Page 78 of The Wake-Up Call

•••••

Upon our arrival at Budgens, things go smoothly for an impressive ten minutes. I feel calmer here, away from the hotel. It is easier to think about something other than Izzy Jenkins—even if she is in the same aisle.

We select a box of doughnuts after a long discussion about which of the available flavours is best (all are overrated; doughnuts are justbolinhos de chuvawith too much sugar and no personality). Mr. Townsend chooses the first of his snacks (shortbread biscuits of a very specific shape). Barty shouts “Mrs. SB likes it rough!” across the chilled aisle (he was referring to puff pastry). And then Izzy opens her rucksack and pulls out the Tupperware of rings, right there by the fridges.

I breathe in sharply.

“Why do you have those here?”

“I wanted to talk to Mr. Townsend about the emerald one when we go for coffee after this,” she says, trying to unclip the lid. She presses the box to her stomach, hunching over, nails working at one corner. “He was staying at the hotel when it was lost, and he might remember something, but I’m just going to check that one’s definitely in there, because I did take it out to have it cleaned, and... Argh!”

The lid pings off. The two remaining rings go flying.

“Shit. Shit!” Izzy drops to the ground, as though under enemy fire.

“What? What?” Barty yells, looking around wildly.

“Nobody panic!” says Izzy, commando-crawling across the floor of Budgens. “I’ve got the silver wedding ring! It’s just the emerald... one...”

She lifts her head slowly. The ring is between Mr. Townsend’s sensible brogues. He is staring down at it with open astonishment. A member of the Budgens staff pauses behind him, clearly contemplating asking questions about Izzy’s position, and then makes the sensible decision to move on and pretend he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

I am also trying to pretend that there is nothing out of the ordinary about seeing Izzy in this position, mostly by staring fixedly at the ceiling.

“Mr. Townsend?” Izzy says.

“That ring,” he says, voice shaking.

Izzy stands and holds it out to him. The bright supermarket lights hit the ring’s emerald and it sends green light scattering across the vinyl floor.

“That’s Maisie’s ring,” Mr. Townsend says, almost breathless. “That’s it, right there. She was buried with that ring. What the devil is it doing in your Tupperware box?”

•••••

We all make our way to the café, sitting around a circular table, eating our Budgens doughnuts with our café-bought coffees. I feel quite uncomfortable about this, but Barty has no shame, and he was the one who paid for it all.

Izzy explains what Gerry told her over the phone. How the woman who lost that emerald ring had a replica made so as not toupset her husband. How much she’d loved him, and how she hadn’t wanted to hurt him by admitting she had lost his precious ring.

“I’m not sad,” Mr. Townsend says. His tone is thoughtful. He turns his face to the rain outside, blinking slowly behind his glasses. “It’s very typical of Maisie, actually. She never could stand to upset anybody. It used to drive me up the wall, the lengths she would go to avoid causing anyone else any bother. And she was always wearing fake jewels onstage, so I suppose she knew how to have something like that made.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Izzy says.

“Yeah,” Ollie pipes up. “She went toloadsof effort so you wouldn’t be upset. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.” Mr. Townsend opens his hand, looking down at the ring. It is beautiful. It’s Izzy’s favourite from the box, I think—she’s always fiddling with it. “Maisie and I were never straightforward. On and off like a light switch, she used to say.”

“You broke up?” I ask.

I don’t know whether it’s because Mr. Townsend is old, or because his wife passed away, but I had always imagined them having a very sweet, sedate relationship. In my head, Mrs. Townsend was probably a kind-hearted older lady who wore florals and baked.

But then, I always have idealised the dead. See my father, bitten by a venomous adder while saving a small village, or killed in a high-speed car chase while serving in the Agência Brasileira de Inteligência.

“Oh, all the time,” Mr. Townsend says wryly. “But we always found our way back to each other. That was just our story.” He shrugs. “Our friends didn’t understand. But I’ve always said that love takes a different shape for everybody. Some of us fall in love the straightforward way, and some of us have a more... winding path.”

Mr. Townsend is giving me a significant look. I stare down at my Americano as Izzy’s phone bursts to life beside her coffee cup.

“Excuse me,” Izzy says, standing. “Mrs. SB’s calling. I’m going to guess that...” She taps her bottom lip. “Dinah’s bleached something antique.”

“Ruby’s climbed something dangerous,” I counter-offer.

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