My thumb hovers. If I say yes, she’s pretty, then they will not be satisfied until Izzy is flying over to Brazil for a large family wedding. So the obvious thing to do is to say no, she’s not pretty. I glance across at Izzy as we step back into the lobby, watching as she tucks her hair behind her ear with a small, impatient hand, her gold hoop earring swinging as she walks.
I write, She is very difficult to work with. We don’t get along, in Portuguese, and then wait to see if I get away with sidestepping the question.
Ent?o ela é linda! Ana writes. So she’s beautiful, then!
I click away from the chat. I can’t have this conversation right now. I’m meant to be working.
Izzy
I’m just starting to think that my big fat gold ring is a big fat dead end when I finally get a hit on Friday.
Hi, Izzy,
Thanks very much for your email. It reminded me how nice your hotel is—I’ll definitely be booking another stay soon!
I smile to myself. If you put good stuff out into the universe . . .
I’m almost certain that ring belongs to my wife. She’s actually bought a new one since we lost it, but we’d still love to have it back. I’ve attached a photo of the ring on my wife’s hand, and the engraving. Does it match?
Yours,
Graham
It absolutely does match. I lean back in my desk chair, soaking in the feeling as I gaze up at the staircase behind the scaffolding. Winning is the best.
I snap another photo of the ring, then hit reply on Graham’s email. I frown—the address he’s responded to me from is slightly different from the one I used for him. Just to be safe, I put the other one in the CC line, too.
Hi, Graham!
Fantastic news! Please do drop in as soon as possible to claim your wife’s ring back! I’m so happy it’s found its way back to you. And what a lovely picture of the two of you on your wedding day! Here’s another snap of the ring itself so you can see that the engraving matches
All the best,
Izzy
After hitting send, I belatedly wonder if that might have been one too many exclamation marks. I’ve always been partial to an exclamation mark. Full stops just seem so . . . grown-up. When I stop wanting pick-and-mix for dinner, that’s when I’ll start using full stops. That’s real adulthood.
“Golly,” Poor Mandy says, marching in and hefting her bag down into a space between lost-property boxes.
I love how Mandy has taken our lost-property project in her stride and not once complained about the mess—if only Lucas could be more Mandy.
“I just ran into that Mrs. Hedgers, the career coach, outside. She’s very . . .” Mandy flaps a hand in front of her face as if to cool herself down, though it’s two degrees outside, and not much warmer in here—we’re trying to skimp on the heating as much as we can without pissing off the guests. “She’s a lot, isn’t she?”
I remember what Mrs. Hedgers said to me about switching off and I wince. Last night, after going for drinks with my school friends, I spent two hours trying to work out the logistics of getting to a hen-do in January, concluded it would cost me ?380, agonised about whether I could bail on these grounds, and then fell asleep on the sofa in front of the latest series of Married at First Sight: Australia, which I’d promised Jem I’d watch so that we can re-create our old MAFSA nights when we next Zoom.
I’m not sure that counts as switching off.
“What did she say to you?” I ask, diving into the next lost-property box. This one is pens. Even I think we probably shouldn’t have kept all these.
“She asked if I had trouble asserting myself,” Poor Mandy says. “I said I’m not sure, but I don’t think so? And then she told me all sorts of information about the value of strong boundaries, and now I feel a bit . . .” She plonks herself down in her chair. “Funny.”
I bite my lip, giving Mrs. Hedgers a smile and a wave as she passes on her way to Sweet Pea. Mandy definitely has trouble asserting herself. She’s ridiculously amenable. Does that mean Mrs. Hedgers was right about me, too?
When I’m at work, I’m always giving a little extra, going a little further, being a little nicer. But I wouldn’t want to be any other way—I like being brilliant at my job. I like being the person who brings that sparkle. That’s how everyone sees me and that’s who I want to be.
If I’m completely honest, though, I do sometimes wish I could dial it down a notch and spend the day with unwashed hair and a bad attitude. Just sometimes. And it’s not like I really get much of a chance to do that outside of work, either—I’m always with people, and lately, since Jem, Grigg, and Sameera have moved away, those people aren’t my people. They’re not the people I can completely switch off with. I have to be nice, bouncy people-person Izzy all the time.
Except with Lucas, obviously.
Mandy leans across to answer the phone. “Hello, Forest Manor Hotel and Spa.” She glances at me. “No, Lucas isn’t here right now, but I can take a message?”
Poor Mandy writes something down in her usual, painstakingly slow fashion. Is this how people achieve neat handwriting? Not worth it, I say.
I bob up to read over her shoulder.
Call back about wedding ring. Urgent. And then a phone number.
Shit, shit, shit.
“I’ll take that to Lucas,” I say, swiping the note off the desk.
“Oh, thank you, dear!” calls Poor, innocent Mandy as I walk away.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
All’s fair in love, war, and petty workplace feuding, right?
I tap the number Poor Mandy wrote into my phone and then crumple the note in my hand. I seem to have ended up in the spa. I was heading in the direction of the restaurant bin, but chucking the note away felt just a bit too unscrupulous. However, if it were to happen to get wet, and the number were to be lost until, say, I had managed to return my ring first . . . After all, I’m so close. Graham will drop in any moment now to claim his wife’s lost ring.
I sidle towards the swimming pool, note in hand. The water slops and echoes in the still, thick air.
“What’s that?”
I spin around and my foot slips on the wet floor. For an awful, teetering moment, I think I’m in danger of falling on my arse on the tiles in front of Lucas da Silva, as if the universe has decided I have not humiliated myself enough in front of this man. I right myself just in time. He folds his arms and a smile tugs at his lips.
I’m still clutching the note.
“It’s just . . . a thing,” I say, then pull a face at myself. “It’s a thing Mandy gave me,” I go on, rallying. “Not important.”
“Is that why you were holding it over the swimming pool?”
I look at his face—all smugness and chiselled jaw—and I narrow my eyes.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were. Almost.” He holds his hand out. “Mandy said you had a note for me.”
“Ugh. Fine. But I wasn’t going to drop it in the pool.” I hand it to him; then, without much grace, I add: “Probably.”
“Playing dirty,” Lucas says. “Isn’t that what that’s called?”
I flush. “It’s called playing to win,” I say, marching past him.
His broad shoulders take up so much space. I circle by on the pool side, and then, because I’m angry and in a bad mood, and maybe—just a little bit—because I want to see what he’ll do if we touch, I pass too close. But he moves at the same moment, leaning ever so slightly my way, as though he had the same idea. And I go glancing off him and . . .
“Shit!” I splutter.
. . . right into the pool. The shock of the fall leaves me gasping. I gulp for air, treading water, mascara stinging in my eyes.
“You arsehole!” I shout. “You just pushed me in the pool!”
“I did not,” he says, crouching down and reaching a hand to help me out. He tucks the note into his back pocket with his other hand, and as anger surges through me, as my sodden clothes drag at my limbs, I have an idea.
There’s more than one way to get that note wet.
I lunge for Lucas’s hand and pull hard. He’s squatting, balanced on the polished toes of his shoes—I overbalance him.