Page 118 of The Wake-Up Call

“Have a cup of tea. Stop thinking so hard.”

“I was going to say, have I told you that I love you today?”

“Oh. No. You haven’t.”

“See?” She looks smug as she turns away. “Told you it wasn’t all done yet. Mr. Townsend! How can I help you?”

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 phonebuzzes in my hand, and I look down to seeAntônio 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 itwouldbe 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.

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