One Small Act of Kindness

  Libby winced. Pete had a good job, but he was a designer, not a stockbroker. These were real savings, not Jason’s windfall bonuses. ‘Are you sure, Erin? Really? I don’t have a track record as a hotelier.’

  ‘Libby, it’s you we’re talking about.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do you remember the night Pete and I moved into our house?’ Erin’s voice softened. ‘I was seven months pregnant, and the delivery men got lost, and Pete was jet-lagged and kept falling asleep. Then we locked ourselves out and I was hysterical?’

  ‘You weren’t hysterical. You were very pregnant.’

  ‘I was hysterical, Libby. But you opened your door and took me in, and Jason phoned his brother to help Pete get into the house, and you lent us clothes and food and wouldn’t let me lift a finger till the van arrived? You know, when my friends in Boston try to tell me Londoners are unfriendly, I tell them about that night.’ She paused. ‘You were so kind to us. I’ve been waiting for years to be able to return that favour, and now I can. I want to. I know you’re going to make that hotel a success. Who wouldn’t want to stay with you? You make complete strangers feel like friends.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Libby was so choked with gratitude she could barely get the words out. Coming straight after her days of blind panic, Erin’s simple faith was making her feel almost lightheaded. But why shouldn’t she believe her? This is who I am, she told herself. Someone people trust. Someone I can trust.

  ‘Hey, don’t thank me,’ said Erin. ‘Just make sure that Pete and I are the first people booked in when you relaunch. I can’t wait to see it.’

  ‘The first ones,’ said Libby. ‘I have just the room for you. The bath is amazing.’

  ‘Sold! And listen’ – Erin’s voice turned as stern as she could make it – ‘don’t you ever hide problems like that from me again. It hurts to think you don’t consider me a good enough friend to tell. Promise me.’

  ‘Promise,’ said Libby. ‘Now, tell me your news. Cheer me up.’

  While Erin was talking, Libby heard her phone buzz with a text. She reached into her bag and grabbed it, hoping it would be Jason, and to her relief it was.

  But when she read the message – Coming back for some stuff tonight. Don’t tell Mum. Don’t want a scene. J – her heart sank again.

  ‘Darling, get down off the . . . Oh, Lib, you know what, I think we’re out of toddler distraction time. I’m so sorry,’ Erin apologised. ‘Email me your bank details right now, OK? Do it! I’ll phone you later!’

  Libby said goodbye on autopilot, still staring at Jason’s text. Margaret was out at her book group tonight, and Alice was spending the day with Gethin. They’d be alone to talk. Her mind stalled. What did she want to say to him? What did she want him to say to her?

  She didn’t know. Everything felt different. None of the old reference points seemed to fit. It wasn’t just Jason she didn’t know; Libby’s own mind felt unfamiliar to her, with strengths and opinions and limits she hadn’t realised she had until now.

  She shivered. Fine. I’ll be in, she texted back.

  Alice texted to say that she’d be staying over at Gethin’s – which Libby took as a good sign – and Margaret came in and went out again without speaking to her.

  Jason arrived at eight, and from the second he walked into the kitchen, any hope Libby had had that he’d come to apologise evaporated.

  His face, under three days’ worth of stubble, was stony, and he barely said a word before going upstairs and returning almost immediately with his big wheelie case. The business-class flight tags from their last ski trip fluttered on the handle.

  Libby stood at the sink, blank with panic. Too many things jostled to the front of her mind: all she could think was, Please don’t go. Please let’s start again, but a stubborn pride stopped anything coming out. Jason had got them into this situation; he could make the first move towards fixing it. He could start by apologising.

  He didn’t. He seemed to be struggling to say anything at all. Maybe he didn’t know where to start either.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Libby asked eventually.

  ‘Steven’s,’ he said. ‘For the time being.’

  ‘Steven Taylor? In Clapham?’ Steve was an old university friend, another stockbroker, with a huge house, no kids and three Porsches.

  Jason nodded. ‘Yup.’

  Another agonising silence.

  Libby’s resistance cracked. ‘And what are you doing? When are you coming back? Aren’t you even going to ask how I am? Or what’s been going on here?’

  He couldn’t look at her. Her heart tore inside as Jason gazed at the floor, the old wall clock, anywhere but at her face. ‘You seem to be coping fine without me. I need some time to think.’

  I don’t have time to think, she wanted to roar. I’m living in a building site. I’m dealing with your mother. I’m managing our business. I’m trying to cope while you just run away again.

  But it wouldn’t come out. Libby’s throat was choked with the only thing that mattered to her now: the man she loved was blocking her out. She still loved him, more than she’d ever done before, when everything was easy. He was walking away from every hope and memory and history they’d shared, every plan for the future, and Libby knew she should be strong and angry, but the thought of losing all that drained the energy from her. It was as much disappointment in herself, that she’d got it all so wrong.

  Jason finally looked at her, and she didn’t recognise the sullen, exhausted man wearing her husband’s clothes. There was a glimmer of the old Jason, a ghost of an apology in his eyes, but when he saw her defiance, it faded away, replaced with a hardness she didn’t like.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he replied, and walked out.

  A voice in Libby’s head, despite everything, said Good.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘We’re going to be late,’ said Alice, tapping her watch. ‘Bob’s audience don’t want their patting time cut short by your inability to decide on the colour of grout, Libby.’

  ‘But grout’s important.’ That was a sentence that Libby never thought she’d hear coming out of her mouth, but after several conversations with patient Lorcan, she found she did care. ‘If we can’t have the big things, then I want the little things to be exactly right. And you notice that kind of thing when you’re relaxing in the bath. Isn’t that right?’

  Lorcan nudged the long-suffering apprentice, who was holding up ten sticks of coloured grout, waiting for Libby’s decision. ‘Hear that, Connor? Someone’s been listening to me.’

  ‘That one,’ Libby decided, pointing at the grey sample. ‘It’ll look cleanest for longest. And that’ll save on Flash.’

  The first en suites were being tiled today, and Libby couldn’t wait to see them finished. She’d made herself address the budget in brutal detail, and had stayed up until the small hours, planning and replanning to make the most of what she had to restore the hotel to working order. Every pound she saved felt like a triumph. It also distracted the part of her brain that couldn’t stop wondering what Jason was doing.

  ‘At last!’ said Alice. ‘Now, come on. I don’t want to be late for the consultant.’ She paused, as Lorcan herded his apprentices back upstairs. ‘Have you told Margaret we’re going into town? Do you think she’d like to come?’

  Libby sighed. ‘Not if I’m driving. I actually think she’s avoiding me now.’ Since Margaret’s bitter outburst about Jason, she and Libby had barely spoken. Libby had tried to build bridges by telling her about Gina’s plans and how they would soon have things back to normal, but Margaret’s expression had remained tight.

  ‘I’m not sure what use my opinion would be to you,’ was all she’d said, and the polite smile had vanished in a moment from her face to leave it cold and pinched.

  It’s almost as if she’d rather the Swan went under without Jason than have me
sort it out, Libby thought. The irony was that now they were both left to cope without their husbands, something Libby thought might have given them a shared understanding, but no – Margaret clearly felt she’d now lost her husband, her hotel and her son, and two-thirds of that was Libby’s fault. All the energy that had once gone into holding the family together was now flowing into Margaret’s new role, of furious and disappointed matriarch.

  Alice patted Libby’s arm. ‘She’ll come round. She probably blames herself for putting you in this hole. And it must be a hard thing for her to see Jason screwing up.’

  ‘She does not blame herself. And she definitely doesn’t think Jason’s screwed up. I suppose the one blessing is that her precious dog doesn’t seem to be taking sides. He knows who’s buying the biscuits round here. Bob? Bob! PAT time!’ Libby went into the office and grabbed Bob’s lead. He was supposed to be in his dog bed in there, but wasn’t. She marched through the hotel, calling for him, until they eventually discovered him in the unused lounge, curled like a kidney bean on a velvet sofa from which he was specifically banned.

  ‘Off!’ snapped Libby, as he slunk down, leaving behind a white hair halo. She turned to Alice in despair. ‘Look at that. I know Gina’s adamant that dogs are the hotel’s USP, but do we have to . . . ?’

  Alice raised a soothing hand. ‘Libby. Take a deep breath. You can’t micromanage everything. Let Bob be the one thing that you let go, all right? People come to hotels to relax. And Bob is the king of relaxation.’

  Libby inhaled and exhaled through her nose, the closest she came to yoga these days. Lorcan reckoned it’d take another five weeks, maybe four and they’d be ready to reopen. Things were moving. Slowly, but they were moving. Bob would be on their website: Gina had insisted. And Gina had been right about everything else.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, pulling her spine straight. ‘Let’s go and spread some basset hound love to Longhampton.’

  Alice went off to her hypnotherapy appointment, and Libby and Bob strolled down the corridor to the old people’s day room. Gina was already deep in conversation with Buzz when they arrived. Buzz wagged his tail when he saw them, and Libby felt touched that he’d recognised her.

  Gina looked pleased to see them too. ‘I know you’re a way off decorating yet, but I’ve made a list of contacts you might find useful,’ she said, reaching into her leather messenger bag. ‘Start with Michelle in Home Sweet Home on the High Street. It’s a really fantastic interiors shop – people come from all over the county. She’ll do you a deal on curtains if you tell her I sent you.’

  ‘Thanks!’ said Libby, and her brain started ticking over for ways she could return the favour on her limited budget. ‘I was thinking about themed breaks again – maybe I could have a page about shopping in Longhampton? Are there enough independent shops to make that work?’ She realised, to her shame, that she hadn’t spent any time in the town since they’d arrived; Gina had told her about an amazing bookshop, a couple of great pubs and now this interiors shop – she had no idea where they were.

  Gina seemed surprised. ‘There are loads of new independent shops . . . You haven’t been down the High Street lately? You don’t know about the new cake shop? How long have you been here?’

  ‘I’ve been so busy.’

  ‘Too busy for cake? Who in their right mind is too busy for cake?’

  Libby shrugged. ‘I know. I need to make time for cake.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we meet up for a coffee one morning and have a wander round together?’ Gina suggested. ‘I’ll introduce you to some people. It’s a small town; you soon get to know who’s who. Local businesses like to support each other – offer to have the Longhampton Traders’ Association Christmas do at the hotel and you’ll have friends for life. Especially if you discount rooms for them to sleep it off.’

  Moments like this made Libby feel the tide was finally lifting her off the sandbanks, flowing underneath her and helping her along; Gina could introduce her to some Longhamptoners, who wouldn’t just know her as ‘Margaret’s daughter-in-law’. People she should have met ages ago, if she hadn’t been so worried about what everyone would be thinking about her and Jason taking over Donald’s hotel.

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’ Gina spotted Libby’s self-administered kick. ‘You can only deal with so much at once. It’s one of life’s cruel tricks that the time you need to go out and meet complete strangers is always when you feel most like hiding under the duvet.’ She touched her arm. ‘Anyway, I’m keeping you back. Doris was telling me she’s got something to show you . . .’

  Doris was in her usual armchair by the window and seemed delighted to see Lord Bob. She even managed a smile for Libby.

  ‘Hello, young man,’ she said, reaching for his velvety ears. Bob lifted his head in expectation of adoration, and/or a biscuit. ‘I’ve got a treat for you. Better distract your owner with this first, though.’ She passed Libby a leather-bound book that had been sitting on the side table. ‘Here, I looked this out for you. Thought you might be interested.’

  ‘Ooh, is this your photo album?’ Libby perched on the chair opposite and opened the old-fashioned album, carefully turning the tissue-paper leaf. Inside, the pages were thick black card, with black-and-white photographs held in by white paper corners. The first one featured a rather familiar staircase. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, delighted. ‘Is this the Swan? When you worked there?’

  Doris slipped Bob a custard cream. ‘It is. Bit different now, I’ll bet?’

  ‘A bit. When were these taken?’ Libby spotted a young Doris – same squirrelly face, but jet-black hair combed into a beehive – standing with a collection of other women in mini-dresses, lined up against the reception desk. The decor looked new: the wooden counter gleamed, and the walls were papered in a patterned print, decorated with horse brasses and a spiky sunburst clock. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, and fat Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling. All the ladies were holding Babycham glasses self-consciously and pointing their left feet forward in crippling stilettos.

  Doris wore flats, and looked cross about it.

  ‘That’d be 1960, so I’d be thirty— I’d be twenty-one again.’ Her eyes creased.

  ‘And this was when the Hannifords were running it?’ There was another photograph of Doris posing by the frosted lounge doors; Libby had always hated their 1960s tackiness in what she thought should be a smart Georgian entrance hall, but actually, seeing them when they were brand new, they looked all right. They even looked modern, in a space-age, mid-century way. A large bas-relief carving of a swan dominated the wall, and some striking globe lampshades hung in the hall. It was like seeing a younger version of the hotel, as well as a younger version of Doris. Libby warmed to it, and the cheerful bell-bottomed guests marching through in the background.

  ‘It’d be just after they did it up. Hence the photographs. Mr and Mrs Hanniford were very proud of it, you see.’ Doris pursed her lips. ‘You’ll have got it all minimalist now, have you? Still ripping everything out?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘Change of plan. I’m not sure minimalism’s really going to work.’

  Though the photo album was of Doris’s family, the hotel appeared again and again, in between the holiday snaps and school uniforms. The lounge for a twenty-first birthday party. The reception area for a baby-faced bride and groom. A cosy back room that must have been the bar, packed with happy faces double-chinned over turtle necks, raising port and lemons while small dogs peeked out from under the chairs. So dogs had been welcome even then, thought Libby. The black-and-white turned to startling colour as the 1970s rolled in, bringing the tangerine prints of the reception wallpaper to eye-watering life, but the solid wood and friendly atmosphere remained.

  ‘It looks like a popular place,’ she observed.

  ‘Oh, it was. It was where everyone went for special occasions in those days,’ said Doris, slipping Bob an
other custard cream. ‘That back room of Gerald Hanniford’s was famous. Before the breathalyser, of course.’

  Ideas were uncurling in Libby’s mind. Maybe this was the feel she should be aiming for? A sort of comfortable 1960s hospitality – with gentler modern colours behind the old-fashioned desk and Margaret’s mad tartan carpet, it would look stylish, not dated. That sunburst clock was in the office, wasn’t it? In one of the bedrooms, against a plain wall, it’d be a statement piece of art. And was that carved swan the thing under the blankets in the cellar that she hadn’t dared look at too closely?

  ‘See, there’s Margaret before she got the rod up her— Before she turned into Lady Bountiful,’ said Doris, as Libby turned another page.

  ‘Oh!’ Libby’s decor plans were stopped in their tracks by the startling sight of Margaret in shoulder pads and a curly perm that spilled over her shoulders like a Jacobean wig. She hadn’t seen many old family photos of the Corcorans; Margaret was a notorious vetter of pictures of herself, and kept only the framed photograph of her and Donald in full civic-hall eveningwear, celebrating their silver wedding at Ferrari’s, alongside her and Jason’s wedding group on the sitting-room mantelpiece.

  This was a Margaret she definitely hadn’t seen before: a nervous, tired, young Margaret. She had two small boys with her, one hanging on to her skirt, the other standing apart, scowling tearfully at the camera. Jason and Luke, both in red shorts and white T-shirts, Jason chunky and blond like his dad, Luke skinny and dark like his mum. Donald stood next to her, next to Luke, smiling into the lens, looking more like an affable family doctor than an hotelier.

  ‘That’d be right before they started their big overhaul job,’ said Doris. ‘Very stressful it was at the time, I can tell you. Redecorating all through, no expense spared. Madam wanted to set her stamp on things, and Mr C would do anything she asked. He was a lovely man. Put up with a lot, if you ask me.’