“Ooh, antlers!” coos Poor Mandy as she staggers into the lobby under the weight of her two giant Sainsbury’s bags. She untangles them from around her shoulders and they land on the lobby rug with a thud as she digs out her phone—case flap dangling—and starts snapping photographs of us. “Lucas, dear, put yours on, too! This will be wonderful on the Facebook.”
Izzy clicks the phone back in its cradle with great deliberateness and then turns to me.
“Antlers on, Lucas!” she says. “Do it for the Facebook!”
I glare at her but put on the antlers. I must check what Poor Mandy is doing to the Forest Manor social media pages—this is one of the many things on my to-do list, just underneath creating a woodland play area and persuading someone other than me to deep-clean the fryer.
“Oh, that’s a lovely one. I’ve sent it to you both, too,” Poor Mandy says, tapping away at her phone. She has a habit of moving her lips or muttering as she types, so even before my phone pings, I could guess that she has written Fab photo of you two, lots of love, Mandy.
I look down at the photo for a moment. Izzy has leapt in beside me—she’s beaming, her antlers already sliding through her hair. She’s wearing some sort of pale pink sheen on her cheekbones today, and the lights of the Christmas tree make her glitter.
After a moment I crop the photo down so it’s just me, wearing antlers, glancing off to the side. I send it on the family WhatsApp, telling them I’m getting in the Christmas spirit already.
“Guys, guys, guys,” Ollie says, power walking over from the kitchen. Ollie has been told repeatedly not to run through the hotel, so now he does an odd fast walk that involves a lot of arm movement.
The kitchen door swings behind him, almost whacking Arjun in the face as he follows behind Ollie. The chef’s expression is so thunderous I want to laugh.
“Mrs. SB is—”
“Crying,” Arjun says over Ollie. “Ollie, there are five pans on the hob, what are you doing out here? It’s dangerous.”
I watch Ollie hover for one tortured moment, deciding whether or not to point out that Arjun is also out here rather than attending to the hob, and that he actually walked out second. Ollie makes the wise choice for his career and dashes back to the kitchen again.
“What? Where?” Izzy says, leaning across the desk as Arjun points towards the window.
Mrs. SB passes outside, holding a tissue to her cheek. Izzy is already on her way out. I follow her, just catching the hotel’s heavy wooden door in time to stop it slamming in my face. Presumably she got that idea from Ollie.
It’s freezing outside, and darkness is setting in across the gardens. Mrs. SB steps beyond the beam of the lights on either side of the hotel’s entrance, disappearing down the path that leads to Opal Cottage.
“Mrs. SB, are you OK?” Izzy calls, quickening her pace.
“Fine, dear!”
Her voice is muffled. Not very convincing.
“Talk to us,” Izzy says as we approach. “Maybe we can help.”
Mrs. SB turns her face aside so Izzy can’t see her tears, but I’m on the other side of her. “Oh, bother,” she says, coming to a standstill between us.
We’re in the middle of the rose garden now, lit by the small lights along the borders. The glow catches each puff of Mrs. SB’s breath as she tries to pull herself together, tissue held to her eyes.
“It’s just . . . a little . . . much,” she manages. “At the moment.”
“Of course.” Izzy rubs her arm soothingly.
“I’m so sorry, both of you. I feel I’ve let you down horribly.”
“You’ve not let anybody down!” Izzy says. “You’ve kept this hotel running through years of lockdowns and a cost-of-living crisis. That’s incredible. It’s no wonder the place is struggling—how could it not be?”
I stand, arms folded, feeling painfully awkward. I want to hug Mrs. SB, but Izzy’s already there, so all I can do is try to project quite how deeply I care—something I know I’ve never been especially good at showing even when the hugging option is available.
“You take so much on yourself,” Izzy says. “Can we help more? With the management and administration, maybe? Lucas is really good at this sort of thing—spreadsheets and organisation and stuff.”
I stare at her in surprise. Her cheeks go faintly pink. I open my mouth to say something similar in return—I’ve long thought that Izzy could be put to better use at the hotel. She should be managing these renovations, in my opinion. She has a good eye for what makes a space work, and she’s excellent at coordinating large numbers of people. But Mrs. SB is speaking again before I can find the right thing to say.
“Oh, I’m embarrassed to show you the accounts, honestly. I know Barty will feel the same.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” My voice is gruffer than I’d like it to be. I clear my throat. “I would love to help. I want the same things you and Barty want. I want this place to thrive, and for our . . . the family we have built here to . . .” Why is this so difficult to say? “I’m happy to help,” I finish abruptly.
Izzy is staring at me like I’ve just announced that in future I’d rather we deliver all internal communications by carrier pigeon. I avert my eyes, looking up at the sky. The stars are just beginning to blink into life between grey smudges of cloud.
I should be searching for other jobs. This place will almost certainly go under before the year is out. But standing here, breathing in the forest air, with the hotel’s grand old bulk behind me . . . I just cannot imagine myself feeling this sense of belonging anywhere else.
I know why Izzy’s so surprised to hear me talking about the hotel as a family: She thinks I don’t care. That I’m heartless. But if I am, then why does my chest hurt at the thought of letting this part of my life go?
“I suppose I could just send you the accounts. Perhaps you can look for places we can be more efficient.” Mrs. SB sniffs, pulling back from Izzy’s arms. “I find it a bit overwhelming, if I’m truthful. I’ve never been good with numbers.”
My fingers flex at the thought of having access to the sums behind the hotel’s decisions. I’ll get to see how Forest Manor really works. All the moving parts. I can do more than just raising a few hundred pounds with old lost-property rubbish—I can help.
“I like numbers,” I tell her, the ache in my chest subsiding. “Just send it all my way.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” She squeezes both our arms and heads off towards Opal Cottage.
We watch her go.
“I appreciate what you said,” I tell Izzy eventually. “About spreadsheets. When I have the opportunity, I would like to tell Mrs. SB that you, too, deserve a chance to expand your skills here at the hotel.”
“What?”
“I mean . . . There’s a lot more you could be doing here, too.”
She bristles. “I’m doing plenty, thanks. And you’re welcome. Just . . . Go gently when you get back to her on the figures, OK? Some of us are humans, not robots.”
She walks away through the rose bushes, towards the hotel. The word robot stings like a slap. I’m human, too, I want to say. When you’re unkind to me, it hurts.
My phone flashes up a reply from Ana as I follow Izzy back inside. Ana has sent my photo back with a large red circle around the tiny portion of Izzy’s shoulder that is visible in the photograph.
Quem é essa pessoa???
Oh, porra. She wants to know who it is.
? uma mulher?? says my mother.
Merda. Now they’ve clocked it’s a woman. But how? It’s about three millimetres of white shirt and . . . oh. A telltale strand of long pink hair. Damn.
I hesitate, wondering how to play this. My mother and sister are convinced I need a girlfriend, despite the fact that I have functioned happily for several years without one. And when I did have one, I was mostly quite miserable.
??! LUCAS?!
That’s from Ana. I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger.
? só uma colega de trabalho, I type. Just a colleague.
Ela é bonita? Ana asks.