They walk out into the lobby. I follow. Louis clearly wants to have Izzy to himself. I hover within reach, looking busy, making it obvious I’m in earshot. Louis stays on this side of the desk, crossing that line, because he’s just the sort of man who doesn’t respect a boundary.
“Listen, I’m still weighing up the investment,” he says. “My dad suggested getting another tour from someone who really knows the heart of the place. And who does heart better than Izzy Jenkins? What do you say—could you spare some time this afternoon?”
“Sure!” Izzy says. “Whatever you need.”
They chitchat. Izzy pats his arm when he says something about his father, and I remind myself that she is like this: tactile by nature with everyone but me. Even now, she still won’t touch me like that at work.
I’m exhausted. I scan over the hotel’s Kickstarter page and am unable to register whether the sum has gone up since I last hit the button. Someone drops by to pick up an item they saw for sale on our Facebook page, and says “Totally love you guys!” on her way out, which strikes me as a sign that Poor Mandy is selling things far too cheaply. Then Arjun leans his head through from the restaurant and calls for Izzy, finally pulling her away from Louis.
“Are you all right, Izz?” I catch Arjun saying as they walk through to the kitchen.
He glances back at me. I wonder how much she’s told him.
“I’m fine! It’s chopped parsley you want, right?” Izzy says brightly, because of course she already knows exactly what he needs.
“I’m shooting my shot with Izzy today, you know,” Louis says to me. He leans forward on the desk, watching Izzy disappear through the restaurant doors with Arjun. “Got high hopes.”
“Have you?” I snap, not even bothering to veil the dislike in my voice—I don’t have the energy. “I thought you two were finished.”
He gives a coy smile. “This thing with Izzy’s been slow-building since last December—we’ve had the odd setback, but . . .”
I grip the back of my desk chair, breathing too fast.
“Last December?”
“Yeah. When I first came to the hotel.” He fiddles idly with the cord on my telephone. “She told me how she felt about me then.”
My whole body flinches, knuckles turning white on the back of the chair.
“I had a girlfriend at that point, so I didn’t act on it, but I kept the card she sent me.” Louis pats the back pocket of his trousers. “I’m going to whip it out today. Win her round once and for all. Nothing says romance like holding on to a love letter for a whole year, does it?”
I don’t know what to say. I am staring at Louis’s back pocket, desperate to read this card, playing the words Izzy said over and over as my heart races. I’ve been clear with Louis that there is nothing romantic between us and there never will be.
Louis must be mistaken. He must be.
“What did . . . what did her card say?”
Slowly, with deliberation, Louis pulls out a battered Christmas card from his pocket. He waves it at me with a cheeky grin. This fake heart-to-heart we are having makes my skin crawl.
“Says she’s infatuated. Gets hot every time we cross paths at the hotel. Wants to kiss me under the mistletoe.” He shrugs. “I get why she’s colder this year—we need to build the trust. I didn’t reply to the card, did I? Probably hurt her feelings. But there’s been that spark between us once, and that sort of thing doesn’t just go away. She’s single, she’s made that clear, so . . .”
I know why he’s telling me this. He’s marking out his territory, playing his move so I know there’s no use me playing mine. We may be standing here in smart shirts talking politely, but really we’re fighting like stags.
“Anyway. Wish me luck, lad,” Louis says with a wink, and then he claps me on the arm.
I twitch. I am one scrap of self-control away from spinning around and punching him in the stomach.
“See ya,” he says, strolling away with a smile.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
That’s it. It’s finished. If there’s even anything to finish. I was never hers and she was never mine, so I suppose there’s no break-up here. Just me, opening myself up to someone who’s chosen someone else.
And why wouldn’t she? Despite everything I’ve done, when she looks at me, she sees a man who’s not good enough. And for all the effort I’ve made to fight those feelings, for all the times I’ve hung up on my uncle and told myself You’re doing great, it’s really fucking hard to believe I’m worth something when the woman I love thinks a cuz?o like Louis is a better man than me.
I look up to find Mr. Townsend watching me. I turn away sharply, aware of the tears in my eyes.
“Son,” he says, “are you all right?”
I breathe out slowly, trying to get control of myself. “No,” I say. “I’m not. I want to go home.”
Izzy
No. No no no no no no no.
Louis and I are in the turret room, at the window where Lucas gave me Brazilian food and introduced me to his family. The sun is setting above the trees, gorgeous in powder pink.
I have the card in my hands. The card. It has two cute penguins on the front, both wearing Christmas hats. I never thought I would see this card again.
It’s a lot smaller than I remember. I am holding it with my fingertips, as though at any moment it might explode.
“Louis.”
I open the card and in comes a wave of shame and humiliation as I remember writing it, how brave I’d felt. Putting myself out there. Being bold. Living life to the fullest, just like my parents always wanted.
Dear Lucas, it says. I have a confession to make.
“Louis . . . this wasn’t your Christmas card.”
For the first time since I’ve known Louis, he looks unsure of himself.
“Pardon?” he says, ducking his head to look at it with me.
“Lucas.” I press my hand to my forehead. Oh my God. “I wrote this for Lucas.”
“Then why does it say . . .” He trails off. “You have really bad handwriting,” he says after a moment, and there’s an edge to his voice now.
“I am so sorry, Louis.”
“So it’s Lucas you want, then,” Louis says, stepping back slightly. The sunset bathes us in rosy light; it’s a very romantic setting. I suppose that’s why he got the card out. The perfect moment. “It’s always been him?”
The question floors me. Because . . . well, yes, it has, really. I’ve cursed him and crossed him and kissed him, but yeah, it’s always been him, hasn’t it? Nobody has ever made my cosy warm heart beat the way he does.
I was infatuated then, and if I am entirely honest with myself, I’m infatuated now.
And he never knew. He never knew.
“I really am so sorry, Louis. But I need to go, I’ve got to . . .”
He frowns, interrupting me. “Your colleague, that sorry-for-herself one, she gave the card to me. She said it was for me.”
I wince. Poor Mandy has never complained about my handwriting, but Lucas always says she gets him to translate half the stuff I write down. I thought he was exaggerating. It’s always perfectly clear to me.
“I guess she must’ve read it wrong, too. I’m sorry.”
Louis’s expression shifts. He seems to go from affable to calculating in a flash.
“Does Mrs. SB know you and Lucas have been getting off with each other on company time?”
I stare at him. “What? No, she . . . But we haven’t been . . .”
I trail off. Because, well, we have, a bit.
“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Dob me in?”
I’m kind of joking, but Louis just looks at me appraisingly for a moment.
“Do you know how many women would kill to have me take them to the Angel’s Wing?”
“Excuse me?”
“You think you’re really special, Izzy, with your multicoloured hair and your cute ‘mission’ to save this hotel. But the truth is you’re just a mousey little nobody in a dead-end job. It’s kind of sad.”
My mouth drops open. Louis’s nastiness is so sudden and so unexpected that his words don’t really land at all—in fact, as he slicks back his hair and adjusts his expensive jacket, I find myself wanting to laugh at him.