Despite myself, I think about it. Izzy likes things that other people don’t look at twice. Cheap second-hand jewellery; those awful teen dramas nobody else admits to watching; cocktails with silly names. I once caught her googling whether you could keep a wild rat as a pet. She will not want red roses. She would prefer a bouquet of interesting weeds.
Impromptu picnic is slightly better. She likes surprises. But it’s freezing weather and she does feel the cold—when she leaves the hotel in the evening, she’s always wrapped up as if she is heading out to the Antarctic.
A funny limerick could go either way. She’s quick to laugh, but she is very funny, too, and I am not convinced Louis can match her sense of humour.
I should give him an answer along these lines. There’s no reason not to help him. But then I see the calculating look in Louis’s eye—the same expression he wore when he first saw the damage to the hotel ceiling all those weeks ago. And there it is again: the sensation I felt when Izzy slipped into the swimming pool with him.
“I would go for a classic date,” I find myself saying. “Red roses and champagne at an expensive restaurant.”
“Yeah?” Louis says, frowning slightly. “She doesn’t seem that traditional to me.”
“Deep down she is highly conventional,” I say, returning my attention to my computer screen.
“Right, well, thanks, mate,” Louis says, and even though I’m not looking, I can still sense that charming, easy smile which has no doubt got him very far in life.
I look down at my phone as he walks away and see a new message from Uncle Ant?nio. He has sent me a link to an article with no message accompanying it. The article is called “Ten Signs You’re Not Fulfilling Your Potential (Even If You Think You Are).”
I turn my phone over and take a deep breath, trying to remember what really matters to me. My mother, my sister. Their happiness, and—increasingly—my own. All the small ways in which I make a difference to people’s lives here.
But with Louis’s expensive cologne still in the air, it’s harder than ever to remember that the life I’ve built here is more than good enough for me.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
On Sunday morning, it is so cold my breath is snatched from my throat. The forecast predicts heavy snow, though the British forecast is always promising extreme weather which usually ends up as drizzle, so I’m not too alarmed.
Izzy is at Brockenhurst station before me, dressed in fur-lined boots and a hooded, padded coat that reminds me of a sleeping bag. She is video-calling someone—no doubt one of her countless friends. As I approach, I recognise this one: Jem, a tall, smiling woman with box braids, multiple face piercings, and a small, yappy dog. She used to live nearby and visited the hotel regularly, carrying the dog under an arm. The last time I saw her was a couple of months ago, when she came to say goodbye before she moved away. She and Izzy had hugged for so long that I’d wondered if the dog was still breathing in there.
“Have Grigg and Sameera got a big Scottish Christmas planned?” Jem is saying.
“Yeah!” Izzy says. Her voice is a bit too bright. “Yeah, can’t wait. And you’re going to have a . . . have a . . .”
Jem starts laughing. “Even Izzy Jenkins cannot put a positive spin on Christmas with my family. I am fucked.”
“You’re going to have a . . . Christmas!” Izzy says, laughing, too. “And then it will be done, box ticked, and next year you’ll spend it here with me.”
“Yeah,” Jem says, smiling. I glance at her over Izzy’s shoulder. She is wearing a furry hat that I’m sure I’ve previously seen on Izzy, her eyebrow piercings glittering beneath it. “That’s more like it. I’ll be so jel of you getting buzzed with your buddies all Christmas.”
Izzy catches sight of me behind her. “Got to go! Give Piddles a cuddle from me. Love you so much!”
“Love you, too, little pigeon,” Jem says, blowing a kiss at the screen before she disappears.
I come to stand beside Izzy.
“Piddles?”
“The dog. Yappy and nasty. Unless you’re Jem, in which case, adorable and misunderstood.”
“And little pigeon?”
“It’s an inside joke. An affectionate nickname. You wouldn’t understand.”
I just raise my eyebrows at that. There is something scrappy about a pigeon that suits the version of Izzy I have come to see this winter—perhaps I understand better than she thinks.
We join the nearest queue as the train pulls in. I pre-booked my seat, but Izzy didn’t, and after I tut about this, she looks very smug to find an available seat directly opposite mine.
I plan to spend the train journey working on a draft budget for Mrs. SB, but it’s hard to concentrate. Izzy has removed her many layers and is playing solitaire with a set of battered playing cards, wearing a baby-blue top with no straps.
“Want to play something?” Izzy says.
I’ve been staring at her cards in an effort not to stare at the smooth white skin above that blue top. I think for a moment.
“Poker?” I say.
“With just two of us?”
“It can be done. Texas Hold’em? Though . . .” I suddenly wish I’d not suggested it. “I don’t want to play for money,” I add, embarrassed.
“Of course not,” Izzy says, like the very thought is ridiculous. “Though we’re on a train, so strip poker is out.”
The idea that strip poker might otherwise be in throws me. She digs around in her rucksack and produces a small box of raisins, the sort you might give to a child as a snack.
“Chips,” she says, opening the box. “Whoever’s up by Waterloo gets to choose how we decorate the lobby?”
“I don’t want to decorate the lobby any more than it is decorated right now,” I say, frowning.
“Exactly. Whereas I think we are seriously lacking in tinsel.”
She smiles at me and I swallow.
“You up for a challenge?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say, reaching for the cards.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
I try to be magnanimous for the journey from Waterloo to Little Venice. I knew Izzy would be terrible at poker. Everything is always written all over her face. She takes losing extremely badly, just as I would expect, and sulks the entire way to Shannon’s flat.
The woman who greets us when we arrive is wearing a large hat that reads, Thank u, next. I look beyond her to the open-plan living area to find that everyone inside is wearing the same. The music is pounding already, though it’s only lunchtime.
“I don’t know you,” says the woman in the doorway. “Did he send you? If so, tell him Shannon has every fucking right to—”
“Nobody sent us,” Izzy says quickly. “Shannon invited us. We’re here about a ring?”
“Oh!” The woman’s face lights up. “Come on in, she’s in the kitchen working on the cake.”
Izzy’s sulking expression has been replaced with the bright, fascinated look she wears when she’s truly enjoying herself. She is a bad loser, but she is also very easily distracted.
Shannon is a tall blonde woman wearing a sequinned dress with an apron over the top. My first impression on entering the pristine kitchen is that she looks like a housewife from an American TV show. However, the cake she is icing is shaped like a penis, which does throw this image out a little.
“Hello,” she says, putting down her icing pen and wiping her hands on her apron. “You must be Lucas! Did you bring your girlfriend?”
“Not girlfriend,” we say in unison.
“Even better,” Shannon says.
“I’m Izzy,” Izzy says, holding out her hand. “Congratulations!”
It seems this is the correct thing to say, because Shannon gives her a wide smile.
“Thanks so much! I’ve been so excited for today. I wanted to give it as much energy as my wedding day. Isn’t it amazing that they all took annual leave? We’re going for a long weekend in Madeira for my unhoneymoon.” She gestures towards the people in the living area. “You know what I did for my actual honeymoon? Hiked in the Alps. Did I like hiking? Did I like snow? Did I fuck! You know what I do like, though?”
She has the icing pen back in her hand and is pointing it at us.
“Sunshine and cocktails with people who have stood by me.”
“That is my sort of holiday,” Izzy says. “I love this. Can I have a hat?”
“Oh, hats are obligatory,” Shannon says, pointing to a stack of them on the kitchen counter.