After a moment’s hesitation, I settle cross-legged on the tiles, squeezing the pool water out of the bottom of my trousers.
“My parents were always into sailing—these madcap adventures all around the world,” I say. My voice barely carries above the sounds of the water. “It was never my thing, really, but after I left home, they bought a new boat and took it all over the place. America, the Caribbean, Norway. And one day . . . their boat sank.”
I watch Lucas; he’s still expressionless. I wonder if that one was on his list. It’s just the sort of death a kid might imagine for the parent he doesn’t remember. To me, though, it had seemed absolutely impossible. My parents were such experienced sailors—I never considered their adventures dangerous. It was just what they always did.
“It was so sudden,” I say. “People act like that’s better, but I don’t know. It was like the world fundamentally changed into a horrible place in a split second and I was completely unequipped to handle it.” I can hear how odd my voice sounds as I try to keep it breezy. “Anyway, now you know why I’m so ‘childish,’ as you put it. Life is so short! You can be gone just like that.” I click my fingers as I stand, looking down at the gigantic puddle I’ve left on the tiles beneath me. “You’ve got to live every moment and enjoy it.”
Lucas tilts his head, saying nothing. I head for the towels, then pause as he says, “No, you don’t.”
“Pardon?”
“You don’t have to enjoy every moment. Nobody can do that. It would be . . . exhausting.”
I’m thrown. I didn’t think I needed to worry about Lucas being more tactful with me on account of my dead parents.
“Well, I do,” I say a little defensively. “That’s how I live my life.”
“No,” Lucas says.
He turns to look back at me, droplets sliding along the hard line of his jaw.
“You don’t,” he says. “You have bad days, too. Everyone has bad days. As you so often like to remind me—you’re a human.”
“You know what? Most people do not use the news of my parents’ death as a chance to tell me I’m not living my life right,” I snap. But it’s hard to muster my usual frustration—I can’t forget his steady, low voice saying, I always used to make up how he died.
“I’m not saying that,” Lucas says. “I’m saying you’re not being honest.”
He pulls himself up onto the side of the pool, and even in the midst of this conversation, I can’t help but suck in a breath as the water paints his shirt to his skin. I can see every steely muscle, every contour. After a moment it makes me wonder what he can see, and I look down at myself to notice that my own shirt is clinging to my bra as if I’m in some sort of noughties frat-boy comedy film. Shit. I spin and reach for a towel from the basket by the wall.
“You are very positive, especially given what you’ve been through in your life,” Lucas says behind me. “But you are still a real person. You swear when you drop things, and you think certain guests are idiots. You play dirty to win a bet.”
“Well, yeah, but . . .” Only with you, I almost say. Nobody else in this hotel would ever say that I swear or think badly of guests. If you asked Ollie whether I’d play dirty to win a bet, he’d go, Izzy Jenkins? No way. She’s a total sweetheart.
I pull the towel around me, but all it does is bring the cold, soaked clothes closer to my skin—I need to strip off and get in a hot shower. I’m starting to shake, and I’m filled with the mess of emotions Lucas always seems to stir up in me: frustration, uncertainty, and the shadowy hurt that’s been lurking there since last winter.
“So neither of us is perfect, then,” I say.
“Precisely,” Lucas says with satisfaction. He strolls off towards the men’s changing room—not bothering with a towel, shirt clinging to the muscles of his back. I am left with the irritating sense that somehow, I’ve just managed to prove his point.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
The ink didn’t smudge. Poor Mandy must have used some kind of magical Team Lucas pen. On Saturday morning, I listen morosely as Lucas conducts a second conversation with the owner of his diamond-studded wedding ring. I’m trying to work out exactly what the complexity is here—because there’s definitely something complicated.
“Ah, I see,” says Lucas. “Today will not be possible, but . . .”
He glances at me. I make sure to look extremely busy.
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll be there.”
After he hangs up, I don’t ask. I continue not asking for as long as it is humanly possible to do so, and then I give up, because we’ve been coexisting in frosty silence ever since I arrived this morning, and I am just not a person who can handle silence.
“Well?” I say.
“I will be returning the ring to its rightful owner tomorrow.”
“Returning it to them? As in, leaving the hotel?”
“Why not? This is hotel work. Top priority.”
I suppose it is, technically. I frown.
“And you’re sure it’s her ring?” I ask.
“No,” he concedes. “But I will find out tomorrow.”
“Then I’m coming, too,” I say, pushing my chair back from the computer and spinning to face him. “I don’t trust you.”
He raises his eyebrows slowly, still sorting through old receipts. “Who will manage the front desk?”
“Ollie will do it. He owes me a favour.”
“Arjun will kill you if you take Ollie from him for a day.”
“Let me handle Arjun. I’m coming. I want to see the ring reunion anyway—this isn’t just about the bet, remember?” I say, though I have definitely forgotten this myself of late. “Whereabouts is this woman based?”
“London,” he says. “Little Venice. I’ll be booking an advance for the . . .” He checks his computer screen. “Nine thirty-three.”
“OK, great,” I say. “See you on the platform.”
“Great,” he says dryly, carefully stapling a collection of receipts together. Click, goes the stapler. As precise and meticulous and inexplicably irritating as ever.
Lucas
Mrs. SB has forwarded me the last five years of accounts, and I’ve spent four hours poring over them.
I cannot remember the last time I felt this happy.
Everything I’ve learned on my course is coming to life now that I am looking at a real hotel’s numbers—it is completely different from the test cases we’ve studied. This isn’t theoretical. This is a place I truly care about, and as I sift through all our expenditures, noting areas where we could economise, I realise how powerless I’ve felt sitting here at the front desk while the hotel falls apart around me.
“All right, Lucas?” says Louis Keele, dinging the bell a few times despite the fact that I am right here.
Well, there goes my good mood.
“Izzy about?”
“I don’t know.”
That sounded rude. I look up and try to seem polite and professional, but Louis hasn’t noticed my bad manners. He’s looking at a printout in front of me.
“Are those the hotel accounts?” he says.
I cover them with an arm, trying to make it look as though I’m just reaching for my mouse. I’m not sure what to do. Do potential investors see all these numbers? Or should I keep them hidden? I didn’t need four hours to discover that they are not very favourable. If Mrs. SB hasn’t shared this information, I certainly don’t want to.
“Why did you need Izzy?” I ask. As much as I don’t want to talk to Louis about Izzy, some distraction is required.
“I’m thinking of asking her to dinner,” Louis says, eyes still on the paperwork.
Maybe I should show him the accounts.
“Actually,” Louis says, finally looking up at me. “You might be quite useful. You know her better than I do. What’s my best angle? Red roses? Impromptu picnic? Funny limerick?” His face turns a little sly. “What would you do if you were trying to date her?”