Page 13 of The Wake-Up Call

“Well what?” she says, distracted as she sorts through a box of paperback books. “Could we take some of this to a car boot sale, maybe? Use your car? My boot is teeny.”

I stare at her in horror. “You want me to put all of this rubbish in my car?”

“It’s not rubbish! These paperbacks will make a pound each. Every little helps.”

“We need tens of thousands of pounds of investment, so one pound does not particularly help.”

She dims a little and says something about the quantity of items still to be sold. I watch her counting out books on the floor behind the desk and feel an unexpected twinge of guilt for making her shoulders sag that way. Our endless back-and-forth is built into the rhythm of my day here: I had expected a sharp retort. Perhaps she will take revenge later—she likes to do that sometimes. I will probably find something sticky “accidentally” spilled on my keyboard again this afternoon.

“So was it Tiffany Moore’s wedding ring?” I find myself asking.

Izzy looks up at me, surprised and then smug. “Look who’s already getting on board with the Ring Thing!”

Of course this mad plan now has a rhyming name.

“I’m not on board. I was just making conversation.”

“Gosh, I wasn’t aware you knew how to do that. Well, it wasn’t hers,” Izzy says, returning to the paperbacks. “She said her wedding ring is still firmly on her finger. I’ve tried a couple more people, but I’m hitting the rest of the list after this box. Unless you want to help, and give someone a call now?”

“I’m not getting involved in your childish plan,” I say as I return to my lost-property spreadsheet.

“Oh, of course not,” Izzy says in an infuriating singsong voice. “Understanding the concept of sentimental value requires some capacity for human emotion, I suppose.”

I ignore her as she busies herself around me. She’s soenergetic. I would expect her to be exhausted at the end of a shift, but from what I’ve seen, she always has evening plans with someone—she seems to have huge quantities of friends. They’re always dropping in, hugging her over the desk, vowing never to go so long without seeing her again.

I’ve not noticed a boyfriend around recently, though. Last year there was usually one of those loitering about, too, but since we’ve been working shifts together again, I’ve not come upon a man in too-tight trousers with a guitar on his back waiting in the lobby, so I’d have to guess that Izzy is currently single.

“Hello, is that Kelly?” Izzy says into the phone, catching it between her shoulder and ear as she sticks together an old teacup with both hands.

I listen as she explains the situation to the woman on the other end of the phone.

“Not mine,” the woman barks.

I can hear every word from where I’m sitting. It is incredibly distracting to have to listen to Izzy’s phone conversations in this way. I have long suspected her of turning up the volume on that phone for this precise reason.

“Was I even at your hotel in 2018?” Kelly says. “Seems unlikely. New Forest isn’t really my scene. Not much to do. Too many trees. Very samey.”

I can’t help bristling. I love the New Forest, and there are at least fifteen leaflets under this desk that will demonstrate exactly how much there is to do here. This place has become home to me. I’d defend it in the same way I’d defend Niterói, the city where I grew up. It has its faults, but it’s mine.

“You came for a long weekend with your husband,” Izzy says.

“Oh,thathusband,” Kelly says. “Yeah, no, we’re not married anymore. But it can’t be my ring. I keep my old wedding rings in the loft.”

Izzy snorts out a surprised laugh. “Right. OK. Well, thank you for your help, Kelly.”

“You really go the extra mile, don’t you?” Kelly says.

Izzy lifts her chin. “Well, yes, I think it’s—”

“Listen, a little life lesson for free, from me to you. Don’t fucking bother. Nobody gives a shit and you’ll just wear yourself out. Bye-bye!”

Izzy stares at the phone for a moment after Kelly hangs up. I can’t help laughing. She shoots me a filthy glare and clicks the phone back into the receiver, returning to her boxes. She’s made progress since I last looked. Or, at least, things are now in different piles.

“Is there a system here?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Of course. Unsorted; unsellable; for upcycling; for Mandy’s little putting-pics-on-Twitter scheme; for the car boots; for Etsy; for Gumtree; for washing; for the bin.”

She points at each pile so quickly I’m lost by “for upcycling,” a word I don’t understand anyway. I stare at it all, unwilling to ask her to repeat herself.

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