Page 39 of The Wake-Up Call

I just raise my eyebrows at that. There is something scrappy about a pigeon that suits the version of Izzy I have come to see this winter—perhaps I understand better than she thinks.

We join the nearest queue as the train pulls in. I pre-booked my seat, but Izzy didn’t, and after I tut about this, she looks very smug to find an available seat directly opposite mine.

I plan to spend the train journey working on a draft budget for Mrs. SB, but it’s hard to concentrate. Izzy has removed her many layers and is playing solitaire with a set of battered playing cards, wearing a baby-blue top with no straps.

“Want to play something?” Izzy says.

I’ve been staring at her cards in an effort not to stare at the smooth white skin above that blue top. I think for a moment.

“Poker?” I say.

“With just two of us?”

“It can be done. Texas Hold’em? Though...” I suddenly wish I’d not suggested it. “I don’t want to play for money,” I add, embarrassed.

“Of course not,” Izzy says, like the very thought is ridiculous. “Though we’re on a train, so strip poker is out.”

The idea that strip poker might otherwise be in throws me. She digs around in her rucksack and produces a small box of raisins, the sort you might give to a child as a snack.

“Chips,” she says, opening the box. “Whoever’s up by Waterloo gets to choose how we decorate the lobby?”

“I don’t want to decorate the lobby any more than it is decorated right now,” I say, frowning.

“Exactly. Whereas I think we are seriously lacking in tinsel.”

She smiles at me and I swallow.

“You up for a challenge?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say, reaching for the cards.

•••••

I try to be magnanimous for the journey from Waterloo to Little Venice. I knew Izzy would be terrible at poker.Everything is always written all over her face. She takes losing extremely badly, just as I would expect, and sulks the entire way to Shannon’s flat.

The woman who greets us when we arrive is wearing a large hat that reads,Thank u, next. I look beyond her to the open-plan living area to find that everyone inside is wearing the same. The music is pounding already, though it’s only lunchtime.

“I don’t know you,” says the woman in the doorway. “Did he send you? If so, tell him Shannon has every fucking right to—”

“Nobody sent us,” Izzy says quickly. “Shannon invited us. We’re here about a ring?”

“Oh!” The woman’s face lights up. “Come on in, she’s in the kitchen working on the cake.”

Izzy’s sulking expression has been replaced with the bright, fascinated look she wears when she’s truly enjoying herself. She is a bad loser, but she is also very easily distracted.

Shannon is a tall blonde woman wearing a sequinned dress with an apron over the top. My first impression on entering the pristine kitchen is that she looks like a housewife from an American TV show. However, the cake she is icing is shaped like a penis, which does throw this image out a little.

“Hello,” she says, putting down her icing pen and wiping her hands on her apron. “You must be Lucas! Did you bring your girlfriend?”

“Not girlfriend,” we say in unison.

“Even better,” Shannon says.

“I’m Izzy,” Izzy says, holding out her hand. “Congratulations!”

It seems this is the correct thing to say, because Shannon gives her a wide smile.

“Thanks so much! I’ve been so excited for today. I wanted to give it as much energy as my wedding day. Isn’t it amazing that they all took annual leave? We’re going for a long weekend in Madeirafor my unhoneymoon.” She gestures towards the people in the living area. “You know what I did for my actual honeymoon? Hiked in the Alps. Did I like hiking? Did I like snow? Did I fuck! You know what I do like, though?”

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