Page 119 of The Wake-Up Call

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’twon. 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.

Mrs. Hedgers catches my eye in the mirror. “The ring Mr. Townsend gave you. May I give you some advice about it?”

I watch my own expression shift ever so slightly in the mirror: eyes a fraction wider, eyebrows flinching. Today has been the strangest day. The hotel has been a meaningful part of my life since my very first shift here, but this winter it seems to have woven itself through every element of me—I am hardly surprised to find yet another guest involving themselves in my personal life. Perhaps because I’ve spent all winter involving myself in theirs.

“A ring can make a good thing stronger and a bad thing weaker. You need to be as whole as you can be before you put one on your finger. So all I’d say is... don’t ask the question until you feel sure of her answer.”

This is precisely how I described my ideal proposal when I first spoke about marriage with Izzy all those weeks ago, under the fairy lights: I thought I would ask the love of my life to marry me, and I’d know she would say yes. But Mrs. Hedgers is right to suspect that I’m running away with myself. Since yesterday, my mind has been playing out the future, already thinking of all the ways I could lose her, and suddenly the idea of securing Izzy Jenkins in marriage is extremely appealing. I want her to beminebefore she realises she’s far too good to be.

I’d considered this February, when we go to Brazil together. Or summer at the latest.

“When you know she loves you, and you trust it—ask her then. That’s my opinion,” Mrs. Hedgers says, flashing me a freshly lipsticked smile. “For what it’s worth. Which, by the way, is a lot. Hard work doesn’t get you everything, but it does help with the pay cheques, I find. Now, I must go and find my better half, and thenI must thank the man who has saved my Christmas.” She swallows. “Please remind me that there is no shame in accepting help.”

“There is no shame in accepting help.”

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