Mrs. SB opens the door and we snap to attention. It’s obvious that her day has been a lot more stressful than mine—and mine has been nonstop chaos. She’s wearing a cardigan, but only has one arm in a sleeve. The other is just dangling down her back like a bright pink tail. She has a phone trapped between her shoulder and cheek, and her usually flamboyant eyeshadow is an ominously boring shade of taupe. She gestures us inside, cardigan arm flapping, and says into the phone, “Absolutely, yes, that won’t be a problem at all,” while pulling a face.
She flaps her hands at the armchairs in the entrance hall, where she seems to have nested, judging by the half-eaten bowl of pasta, the hooded blanket draped over a chair arm, and the important-looking paperwork strewn everywhere. Barty waves at us from the kitchen without looking up—he is literally elbow-deep in ring-binder files, his spectacles balanced on the tip of his long, aristocratic nose.
Lucas sits down gingerly, as though all the chaos might be catching. I settle in with my laptop bag clutched to my chest, trying to remember my opening lines. In the last eight years at Forest Manor, I have become an invaluable member of the team, coordinating everything from large-scale weddings to . . .
“Hi,” Mrs. SB says on an exhale once she’s hung up the phone. “You two are a sight for sore eyes. Is it still a crime scene over there?”
She waves her hands at the window that looks over the hotel. Lucas and I exchange a quick glance.
“There’s a lot going on,” I say brightly. “But things have calmed now that Barty’s sorted everyone’s temporary accommodation, and I’ve got four builders coming around for quotes . . .”
“And I have contacted three structural engineers,” Lucas butts in. “The work is far too extensive for a regular builder to manage.”
Mrs. SB’s eyes widen at far too extensive. I stay quiet. Sometimes Lucas scores my goals for me.
He doesn’t know Mrs. SB as well as I do. She and Barty opened this hotel as newlyweds, more than forty years ago—the building isn’t just where they work, it’s the child they never had. They love every inch of this place, from the quaint attic rooms to the big brass door knocker. Forest Manor was made for luxury and romance, for string quartets, slow dances, and lavish candlelit dinners. I hate watching Mrs. SB grapple with the fact that after all we’ve been through, they can’t afford to keep this magical place from falling apart.
“We’re staying open,” Mrs. SB says with resolution. “The insurers have said we can, as long as the building work is ‘sufficiently cordoned-off,’ so I’m adding ‘buy cordons’ to my to-do list. After ‘google what cordons are.’ We’ve had to cancel all the winter weddings, but we’ve still got five good suites, and the kitchen is untouched, whatever Arjun says.”
Arjun is very concerned about plaster dust. I gave this short shrift this afternoon, but you do have to manage Arjun’s ego quite carefully. I’ll send someone around later to do some token dusting around the oven and tell him it’s sorted.
“But closing all twenty upstairs rooms . . . and having builders and . . . structural engineers everywhere . . .” She rubs her forehead, pushing her glasses up onto her head. “Will the Hedgerses stay?”
I nod. “Their home insurance is covering their stay—their house is flooded,” I tell her. “They don’t have anywhere else to go, to be honest.”
“Good,” Mrs. SB says, then winces at herself. “Sorry. You know what I mean. And we’ve got Mrs. Muller, she’s here until January. We’ll need to prioritise the long-term guests, I think. The couple from New Orleans have cancelled and gone to the Pig, so we can upgrade Mrs. Muller to their room. Louis Keele has made it clear he’s keen to stick around . . .”
I glance at Lucas, curious. He made a little sound when Mrs. SB mentioned Louis. A familiar, disgusted snort that generally happens after I say something, actually.
“Who else is here on a long stay?” Mrs. SB asks.
“Mr. Townsend and the Jacobses,” Lucas and I say simultaneously.
“The Jacobses are a young Belgian couple with a five-month-old,” I say. “They love everything British, have their bacon well-done, and are obsessed with Fawlty Towers.”
We all know Mr. Townsend, so I don’t bother sharing my facts about him. He’s here every winter for at least three months, and these days he and I even exchange the odd email in the time he’s away from the hotel—he’s become a friend, as many return guests do. I know Barty and Mrs. SB feel the same.
“Well, liking Fawlty Towers is a good sign,” Mrs. SB says with a grimace. “Right. And they’re . . .”
“Keen to stay,” I say promptly. “I’ve already checked.”
“Good. Well done, Izzy. As for the rest of them . . .” Mrs. SB says, staring at the laptop open on her knees. “I’ll deal with them. Somehow.”
She looks up at us with a distressed smile. Mrs. SB is the world’s nicest boss, and she can’t bear to let anybody down, so if she’s upset, that almost certainly means bad things for us.
“Now. On to you two,” she says.
Oh, God.
“I must be honest with you both. From the new year, I just can’t guarantee anything. We may well . . .” She swallows. “We’re out of money, quite frankly. These next few weeks will be make or break. But I know how important it is for each of you to be working at the hotel this winter.”
I feel rather than see Lucas stiffen at that. For the first time, I wonder exactly why Lucas is working for the whole of November and December, rather than going back to see his family in Brazil like he did last year. And then I immediately stop thinking about this, because any thoughts that involve last Christmas and Lucas are strictly forbidden by order of my friend Jem.
“With only five rooms in use . . . I just can’t justify employing you both to work on the desk alongside an agency receptionist.”
There it is. I fiddle with the strap on my bag and feel my pitch drying up in my throat. What was it I wanted to say? Something about being invaluable? I’ve worked at the hotel for eight years? The stationery drawer is much better when I’m here?
“Mrs. SB,” Lucas says, “I understand your difficulty. May I remind you of the superior digital booking system I introduced when I—”
“Personal notes!” I shout. They both turn to look at me. “It was my idea to have the personal welcome notes in the rooms, and so many of our good reviews mention those.”
“They mention your terrible handwriting,” Lucas says.
I flush. People are so mean on the internet.
“I am extremely economical,” Lucas tells Mrs. SB, who looks wearier by the minute. “When we need new printer paper, I always order—”
“The fancy overpriced stuff,” I finish for him.
“The quality paper that requires less ink,” Lucas ploughs on. “Unlike Izzy, I think carefully about cost implications.”
“Unlike Izzy? Excuse me? Who was complaining about my budget fairy lights this morning? If you had your way, we’d make everything in this hotel out of solid gold.”
“That is ridiculous,” Lucas says without even bothering to look at me. “My solution is not solid-gold fairy lights, clearly. My solution is no fairy lights.”
“What next?” I say, my voice rising. “No sofas? No beds?”
“Stop it, please,” Mrs. SB says, holding up both hands in surrender. “There’s no need to battle it out, I’m keeping you both on until the new year. The agency director has kindly released us from our contract, in the circumstances, and will just provide a skeleton staff for front-of-house on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, if the two of you are willing to work five days?”
“Yes,” we both say, so loudly that Mrs. SB startles slightly.
Usually, our fifth day is a split shift, so one of us covers the evening for Mandy to have her night off. I won’t miss that, though—evening shifts are less fun. All the kids at the hotel have gone to bed, for starters.
“Well. Good. Thank you, both of you. I need responsible, experienced staff here—I can trust you two and Mandy with anything. I know you’ll muck in wherever you’re needed. I’ll be letting half the waiting staff go, and even more of the housekeeping team, and Arjun will have to cope with just Ollie in the kitchen.”