Page 63 of The Wake-Up Call

I manage not to laugh at this, and give myself rare full marks for professionalism. A family pass on their way to brunch in the dining room, and Mr. Townsend and I pause politely before launching back in.

“It may be Lucas Day officially, but I think it’s an Izzy day really,” I say. “After all, you’re happy...”

“Perfectly,” Mr. Townsend says, reaching for his glasses.

“The muses are striking away at Mrs. Muller...”

“The housekeeping team are no doubt thrilled to hear it.”

“And I got baby Jacobs to sleep!”

“Certainly an Izzy day,” Mr. Townsend says gravely.

I lift my chin, putting the finishing touches on the mantelpiece decorations. Lucas needs to up his game, I’d say.

•••••

“Oh my god. No.”

“No?”

“No!”

“Is thatFuck right off, Lucasno?”

I grimace. “Well, no, it isn’t. But I don’t want to do this. I thought you’d make me do gross stuff, like scrubbing bathrooms! I didn’t think you’d make me”—I wave my hands around the computer screen—“digitalise.”

“If you become more familiar with the system, you will learn how useful it can be. Even Poor Mandy likes it now.”

“She likes it if you’re asking. When I ask, she says she prefers the booking book.”

“Of course she does. But what happens if there’s a fire and the booking book burns? Everything will be lost forever.”

I doknowthat the online system is more sensible. I’m not a total Luddite. I just love the ritual of the booking book, and guests do, too—signing in with the fountain pen, flicking through the thin pages, the heft of that leather cover as it thuds closed on the desk... It’s all part of the hotel experience, like the gold bell they ding if they need us and we’re not there. We could have an intercom-type system for that, but we don’t, because dinging is fun.

“I’m updating guest profiles this morning,” Lucas says. “Which means you are, too. Here,” he says, pushing one of the old booking books my way. “You can have 2011. Your ring was lost the summer of that year—maybe you’ll find something useful.”

Reluctantly, I reach for the book and drag it towards me. Lucas gives a satisfied nod and returns to his computer screen, tapping away.

“How long am I doing this for?” I ask, logging in.

“Until I say so.”

I canfeelhis smile.

He keeps me at the desk like this for an hour and a half. This might actually be the longest I’ve ever sat still at work, and it’s definitely the longest I’ve sat next to Lucas without one of us speaking to a guest or running off to do something else.

It’s oddly companionable. Mostly we don’t talk, but occasionally Lucas makes an idle remark, and at one point, astonishingly, he makes me a cup of tea. We coexist, basically. I’m quite surprised we have it in us.

Infuriatingly, Lucas is right: Idofind something useful for my ring. As I transfer everything to Lucas’s system, I notice that a few of the guests on extended stays were missed when I made my list ofpeople to contact, because they’d checked in several weeks or months before the time when the ring was found.

I scribble down their names, pen pausing when I hitMr. and Mrs. Townsend.It’s sort of happy and sort of sad to think that Maisie was with him back then. I make a note to speak to him—the ring can’t be Maisie’s, since she wore hers until the day she died, but he might remember someone losing their engagement ring during one of his stays at the hotel.

Eventually Lucas checks his watch, clicks his pen, and declares we’re done. He sets Barty’s sign on the front desk—Please ring for assistance and we will be with you in a jiffy!—and leads me to the store cupboard. It’s tidier than when I was last in here—he’s sorted the shelves and pulled out all the different paint tins, dusting off their lids.

“That one,” he tells me. “Can you carry it?”

I give him a withering look and then realise he’s teasing me.

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