Page 8 of The Wake-Up Call

“Never,” I say. “Arjun, is it time to add the cream?”

“No! God! No! Donotupon pain ofdeathadd the cream yet!”

“Right,” I say cheerily. “Not cream time. Got it. Lucas, are you just going to wear that as a scarf, or...”

Lucas looks down at the polo shirt currently dangling from his neck. He’s wearing a T-shirt underneath, which isn’t helping the polo shirt fit, and is doing a relatively poor job of hiding the endless ridges of muscle that make up Lucas’s torso. I turn away and starttidying off-cuts of vegetables into the compost bin. Nobody needs to be seeing all those abs.

“We have no other polo shirts?”

“None,” I say, though I haven’t actually checked.

Lucas gives me a look that suggests he may have guessed as much. With a weary sigh, he begins the arduous task of trying to squeeze an arm in, just as Louis Keele walks through the swinging double doors, casual as you like, as though guests pop into the kitchen all the time.

“Wow,” he says. “It smells great in here. Isn’t that a bit small for you, Lucas?”

Lucas’s irritation radiates from him like the heat from the hobs. I stifle a grin. Louis is a bit entitled, but it doesn’t particularly bother me—he’s a guest, and I figure if it makes him happy to get involved behind the scenes, then what’s the harm? Plus... he’s cute.

“You shouldn’t be back here,” Lucas says.

His tone is borderline rude. Lucas has never been great at the sunny-and-obliging-demeanour thing. I watch him realise he’s been inappropriately blunt and reach for something more positive to say.

“Perhaps you would like to go for a swim in the spa, Mr. Keele, if you’re looking for entertainment?” he says as he finally yanks the polo shirt down over his torso. It stops just below his belly button, a good three inches of black T-shirt showing out of the bottom.

Louis gives me a conspiratorial smile. He’s one of those good-looking guys who can actually pull off a wink: a bitEastEnders, a bit cheeky. He wears his mousey brown hair swept back from his forehead and has very white teeth; he’s often in suit trousers and a shirt with no tie. Our vibe has always been a little flirty, which Lucas clearly regards asdeeplyunprofessional on my part. This may or may not provide an incentive to smile back at Louis right now.

“I’ll go for a swim if you’ll join me?” he says to me. He glances at Arjun. “She must be due a break soon, surely...”

“No breaks for the wicked,” I tell him. “Arjun has me stirring that pot every two minutes and forty seconds.”

“This is the recipe that theObserverfood reviewer said brought ground-breaking flavours to a sleepy corner of the forest, am I right?” Louis says, looking over Arjun’s shoulder. “Your trademark black dal?”

Arjun straightens slightly. “Yes, actually.”

“Amazing, wow,” Louis says, clapping him on the shoulder. “It smells fantastic. Incredible what you can do in this space.”

“Does anyone haveanythingI can take to table five?” Ollie says, bursting in through the doors to the restaurant.

As the only remaining permanent member of Arjun’s team, Ollie should really be the one stirring this dal, but I took pity on him and let him fill the waiter job instead. Arjun already looked like he was about to start breathing fire, and Ollie—bless him—would definitely drive him over the edge.

“Bread? Olives? Something poisonous?” Ollie goes on. “The bloke says it’s not his fault you mugs let the ceiling fall in, and he doesn’t see why it should be holding up his lunch, and I did say we don’t usually serve lunch until twelve but he said this is supposed to be a boutique luxury hotel and he should be able to have lunch whenever he—God, Lucas, what are you wearing? You look like a right twat! Oh,” Ollie says, turning scarlet. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t realise a guest was...”

“Just leaving,” Louis says with another easy smile. “Izzy—rain check on that swim?”

“Sure, looking forward to it!” I say, smiling back and checking the clock. “Time to stir, Arjun?”

“You’re not already stirring?” he says with absolute horror, asOllie disappears into the restaurant with a bread basket and Louis slips out of the other door.

•••••

After the chaos of yesterday, today is eerily quiet.

You can really feel all those empty rooms. We put everyone in a bay window for breakfast, looking out over the lawns and the woodland beyond, but it’s still too subdued for my liking. Mr. Townsend stays hunched over his copy ofThe Times; Louis and Mrs. Muller don’t make it to breakfast; the Jacobses are grey with exhaustion, their baby asleep at last in the pram beside their table. It’s the Hedgerses who bring all the energy, but there’s only so much that even three kids under ten can do to brighten up the atmosphere. As I return to the lobby, I vow to figure something out for tomorrow. Background music, maybe? Or will that come across as too corporate?

“Oh, Mrs. Hedgers!” I call as she wheels in with a pile of shopping bags on her lap. “Let me help you with those.”

She waves me away, gaze landing on my latest innovation: the debris nativity on the staircase landing.

“That’s... quite something,” she says.

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