings.
“Sorry to bother you, Lucas,” Mr. Hedgers says when I startle. “You look like a man with a lot on his mind.”
I was actually imagining Louis slow-dancing with Izzy on an ice rink under the stars, but hopefully Mr. Hedgers can’t tell how quickly that all spiralled.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Hedgers?” I say, settling down in my chair. It’s not been quite right ever since Mrs. SB sat in it. I shift a little from side to side, but nothing improves matters.
Mr. Hedgers gives me a baffled smile. “I have something of a mystery on my hands, and I’m hoping you can help me with it. Mrs. Singh-Bartholomew let us know yesterday that we can stay. That we’re covered until the new year. But my wife says the insurer hasn’t backed down—in fact, she was just eviscerating them on the phone this morning,” he says, pulling a face. “I can’t understand how Mrs. SB made the mistake?”
I frown. It seems unlikely that Mrs. SB has changed her mind. I emailed her just yesterday with a summary of my suggestions for budgeting at the hotel, and there is not room for random acts of charity, as much as I want to help the Hedgerses.
I promise to investigate, and send Mrs. SB a quick email, asking to meet her later.
Then I just . . . work.
That’s it.
I don’t see Izzy all day. She flits in and out of the lobby but is gone before I can speak to her. I can’t decide if she is avoiding me on purpose. I hope not. Or perhaps I hope so. What would avoiding me mean?
When I do eventually collide with her, it’s outside Opal Cottage, just when I’m due to meet with Mrs. SB. The rain is coming down in thick, steady droplets, and she’s under a spotty pale blue umbrella. I’m using my large black one, big enough for two, and it keeps us at a distance, as if we’re each walking in our own bubble.
“Hi,” she says, and immediately turns pink.
I relax slightly. Those flushed cheeks tell me she hasn’t forgotten about yesterday at all.
“Hello,” I say. I hold her gaze, and her cheeks grow pinker.
Mrs. SB opens the door and Izzy flees inside. I follow more slowly, watching her, how fast she’s talking, the way her hands keep reaching around as though she needs something to fiddle with. She glances sideways at me, then her gaze slips away again.
“Let me put the kettle on,” she says, voice tipping higher.
I smile as she dashes off. I’m feeling a lot better now. An unsettled Izzy is an Izzy who is feeling things she didn’t expect to feel; an unsettled Izzy means change.
“Mrs. SB, the Hedgerses,” I begin as Izzy clatters around in the kitchen.
Mrs. SB’s face lights up. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, I am glad they are staying, but . . .”
I look at Izzy. She’s not going to like this, and while that wouldn’t have bothered me a few weeks ago, now I hate the thought of upsetting her.
“We can’t afford it.”
Izzy glances over, frowning.
“Oh, I know,” Mrs. SB says, sounding puzzled. “That’s why I was so pleased when the donation came through.”
“The donation?”
“On the hotel’s Kickstarter page.”
I stare at her.
“Poor Mandy set it up,” she says, laughing at my shocked expression. “She’s been doing all sorts with the internet on her shifts.” She sighs, settling back into her armchair as Izzy returns with cups of tea. “We’re making a little money on there. But it won’t be enough. We need real investment. I’ve seen your email, Lucas, and I’ve not replied because frankly it’s far too depressing for words. I’ve tried everything, every loan, everyone. Louis Keele is our last hope.”
I notice that I am grinding my teeth, and hope that it isn’t audible. I don’t trust Louis’s intentions with Forest Manor one bit.
“Izzy, I know you’ve formed a friendship with Louis—of course I wouldn’t want to ask you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with . . .”
It’s definitely audible now.
“But could you just get a sense of whether there’s any hope there? Whether he might . . .”
“Of course,” Izzy says, squeezing Mrs. SB’s shoulder. “I’ll ask him, OK? I’m seeing him tonight.”