She paused, suddenly aware she’d gone out quite far. So far she had to ask the next, unwelcome question. ‘Unless . . . You don’t want to give up, do you?’
Jason couldn’t meet her eye, and something shrivelled, high in Libby’s chest. Don’t say it, she begged silently. Please don’t say it.
‘I don’t know what I want anymore,’ he said quietly. ‘But you deserve better.’
‘I think I’ll be the judge of that, thanks.’
He hung his head. ‘I’m not the man you married.’ If Jason didn’t look so stricken, Libby thought, she’d definitely shake him. ‘I don’t recognise myself. I do things I didn’t think I’d do. It’s fucking weird. It’s scary.’
‘I know it’s scary, but that’s life,’ she said. ‘You don’t know who you are until you have to be that person. Listen, I begged Erin for a loan. I negotiated fifty per cent off our original deal with the tile supplier. I even gave your mother a piece of my mind.’
‘What?’ Jason glanced up in surprise.
‘After she pulled her stunt with the estate agent on Friday.’ Libby could feel heat returning to her cheeks. ‘I couldn’t let it go. She’s been impossible since you left, blaming me for everything, making out I drove you away, that all this is my fault. I told her she needed to take a hard look at herself too.’
As Libby heard her own words, she cringed with remorse. She’d actually lashed out at a grieving woman, still floundering without the man who’d been her whole life? I’m going to have to apologise, she thought. I really am. But, at the same time, observed a voice in her head, what she’d said to Margaret was true, and maybe it was time to start being honest. How could this stubborn family heal otherwise? It was like the damp and the cracks in the hotel bedrooms – you could only fix the walls once the paper was stripped back. And Libby wanted the Corcorans to mend their cracks; she knew Luke did too, and Margaret, deep down.
‘Oh my God.’ Jason looked stunned. ‘And what did Mum say?’
‘That I had no right to talk to her like that, that I’d ruined her hotel.’ Libby bit her lip. ‘I’m going to say sorry, obviously. But I did mean it.’
She wasn’t sure if Jason was going to take Margaret’s side, but he didn’t say anything. He sank his head into his hands.
‘I feel like I’ve let her down too.’ His voice was muffled. ‘And Dad.’
His voice caught, cracked, as he said, ‘Dad’, and Libby ached to hold him.
‘You’re only letting them down now by running away,’ she said. ‘So you’re human: you make mistakes. Come back. Make things better. It’s what your dad would have wanted you to do. And I need you. We need you, Jason.’
‘Do you? Really? You’ve done all the hard work in that place. I can’t even get the books right. Luke’s given you more help than I can. I’ve only made more problems.’
Libby closed her eyes, and tried to keep her voice level and calm. ‘Shall I tell you what I need?’ she asked. ‘I just need a man who does his best. A man who is who he says he is. A man who wants to share a life with me. I’m not asking for more than that. You are all those things. Jason, I know this isn’t just about the money – and anyway, I promised to stick it out for richer or poorer, remember? We can sort all this out, together. But I need to know where I am with you.’
He left a long pause. ‘I don’t know where I am with me. I mean, who am I? If everything I thought about myself turned out to be bollocks?’
‘Oh, Jason, I can’t answer that question for you,’ she said, finally exhausted. ‘You’ve got to work that bit out for yourself.’
He didn’t reply, and his shoulders rounded.
I could stay another three hours and tell him how much I love him, how much I believe in him, thought Libby miserably. But it’s not going to make a shred of difference. He’s somewhere else. There’s nothing for me to do now but leave.
She felt a crack of misery deep in her heart, and pushed her chair back from the table. ‘I’ve got some clothes for you in the car. In case you needed them. Suits and things.’
‘Are you going?’ He looked devastated. ‘Don’t go yet.’
‘I don’t want to go.’ Libby gazed at his stubbly, tired face. ‘But I’ve got so much to do, to get things ready for reopening.’ And who am I doing it for? she wondered. Him? His mother? Me? The bank?
She’d been so fixated on finishing the renovations, then on Tara’s visit that she hadn’t thought beyond those deadlines. But now the reality of life running the Swan, alone, rolled out in front of her. The joy had rubbed off, leaving only the dull morning-to-night responsibility rising up in a series of alarm clocks, fried eggs, and accounts. A hard, hard job, not an optimistic joint project. And what did she want? For the first time Libby wondered whether Margaret was right to sell. It wasn’t Margaret and Donald’s hotel anymore. Maybe it wasn’t going to be her and Jason’s hotel either.
If they did sell it, split what money was left over, where would she go then, to start again alone?
Dread pooled in the pit of Libby’s stomach, and she had an unexpected lightning flash of how Alice must have felt when her memory was blank. Blindfolded, but forced to move forward into a silent, formless future. Without Jason.
‘Please,’ said Jason.
Libby sat down again, more out of shock at the intense sadness that had surged through her, and when he smiled, relieved, her heart twisted.
‘We’re having a garden party to relaunch the new rooms,’ she said. ‘Next weekend. Surely that’s enough time to get your head straight? You always worked best to a tight deadline.’
Jason gazed at her and pressed his lips together. He didn’t reply, but he didn’t say no.
‘This is our future, Jason. Not just yours. Mine too. If you love me, you’ll at least give that some consideration.’ One last desperate attempt. Libby forced herself to smile. ‘Can I tell Margaret you’ll be back for the party?’
He took a deep breath, and she searched his face for the man she’d fallen for across the train carriage. The haybale sunshine of his self-confidence glowing among the drab, coffee-breathed suits. The smooth skin she’d fantasised about reaching out and touching. The smile.
‘You know I love you, Libby,’ he said, but it didn’t answer her question.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When Libby got back to the hotel at five o’clock on Sunday afternoon, the reception area was deserted. Although it looked beautiful now the green tartan carpet wasn’t competing with mad red wallpaper, and the freshly scrubbed stone fireplace in the hall hinted at wintry cosiness to come, she couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm she knew it deserved.
All Libby could think of was whether she and Jason would be here by Christmas, to see a fire crackling in the hearth. She honestly didn’t know what he was going to do. That was what hurt the most: seeing the stranger looking back at her, over that pub table, not knowing what he was thinking, not being able to reach him to help.
Libby stared at her hazy reflection in the deep, polished reception desk and ached. She let herself ache. She no longer had the words to pinpoint how she felt when sadness made her whole body feel like lead.
Keep moving, keep moving, she told herself, pushing on through to the back office. There was the ad to put in the local paper in the morning for the open day next weekend; there were emails to send, website updates to write, the beautiful photographs taken by Gina’s husband, Nick, to ping off left, right and centre, so everyone could see what a transformation they’d wrought on the hotel.
She also had to apologise to Margaret.
Libby wasn’t particularly looking forward to that, but she knew she had to do it. She’d been mean. That wasn’t who she was, no matter what rocks life was throwing in her path.
Her eye fell on Jason’s cashmere jumper. One she’d bought him for Christmas a few years back, when he’d taken up golf for about three week
s. Libby picked it up off the floor, remembering how they’d laughed about the ridiculousness of the club, how he’d packed it in by February. Since no one was around, she sank onto a chair and swung her feet up onto the desk, pressing her nose into the soft fabric. She inhaled Jason’s familiar smell with a hungry gulp and it sent her back into their airy sitting room, into their old bed, into a world of memories she couldn’t bear to lose.
Somewhere in the distance, Libby heard the office door push open over the pile carpet and didn’t bother to turn round; it sounded exactly like Lord Bob on one of his stealth biscuit raids. Or as stealth as a five-stone basset hound could be.
‘Bob, I’m not in the mood,’ mumbled Libby. ‘Go and bother Margaret if you’re looking for biscuits.’
There was a very un-bassety cough and Libby jerked to attention, nearly falling off the chair.
‘Elizabeth. Is this a good time to have a word?’ It was Margaret, her chin raised in a determined expression Libby had never seen until she’d moved in, but now knew all too well.
Oh God, she thought. It’s either going to be my marching orders or one of those non-apology apologies she’s so good at. Or maybe Jason’s called her.
‘Of course it’s a good time – come in,’ she said, feeling awkward about Margaret’s asking to come into her own office.
Margaret stepped inside and sat down on the same chair Luke had occupied a few days ago; she and Luke perched on the edge in the same anxious way. Libby tried not to think about what Luke had told her, but it was impossible not to search for traces of that story in her face. Young, pretty, feisty Margaret seemed a wholly different person to the uptight, faded and lonely Margaret in front of her. But then this Margaret seemed a very different person to the plump-cheeked, generous, kindly fusspot who’d welcomed her every Christmas since she’d known Jason. She’d gone too.
Libby sprang to her feet. ‘Would you like some coffee? I’m just going through the plans for—’
Margaret raised a hand as if she just wanted to get it over with. ‘I want to apologise for interrupting your interview on Friday,’ she said. ‘It was . . . it was insensitive of me. I’m sorry. I should have been more considerate of the situation. I should be thanking you for all the effort you put into getting the hotel ready.’
The apology was there. Only a tightness in her face undermined it.
‘Alice is really the one you should be thanking,’ said Libby. ‘She walked Tara round town telling her what an amazing family business it was. I mean, still is. By the time she left, she’d more or less persuaded Tara how much we all love this place.’
Margaret stared hard at something on the desk. Libby wondered, wearily, if it was the absence of the outmoded filing cards that had sat there for twenty years, doing nothing other than acting as a place to put a cup of tea.
‘So did you come to a decision? About selling?’ she asked.
‘As you say, it’s not my decision to make, is it?’ There was a martyrdom in Margaret’s voice that reminded Libby of Jason’s wallowing indulgence and it stretched her already flagging sympathy. ‘I don’t have a role here anymore.’
‘Margaret, that’s not true . . .’
She looked at Libby and they both knew it was. Libby struggled to find the right way to say, Stop punishing us. Let me help you, but she was tired and, if she was honest, hurt by the lack of appreciation. She wanted to apologise but wasn’t sure, now, there was anything she could say that wouldn’t be taken the wrong way.
They stared at each other, beneath the baleful glare of the lone, doomed stag over the mantelpiece.
‘So . . . I’ve said what I came to say. I’ll leave you to it. You probably have lots to be getting on with.’ Margaret got up, but as she went to leave, she laid her hand unconsciously on the back of the chair by the door that Donald had always thrown his tweed jacket over when he came in; the automatic tenderness of the gesture pierced Libby’s heart.
How many times had Margaret sat in the office with Donald, one either side of the partners’ desk, presiding over their empire of daily routines? The guests came and went, but they opened and closed each day together, thousands of morning coffees, thousands of Donald’s perfect breakfasts, thousands of goodnight kisses. And now the routines were changing, Donald had gone and Margaret was left alone in a hotel that was no longer hers. Missing his smell, his touch, his tweed jacket thrown on that chair. A ghost in her own life.
And Jason was making a fuss about losing his job at thirty-five.
‘Margaret,’ she called out, and when she turned round, Libby saw her pale blue eyes were shining with tears. ‘Margaret, don’t go.’ She sprang to her feet and crossed the office in two paces, holding out her arms to her.
Margaret stood stock still for a moment, too proud to submit straightaway, and then Libby gave her no choice, hugging her mother-in-law to her chest not only to comfort her, but for the comfort she needed herself. They were both lost, both bewildered by grief for familiarities that had vanished in the space of a breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as Margaret’s body shook with a silent sob. She was so much smaller than Libby remembered, her bones sharp and fragile through the wool of her cardigan. The last year had worn her down, and Libby felt ashamed that she hadn’t made more time to understand properly, that she’d let her own worries and panic blind her to how unhappy Margaret was. How much smaller she was getting under the layers of drab clothing, how the colour had drained from her.
And then slowly Margaret’s arms went around Libby, her head resting on Libby’s shoulder as she hugged her and swayed.
They stood holding each other in the silence of the office, broken only by the ticking of the longcase clock in the corner, and Libby felt tired, and young, and old, all at the same time. But she didn’t feel as alone as she had when she’d walked in, half an hour ago.
‘I’m so sorry, Elizabeth,’ said Margaret, eventually. ‘I’ve been no help to you whatsoever. Silly old woman, finding fault with everything.’
‘No, we came to help you,’ said Libby. ‘That was the idea.’ She held Margaret at arm’s length, her tear-stained face rueful. ‘And we didn’t really help at all, did we? Not in any way that you actually needed. We made things worse. I’m sorry.’
Margaret sighed and sat down, pulling a small white handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘You did what you thought was best. You couldn’t give me my old life back.’
‘We tried. Please believe that, Margaret. No matter how cack-handedly we went about it, we honestly did try. We just didn’t . . . couldn’t think beyond the practicalities. We lost sight of what the hotel meant to you.’
‘Well, you had your own problems to worry about.’ She stared at the desk and wiped her eyes. ‘I didn’t realise until you told me what the situation was with Jason’s job. I don’t know if I’d have let you invest so heavily in the hotel if I’d known that.’
‘It was what we wanted to do. It’s what we still want to do.’
Margaret didn’t answer and Libby wondered if she really did understand what Jason had done. It wasn’t her place to tell Margaret about the lies he’d told. But then would she believe her if she did roll them out? Libby was almost beyond caring herself now – it was what he did next that was important.
‘I’m so sorry about Donald,’ said Libby quietly. ‘I’ve often wished he was here, to ask his advice, or just to hear him tell me something that’s bothering me doesn’t really matter. I can’t imagine how much you must miss him.’
Margaret was staring, half smiling, half sad, at the filing cabinet, as if Sunday afternoons of years past were being projected onto it like ciné film. ‘It’s funny, I can manage the day-to-day things on my own, I always did,’ she said. ‘But I miss having someone to chat to in the garden. Having someone notice when I’ve had my hair done.’ She glanced at Libby. ‘Having someone to tell me when I’m being a ridiculous old trout
. Like this weekend.’
‘You’re not being . . .’
Margaret fixed her with a more familiar beady look. ‘Donald would have taken me to one side and asked me what I was really uptight about. What I was pretending not to care about while I was making a fuss about silly things like estate agents.’
‘And what’s that?’ Libby readied herself to be told that she needed to get on with grandchildren, or that she should have been supportive of Jason’s financial woes.
The melancholy in Margaret’s answer took her by surprise. ‘When I see you behind that reception desk, it feels like I was never there. You’ve taken to it so naturally, and you’re making this hotel your own – which is only fair, since you two have paid for it and got it up and running again. No, really, let me finish . . . But where does that leave me? I’m not a wife anymore. I’m not a mother, now the boys are grown up. I thought I might be a grandmother – that’d give me something to do – but . . . that hasn’t happened.’ She looked bereft. ‘And now I realise that’s partly because Donald and I got this place into such straits that you and Jason have to work night and day to pick up the pieces.’
‘Well, I suppose you did it with two small children . . .’ Libby began.
Margaret stopped her. ‘I was very tired, Elizabeth. If I’m honest. I was very, very tired. And I had no choice. You do.’
There was a lot of Jason’s self-laceration in what she’d said, but Libby detected a strength in Margaret – a desire to find her identity again, even in the middle of her bewilderment at what was no longer there.
‘Margaret, you’ll always be a part of this hotel, and you haven’t stopped being any of those other things,’ Libby pointed out. ‘You’re still a wife – thirty-five years of marriage doesn’t just cease to have happened because Donald’s gone.’
‘That’s very sweet of you to say,’ said Margaret.
‘But it doesn’t. He’s everywhere in here. The carpet in reception, for a start. Whenever I see that Black Watch tartan, I think of him.’