I have a confession to make, and I'm kind of nervous about it, which is why you're getting it in your Christmas card. (Merry Christmas, by the way.)
Whenever we cross paths at the hotel, something strange happens. I get hot. Jittery. Say weird things like "good morrow!," and forget what it is I'm chatting to a guest about, and look at you instead of looking at whichever of Barty's menu additions Arjun wants to disagree with today.
I'm not usually the sort of person to get infatuated. I'm more of the slow-burn, warm-and-cosy type. And I DON'T lose my head over a guy—I never have. But when I look at you, I get all . . . flustered.
And when you look at me, I wonder if you might feel the same thing. I've been waiting for you to say something, really. But my friend Jem pointed out that maybe you just think I'm not available, or maybe you're not big on sharing how you feel, or maybe I just need to woman up and make the first move.
So here I am. Putting my cosy warm heart on the line to say: I like you. A lot.
If you feel the same way, meet me under the mistletoe at 8 p.m. I'll be the one in the pink dress. And also the one who is Izzy the receptionist. I don't know why I said the pink dress thing.
I'm going to stop writing now, because . . . I've run out of space. And dignity. See you at 8?
Izzy xxx
Dear Izzy,
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
Regards,
Lucas
IF LUCAS IS DOING SOMETHING, I HAVE TO BE DOING IT, TOO, but better.
This has generally been very good for my career over the last year, but it does mean that right now I am grappling with a fir-tree branch which measures at least twice my height and four times my width.
“Do you need help?” Lucas asks.
“Absolutely not. Do you?”
I swing my branch into position and narrowly avoid smashing one of the many vases around the lobby. I'm always dodging those things. Like much of the furniture at Forest Manor Hotel and Spa, the vases come from the Bartholomew family, who own the estate. Morris Bartholomew (Barty) and his wife, Uma Singh-Bartholomew (Mrs. SB), have turned the grand house into a hotel, and they've repurposed as many of the old family furnishings as possible. I am all for an upcycle—it’s kind of my thing—but there’s something urn-like about some of these vases. I can’t shake the thought that one of them might contain an old Bartholomew.