“This is ridiculous,” he says, looking back at us all. He is giving off odious these-sorts-of-things-don’t-happen-to-men-like-me vibes, which makes me want that policeman to use the handcuffs currently dangling from his belt. “You’re having me arrested? Are you quite serious?”
“I think they’re pretty serious, mate,” says the policeman. “I know I certainly am. Get in the car.”
“This is all a terrible misunderstanding,” Graham implores in the general direction of his wives.
The policeman taps on the roof of the car. “In. Now.”
“Now, see here,” says Graham, and then—to whoops from the crowd—the policeman places one hand firmly on his head and shoves him in the back seat.
The car door slams shut. Ms. Brown flips Graham the bird as the police drive away, and Ms. Ashley yells an insult so colourful that Mr. and Mrs. Hedgers immediately scoop up the children and flee the scene before Ruby asks anyone to repeat it.
“Is it too early to get drunk?” Ms. Brown asks Barty and Mrs. SB.
“I leave that to your judgement,” Barty says. “But I will mention that we have a twenty-four-hour license.”
“Perfect,” says Ms. Brown, heading inside. “Come on,” she says to Ms. Ashley without looking at her. “I think you and I need to chat.”
As the two of them settle in at our grand mahogany bar with a Bloody Mary each, I notice my hands are shaking on the menu I’m carrying over to them. It’s just . . . I always try to see the best in people. To think that everyone is fundamentally quite nice really. And then someone does something this awful, and it makes me wonder how the hell you’re meant to know who to trust.
I play with my necklace, the one my mum gave me. It’s times like these that I miss my parents the most.
“I really hate you right now,” Ms. Ashley is saying as I reach them at the bar.
“Oh, same to you, love,” says Ms. Brown. “Maybe we’ll get to the solidarity part later.”
“If we drink enough alcohol,” Ms. Ashley says, taking a vicious bite from her stick of celery.
“Can I interest you in some breakfast to go with that . . . ?” I ask, my voice a little squeaky.
“You,” Ms. Ashley says, zeroing in on me as she sucks up half her cocktail through the straw. “The ring meddler.”
“I really am so sorry,” I say wretchedly. Today I seem to have done the exact opposite of adding sparkle. I’ve made everything significantly gloomier.
“Not your fault, love,” says Ms. Brown, already waving at Ollie for another drink. “A lot of men are shits. You do your best to dodge ’em, but . . .”
Ollie shrinks into himself, shaking up the next cocktail as quietly as possible.
“Izzy!” Arjun calls. “There’s something for you at the front desk! Ask me how I know!”
I spin to look at him. His hair is a mess and he’s not wearing his apron, which always makes him look a bit weird, as if he’s not wearing his shoes.
“How do you know?” I say obligingly.
“Because you are here, and Lucas is off somewhere else, and Ollie is behind the bar ballsing up that Bloody Mary, and so I had to leave the kitchen to answer the reception bell!”
I glance at the two women, but they don’t seem to mind someone else doing a bit of shouting.
“No food, love,” Ms. Brown says to me. “Just keep the booze coming.” This is directed at Ollie.
I move to go after Arjun and then remember something. “Oh! Do you want the ring?” I blurt, patting my pocket.
Ms. Brown stares at me, then looks down at her hand, and across at Ms. Ashley’s. They are both still wearing their wedding rings.
“I think we’ve got enough rings here, don’t you? Just sell it. Keep the money. Looks like this place could use it,” she says, nodding after Arjun. “Get that man some help, eh, love?”
I mean, I don’t think this ring is worth quite enough to employ a sous-chef for Arjun, but I appreciate the intention, and I’m glad we’re getting something out of this disaster. I thank them and leave the Mrs. Rogerses to it, heading to the lobby as Arjun flounces back into the kitchen again.
Louis is waiting for me at the front desk. There is a gigantic bunch of red roses beside him. They look unreal—as in, they genuinely look fake, so perfect is every petal and upturned leaf. They’re tied with a thick white ribbon and there’s an embossed note beside them. My heart sinks. This is really not my sort of thing.
“Open the card,” Louis says, tapping it against the desk.
I flick the envelope open. Join me for dinner at the Angel’s Wing tonight, it says.
“Louis . . .” I begin.
The Angel’s Wing is a super-posh restaurant near Brockenhurst—it’s the sort of place London types go to when they want to be in the countryside but still eat like they’re in the city. It’s got a dress code and everything.
“Too much?” he says.
I can’t precisely say why I don’t want to go. I was up for it when we had our swimming date, and there are plenty of reasons to give things a try with Louis: he’s good-looking, he’s attentive, and he’s definitely got the drive and ambition that Sameera thought I should look for in a man.
“The Angel’s Wing is really expensive . . .” I say.
“It’s on me,” Louis says. “I should have mentioned that.”
“Izzy!” Lucas barks from the direction of the kitchen. “Arjun needs you!”
Seriously? I just saw Arjun. I don’t know where Lucas has emerged from, and it is completely typical that he is now insisting on my presence despite being MIA for at least an hour himself.
Louis nods to the flowers and card. “I just thought a romantic gesture would be the right thing to go for, given . . .”
“Isabelle!” Lucas shouts.
Isabelle? Excuse me? Only Jem gets to call me Isabelle, and that is because she was my friend when I was eight years old and has earned the right over the last two decades to call me whatever she likes.
Lucas comes marching out of the kitchen. As his eyes move over the bunch of roses, his face flickers.
“Am I interrupting?” he says in a tone that suggests he knows very well that he is, and feels strongly that there should be no moment for him to interrupt.
“Just give us a minute, would you?” Louis says with an uncharacteristic touch of irritation.
Lucas’s cheek twitches. “Izzy is needed. She is working. She will be available to discuss personal matters at five p.m. when her shift ends.”
I gawp. Honestly, the cheek of him. Suddenly he’s Mr. Not in Working Hours after spending yesterday dancing to Anitta in a flat in Little Venice. Part of me is glad he’s being his usual self now we’re back—it’s easier to forget the man I saw laid bare in that hotel room, or dancing with me in Shannon’s flat. It’s easier to imagine that the last twenty-four hours never happened.
It’s also easier to make this decision.
“Thank you, Louis,” I say, turning to him with a smile. “I’d love to go for dinner tonight. See you at seven thirty.”
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
I’ve not lived with a friend since Drew, and this is the first time I’ve regretted the decision to live alone. I can’t decide what to wear, and nobody is replying to my frantic WhatsApp requests for outfit advice. I’m trying to focus on the date ahead, but instead I keep thinking about Lucas’s judgemental face as he said, Am I interrupting? Eventually, after getting mascara on the bridge of my nose for the third time, I figure out why it’s bothering me so much.
I think Lucas was jealous. Not just judging me for being unprofessional—jealous.
But what the hell am I supposed to make of that?
As I fasten three of my favourite necklaces, I realise my hands are clammy. I haven’t been on a date for a while. It wasn’t a conscious decision to stop dating, I just got sick of trawling through Bumble and shaving my legs for men who wouldn’t prove worthy of seeing them.
I look at my reflection and the memory shoots up yet again: Lucas’s lips against mine, and then that awful, awkward silence as he turned his back on me.
So humiliating.
At least I won at strip poker. Though is it really winning if the consequence is having an image of Lucas looking unspeakably sexy in nothing but his boxers seared to the insides of your eyelids?
* * *