Page 18 of The Wake-Up Call

I close my eyes, sipping my coffee as Pedro gets the smoothie bar ready for opening. I’m off today and tomorrow, but I will be working here in my favourite seat at the window—my laptop is already packed in the bag at my feet. I am behind on my course, with an essay due on Friday, and on top of that, Izzy talked Charlie into proposing to his boyfriend on Thursday, and promised allsorts of bespoke elements that we now have to organise on a tight budget. I need to stay focused.

And I absolutelymuststop thinking about Izzy Jenkins in nothing but jeans and a pink bra.

•••••

“I need Izzy,” Mrs. SB says distractedly as she powers towards me across the lobby with several ring binders tucked awkwardly under one arm.

It’s Thursday morning. My essay is almost done, and Charlie’s proposal is as arranged as I could make it without coming into the hotel or coordinating with Izzy outside of working hours. I watch as Mrs. SB dodges a couple departing from the restaurant and gives them a wideIt’s all under controlsmile before dropping a file onto the tiles and saying, “Oh, bugger.”

“Izzy is—”

“Right here!” Izzy sings, sailing into the lobby from the restaurant.

She looks disarmingly pretty in waiting uniform, two strands of silky hair falling out of her ponytail. I try and fail not to think about the pink bra.

“Ah, good,” Mrs. SB says before glancing towards the corridor that leads to Sweet Violet. She lowers her voice. “Mr. Townsend is very upset about the builders.”

As one, we look at the builders, who are currently debating something at the top of a scaffolding tower by the staircase. They are incredibly intrusive. I have asked them to be quiet on multiple occasions, but the only effect has been that they have stopped greeting me when I arrive in the mornings.

Mr. Townsend is a particularly special guest here. He’s been coming for decades, I believe, at first with his wife and then, whenshe passed away, he would stay on his own for the winter. I don’t usually have personal conversations with guests, but even I feel fond of the man. Every fortnight or so, I give him a lift to the shops, and we have started having a coffee together afterwards. He reminds me of myvô, with his spindly reading glasses and slow, thoughtful smile. He has Parkinson’s, and every year he struggles a little more with his symptoms, but he is very stoic about it.

“Hmm,” Izzy says, tapping her bottom lip. “OK. Leave it with me.”

Mrs. SB smiles, already on her way again. “My favourite sentence. Thank you, dear!”

I watch Izzy as she settles Mr. Townsend on the sofa by the window, sitting on her haunches in front of him as they talk. How carefully she listens, how gently she explains the situation, how warmly he regards her. They end up discussing the Ring Thing—it seems to be all anyone talks about around here, much to my irritation.I know why this project matters to you so much, Izzy, he says, which makes me move a little closer to hear better. But he goes on to talk about his own wife.I think it’s lovely. My Maisie treasured her ring until the day she was taken from me, he says, settling back into his seat as the rain comes down against the glass behind them.When we were first stepping out together...

I look away. I understand why Mrs. SB wanted Izzy for this job. People love her without her even having to try. They don’t see the Izzy I see all day—they don’t know how cutting and uncompromising she can be.

To everyone but me, it seems, Izzy is absolutely perfect.

•••••

Charlie’s plans for his proposal escalate as the day goes on. By the evening, our one remaining gardener is setting upfireworks at the end of the lawns, Arjun is searching the county for a very specific type of champagne, and several members of the Matterson and Tanaka families are gathering in the bar for a surprise celebration after Charlie and Hiro’s private dinner out here under the pergola.

I am grateful to be outside for a few moments. I wouldn’t say it’s peaceful—Izzy is with me. But this afternoon’s rain glimmers on the trees around us, and the air is soft and fresh as nightfall presses in.

When I moved here, I never expected to love the forest so much. I thought it would be picturesque, perhaps, but I didn’t realise how something so old and so beautiful would make me feel. It is easy to find calm in a place that outdates you by about a millennium.

“I feel like it’s not sayingproposal. We need to dial up the sparkliness,” says Izzy, stepping back to survey the pergola with a critical tilt of her head.

I breathe out through my nose. Izzy offsets all calming properties of the New Forest. My blood pressure is already climbing.

“Why does a proposal require sparkle, exactly?”

The pergola looks classy—there are candles, tasteful floral decorations, and a light sprinkling of fairy lights hanging in loops between the eight oak pillars.

“It’s a huge moment! It needs to feel epic,” Izzy says, and then, catching my eye-roll, she says, “Oh, let me guess, you hate proposals? And joy? And love?”

“I do not hate joy and love. Or proposals. Put those fairy lights down,” I say, exasperated. “You’ll ruin it. We already have lights.”

What is it with this woman and those things? If she had her way, we’d all wander around the hotel draped in them.

“Notenoughlights,” Izzy says, already mounting the ladder to hang the next set. “And I don’t believe you. I literally cannot imagine you proposing. You’d be like...” She trails off. “OK, I’m not going to attempt a Brazilian accent. But you’d say something reallyfactual. Like,Why don’t we get married, here are all the reasons I think this is a good idea.”

“Do it in the accent,” I say, moving to stand under her ladder. No doubt, if she fell and broke a bone, it would be my fault somehow. “Then I might tell you how I would propose.”

That catches her by surprise—her hands falter on the fairy lights and she looks down at me. I meet her gaze after a day of avoiding eye contact by every possible means. She has surprising eyes. From her colouring you’d expect hazel or brown, but they’re the green of palmeira leaves, and almond shaped, with decadent long lashes. Izzy is “cute,” that’s what men would say—she’s petite, with round cheeks and a button nose. Cute, not sexy. Until you meet her eyes, and then you change your mind.

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