Page 79 of The Wake-Up Call

She bites back a smile. “Closest guess wins?”

I nod once as she answers the call.

“Hi, Mrs. SB! Ah, baby Jacobs has peed on that eighteenth-century rug, has he...”

Izzy mouthsI winat me as she heads outside, and I raise my eyebrows. I would say that’s debatable.

“Refill?” Ollie asks. He’s got himself a bottomless coffee. I am not sure he should be allowed this much caffeine.

“I’ll come with you, stretch the legs,” Barty says, getting up.

“It never occurred to me that one of your special rings could be mine,” Mr. Townsend says as they make their way to the till. He closes it in his trembling palm. “All that dashing around and making phone calls. I’m sorry I didn’t save you the bother.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “And Izzy’s enjoying the search, I think. It seems to matter a great deal to her.”

“Well, of course,” Mr. Townsend says, eyes still on his closed fist. “Given the ring she lost.”

He looks up when I say nothing.

“Ah,” he says. “Was that a secret?”

“She doesn’t... share personal things with me,” I say, slightly pained. “She lost a ring?”

“She told me a few years ago, when we were discussing her family. It was a twenty-first birthday present from her father—she lost it while swimming in the sea in Brighton,” Mr. Townsend says. “Very sad.”

I remember how she’d looked in that first conversation we’d had with Mrs. SB—how her eyes had shone with tears.

I am struck by an entirely ridiculous urge to trawl the ocean.Perhaps Izzy’s ring washed up somewhere? Perhaps I could... learn to scuba dive...?

“It was years ago,” Mr. Townsend says gently. “It’s gone for good, that ring.”

I clear my throat, looking down at my coffee, embarrassed. I had not realised I was quite so transparent.

“So that’s why she cares so much,” I say, taking a sip as I try to compose myself.

“Partly, I imagine,” Mr. Townsend says. “But I think Izzy likes anything with a story attached. And rings are objects we give a lot of value to, us humans. Symbols of eternity, dedication, you name it. They were always going to catch her eye.” He looks at me levelly. “Lucas... do you care for her?”

I am so taken aback, and so overrun with the emotions of the day, that I almost answer him honestly. But then, as I open my mouth, my uncle pops into my head, and I imagine what he’d say if he knew I was spilling my romantic troubles to a guest. And just like that, I clam up. My whole body responds to the thought. Stiff back, chin up, face blank.

“She is a very talented colleague,” I say.

I hate that I’m still like this, even with Antônio so many thousands of miles away. Even with my own car, my own flat, my own job, my own degree—almost. But these traits are so deeply engrained, I don’t know how to unlearn them.

In my embarrassment, I almost miss something important that Mr. Townsend says: that Izzy likes things with stories behind them. It only comes to me on the drive home, with everyone chatting away in the back seat. Izzy has looked at me—reallylookedat me—just a few times in the last few weeks, and every single time it’s been a moment when I’ve let her see something that I don’t necessarily want to show her. Telling her why I exercise. Sharingwhy I raise my voice sometimes, and why I so badly want to change that. Moments when I showed her there’s a story to me.

It’s an uncomfortable realisation. I don’t like to share personal matters with anybody—it’s not how I was raised. But I don’t want to be that way. I would like some of Izzy’s courage, her openness. I would like to believe that I can let a person see me, and that once they have, they might think more of me, not less.

Izzy

I am so glad Mr. Townsend took that well. I’m not sure I could have handled it if the Ring Thing backfired again. I’m frazzled enough today as it is. Torturing Lucas has been fairly torturous for me, too—Ireallyhoped he’d cave and follow me into the lost-property room when I was getting changed.

“Never leave again,” Mrs. SB says when we return. She gives Mr. Townsend a stern look. “And you, sir, have used up your I’m-a-guest privileges.”

“I only requested two of them,” Mr. Townsend points out, making his way over to his armchair. “Don’t blame me for the stowaways.”

“You rascal,” Mrs. SB says to Barty as he swoops in to kiss her across the desk. “You’d better have saved me a doughnut.”

Barty looks guilty. I’m pretty sure he ate at least four.

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