Mr. Townsend is making his way over from his armchair. He is doing a remarkably good job of dodging various members of the housekeeping team, as well as a small chihuahua that arrived with Dinah today. “Doggy daycare problems,” she announced as she walked in with it on a lead. “Do not give me shit about this.”
“It’s Lucas I need, actually,” Mr. Townsend says. “Will you join me in the orangery? I’d like to try out those new sofas.”
He smiles as he takes my arm.
“Oh, fine!” Izzy says, shooting me an arch look, as if to say, So you’re the favourite now!
I raise my eyebrows back at her—Of course I am. Then my phone buzzes in my hand, and I look down to see Ant?nio calling. My breath hitches. It’s Saturday. I didn’t phone him on Thursday. I didn’t forget—I just didn’t want to.
And I don’t want to speak to him now, either. I have noticed that the more I value myself, the less grateful I feel to my uncle, and the more I wonder why I put myself through these conversations at all. For now, for a while, he will have to wait until I feel ready to talk to him.
The call rings out as Mr. Townsend and I make our way through to the orangery. I exhale slowly.
“I have something for you,” Mr. Townsend says as I settle him on a sofa.
Izzy found this sofa on Gumtree, being sold . . . by us. It’s an old one from Opal Cottage—once a bold shade of red, it is now russet and faded, but somehow it has come to life again under the patterned cushion covers that Izzy created from an old set of hotel curtains. She has such a gift for this: bringing out the best in things.
“Here.” Mr. Townsend opens his palm. The emerald ring sits in the folds of his hand, circling the point where his lifeline splits. “It’s for you. Or rather, it’s for her.”
Ai, meu Deus.
“Mr. Townsend . . .”
“I’ve been carrying it around since we went to Budgens, not knowing what to do with it. The fact is, it doesn’t quite belong to me anymore. That’s how it feels. Because Maisie lost it and replaced it. The ring she wore on the day she died was hers, and this one . . . It was lying in wait for someone else to find it, perhaps.”
“I can’t possibly . . . And it’s far too soon . . .”
Mr. Townsend looks up at me shrewdly. “Is it? I only met my Maisie a dozen times before we were married.”
“But these days . . .”
“Oh, yes, these days, these days.” Mr. Townsend waves his other hand. “Some things change, but love doesn’t. When you know . . .”
You know. I understand why people say that about love now: there’s no quantifying this. It is too enormous—too dizzyingly deep.
And it’s true that I’ve thought of marrying her. If I could, if this world were perfect, I’d dredge the ocean for that ring from her father, the one she lost, and I’d get down on one knee and hand it to her. But this world isn’t perfect, and neither am I. Sometimes things are lost, and you grieve for them, and they change you, and that’s OK.
It might not be perfect to propose with the emerald ring, but it would be beautiful. It has a story—a legacy. It’s part of the family she found here at the hotel.
“I can’t possibly accept this from you,” I say, but even I can hear that my voice is a little less convincing now.
“Keep it in your pocket until you need it,” Mr. Townsend says just as Mrs. Hedgers enters the room, trailing tinsel behind her.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says as she leans to tape one end of the tinsel to the edge of the window frame. “Izzy’s orders.”
Mr. Townsend presses the ring into my hand and cups it in his own. I shake in his grasp, and we stay like this, both holding that ring; for a moment it holds two messy love stories inside its loop. Then Mr. Townsend removes his hands, and it’s just one love story. Mine, for a while. Until I give it to Izzy, and it becomes hers.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
For an unpleasant half hour, it seems nobody will come to the Christmas party. Our invitations suggested a start time of two p.m.—Izzy wanted the children to be part of the celebration. The plan was that people would come and go when it suited them.
But it doesn’t seem to be suiting them to come at all.
“They’ll turn up,” Izzy says, adjusting yet another candle.
She has done a beautiful job in here. We’ve made the lobby the centre point of the party—it’s where the face painting and the magician are set up, along with the live band, a collection of jazz musicians who once played a wedding here and have been kind enough to help us out with a cut-price performance. The buffet is through in the restaurant, and our bar is filled with comfortable seating. Ollie is in charge of cocktails in the orangery, a role that he accepted with much grumbling and thinly disguised delight.
I doubt Izzy can tell, but I am even more nervous about this party than she is. My Christmas present for her will be revealed tonight, and I am having sudden terrors that I didn’t get it right. After all, I planned it before the two of us got together. And I’ve taken a bit of a risk.
“Rather quiet, isn’t it?” Mr. Townsend says, shuffling over.
Izzy looks irritated, then melts when she realises it’s Mr. Townsend speaking.
“They’ll come,” she says. “Where are the Hedgerses? They always bring the fun. Lucas, will you give them a knock?” On seeing my expression, she adds, “It’s not intrusive, it’s helpful! I promise they won’t mind.”
I shoot her an unconvinced look and get a tongue-out face in return. I head to Sweet Pea. Mrs. Hedgers opens the door: she looks completely different from the woman I saw just a couple of hours ago, in the orangery. Her hair is loose around her shoulders for the first time since I’ve known her, and there are tear tracks on her cheeks.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, already backing away, but she beckons me in and wheels herself back inside. I have no choice but to catch the door and follow her or let it shut behind her.
I step inside, feeling uneasy. I don’t enter rooms while guests are present, generally—it feels like I am doing the same thing Louis did when he stepped behind the front desk.
“Lucas,” she says, reaching up to the dresser for the tissues and neatly blowing her nose. “I was hoping to catch you, actually. The children are in the gardens with my husband, burning off some energy before they’re expected to socialise with people who may not appreciate the degree of barging that takes place on a regular Hedgers-family Saturday.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” I say, already backing towards the door.
“Stay,” Mrs. Hedgers says.
It’s more command than request. I do as I’m told, holding my hands behind my back, hovering in front of the door.
“My husband finally told me what Mr. Townsend did for us. And do you know what I felt? I felt irritated. Irritated that we’d had to accept charity and irritated that I hadn’t won. I hadn’t beaten the insurance company. It hadn’t gone my way.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can understand that.”
She smiles, sniffing. “I know you can. You like to get things done and you like perfection.”
I incline my head. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t precisely a compliment,” she says, patting at the cushions on the settee until they’re lined up just right. “I’m the same. And I’m brilliant at what I do. But I’m not brilliant at everything, and I find that very hard. Is this ringing any bells?”
I believe I am being Mrs. Hedgers–ed.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m . . . I can be . . . uncompromising.”
This time her smile is smaller. “The perfection you’re always chasing, Mr. da Silva—no amount of hard work will get you what you want. Trust me. I’ve worked very, very hard.”
She wheels towards the mirror, beginning to fix her make-up. It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture for a woman I see as so put-together, and I’m sure it’s very deliberate.