“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s Arjun’s deal?” Louis says. “How long has he been at Forest Manor?”
“Arjun? Oh, forever. He trained under some super-fancy Michelin-starred chef up north somewhere, though. Why?”
“Just curious. How’s his wine knowledge?”
“Amazing, actually. Our wine cellar is legendary. If you want to sample something in particular, you can always just ask me.”
“And why’s Arjun stayed at Forest Manor so long, do you think?”
I frown, thinking of what Lucas said about Louis’s plans for Forest Manor. I wrap my aching fingers around my gingerbread hot chocolate.
“I think he loves the hotel. Same as me.”
“Right, but . . .” Louis seems to realise that this is more interrogation than conversation. He laughs. “Sorry. Just making sure he’ll be sticking around. He’s such an asset, and if I’m going to be investing in Forest Manor Hotel . . .”
I relax slightly. If he wants Arjun, he can’t be planning to turn the place into flats.
“Why do you guys love Forest Manor so much?” Louis asks. “It’s almost certainly going under in the new year. But none of you have left for a new job. What’s that about?”
I reach around for the words to capture it. The magic of Forest Manor at its best: sconce lights glowing, live music playing, the warm hubbub of a happy crowd in the dining room. All the weddings: those love stories that found their happily-ever-after against the backdrop of our beautiful sandstone walls. And, for me, the coffees and heart-to-hearts with Arjun after dinner service has ended and neither of us wants to go home; the slow-growing friendships with guests like Mr. Townsend who come to the hotel year after year; the sense of being part of something that brings joy in a harsh, frightening world.
“You know when people say somewhere is a home away from home?” I say. “I think it’s that. For all of us. So when we’re talking about losing our jobs . . . we’re also kind of talking about losing our home.”
“Right, wow. That’s cool.”
He doesn’t get it, I can tell. Suddenly, I can’t be bothered with much more of this. I planned to wait longer, but as we walk slowly between the stalls, I find myself saying, “Louis, I don’t think we should see each other like this anymore. I’m just not feeling a spark.”
“This again!” he says, nudging me. “Izzy, you said you’d relax and give this a proper shot.”
I frown. “I am. I have.”
“All right, sure,” he says easily. “I hear you loud and clear. You want a mulled wine?”
“What? No, Louis, I want to head home, OK?”
“You certain?”
“I’m certain,” I say with emphasis.
“OK.” He smiles. “Let’s head back to my car, then.”
He’s just the same all the way home, chatting away. At first I assume it’s an act—he was so keen at the Angel’s Wing—but he seems genuinely fine. Maybe he was losing interest, too, or maybe he just doesn’t want me to feel bad about calling things off. Whatever the reason, I’m relieved: I’d worried he might get petty, or even let it affect his potential investment in the hotel, but he asks more questions about Forest Manor as we hang around outside my flat, and then hugs me goodbye like we’re friends. It’s nice to wave him off with absolutely zero regrets.
Once I get inside, I settle in on my sofa with a bowl of Krave and an episode of The Vampire Diaries that I know so well I can reel off half the lines from memory. Everything I could possibly need.
Except I keep checking my phone. Opening WhatsApp, closing it again. If I’m honest with myself, I’m thinking about Lucas. I want to know what he’s doing tonight.
For some reason.
Ugh.
I stare at the TV. The trouble is, last night was just so . . . memorable. I feel like every inch of it is traced across my skin—as though instead of getting rid of Lucas, I’ve tattooed him there. The rasp of his breath, the solid muscle of his shoulders, the words he whispered in low, quick Portuguese . . .
I swallow. Maybe the problem is that it was all so rushed.
Maybe it’s not really getting it out of your system if it’s a snatched hour in a car. Maybe I just need a bit . . . more.
And then, just as I’m about to cave and open WhatsApp, a new message appears. From Lucas. Who has not messaged me since 2021.
How was the market?
I scrunch up my nose. Since when does Lucas ask me how my evening is going?