One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

  Libby had no idea if there were lovely walks around Longhampton – she’d only been on the one that led down to the town, round the back of the hotel – but it was in the countryside and wasn’t that the whole point of the country? Open spaces where you could get cold and wet, and then come inside to recover over a glass of wine.

  ‘Oh, you know, Libby, I so envy you,’ Erin sighed. ‘I was telling Pete about it – we’re thinking about following your lead and doing something similar.’

  That brought Libby to a guilty stop. ‘Really?’

  ‘What you’re doing – it’s such a dream. Getting out of the city, building your business . . . Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been looking at fixer-upper hotels in upstate New York. It’s my new secret Pinterest board.’

  ‘God, Erin, why would you do that?’ asked Libby. ‘Pete’s just been promoted!’

  Erin’s husband, Pete, ran a graphic design agency; in comparison to the other couples they knew – most of whom were bankers – the Douglases were fairly normal, in that they only went on two foreign holidays a year, plus Easter skiing, and Pete was from Wolverhampton.

  ‘I know, but I barely see him these days. By the time he gets in from work, the Beans are in bed and I’m shattered . . . Sure we go on some nice vacations, but it’s the time you spend together that’s precious. You and Jason are right to put your relationship first. I love that he resigned the big-city job to build this hotel with you and his mom. That’s so him! Well, it’s so you too.’

  Libby tried to make her face smile so Erin couldn’t tell her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. ‘Yeah!’

  Erin didn’t know about Jason’s ‘resignation’ from his firm, or what he’d done to give his bosses no choice in the matter. She didn’t know that the money from the sale of beautiful 24 St Mary’s Road had first gone to clear some stomach-turning debts, then Margaret’s mortgage arrears. And only then were they able to put what was left into the renovation account.

  Jason and Libby had a great relationship, yes, but Erin definitely didn’t know about the rows that had made Libby say things she was horrified to hear coming out of her own mouth. The things sweet-natured, everyone’s-favourite-husband Jason had spat back at her still made Libby’s skin crawl in the middle of the night. Those words had been said in anger, and they’d both cried and apologised, but it had spoiled the clean, fresh happiness of their relationship, the simple ease of it up until then. A tiny dark part of Libby had been almost relieved when disaster crashed into their life; no one, she felt, deserved to be as unequivocally happy as they’d been. Could you be too lucky? Had they had all their breaks upfront, in those rushing, love-filled early years, when money and breaks flowed in and flowed out like water, and London felt like living in a film, a collage of late-night champagne and black cabs and Sunday strolls?

  Libby stared at the crack in the wall. She hated not being completely honest with Erin, but no one knew the whole truth. Not Margaret, not her parents (God almighty, definitely not her parents), not her sister. Just her and Jason. That was part of their punishment, dealing with it, in exile from everything they’d known.

  Well, everything she’d known. This was Jason’s home.

  ‘But the main question is,’ Erin went on, still excited, ‘when can we come stay? I’ve told Pete we need a weekend in Longhampton as soon as possible. And when I get back, I’m going on a big PR mission for you! You are going to be turning guests away once I’m done telling everyone!’ she finished, in the cartoon American accent she always put on when she was taking the mickey out of herself.

  ‘Course,’ said Libby weakly. ‘We’re just . . . When we’ve finished a couple more rooms?’

  ‘Just tell me when I can pack my party dress!’ she said. ‘Oh my God, that reminds me – did you see the photos from Rebecca’s birthday party for Otis on Instagram?’

  Libby had to bite her lip hard: she had. She couldn’t stop tormenting herself with late-night viewing of her old friends’ social media pages, ‘liking’ things while wondering if they even noticed she wasn’t there.

  ‘What was that, hon?’

  Libby realised she’d let a moan slip out. ‘Sorry, nothing. Um, just talking to the dog.’

  ‘You’ve got a dog? That is so cool! Every country hotel needs a dog. What kind is it?’

  On cue, Lord Bob came slinking out of a bedroom he shouldn’t have been in, and when he saw Libby glowering at him, his double take made his ginger eyebrows shoot up into the folds around his ears.

  ‘A basset hound,’ she said, still giving Lord Bob the stink eye. She refused to fall for that ‘love me’ expression he pulled on everyone. Once she gave in to him, her battle against bedroom dog hair would be lost. It was her line in the sand. ‘My mother-in-law’s. He’s a liability.’

  ‘Aw! I love basset hounds!’

  ‘You wouldn’t love this one,’ said Libby darkly, as Lord Bob gave her one last glance, then waddled towards the stairs and airily started to descend. His white-tipped tail swung gradually out of sight. ‘He’s spoiled rotten, and he weighs about five stone, so you can’t argue with him. He pretends to be asleep until you open a bag of crisps in another room and suddenly he’s there. And he smells. I spend half my life hoovering up dog hair, and the other half chasing him with the Febreze.’

  Erin laughed, as if Libby were joking. ‘Hey, I bet he’s no less messy than my kids, and the day care’s cheaper, right? But listen, tell me about your poor mother-in-law. It’s been what, six months now? How’s she getting—’ There was the sound of distant wailing in the background, one child, then two. Erin groaned. ‘Tobias! Tobias! I told you what would happen, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, Libby, I have to go. There’s been an incident.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Libby tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She’d just started to relax into the conversation and now it felt as if a door was closing, leaving her on her own somewhere very quiet.

  ‘I’ll ring you again,’ Erin promised. ‘Tobias, I am not joking, mister . . . There’s so much we need to catch up on. Like, have you joined a new book group?’

  ‘Ha! No! Apparently I need to go for an interview for that, and not even Margaret can—’ Libby started, but Erin was going.

  ‘I’ll text you,’ she was saying. ‘We’ll fix a time for a proper chat and— Tobias! Sorry. Bye, Libby!’

  And she was gone.

  Libby realised she hadn’t told her about the accident, or the stranger who’d been heading for the hotel.

  Typical, she thought, probing the crack with a cross fingertip. Of all the things she could have told Erin about, it was Lord bloody Bob who got most of the airtime.

  Erin’s phone call – and her wallpaper scraper breaking – meant Libby spent the rest of the afternoon in the hotel office, trying to plan a timetable that would get them on track for a journalistic visit and a late-summer relaunch.

  Doing the decorating themselves was cheap and surprisingly enjoyable, but if they carried on at this rate, it’d be well into the following year before they finished. Libby twirled the pen round her fingers as she stared at the calendar on her laptop. That clearly wasn’t going to work. And she couldn’t get that crack out of her head. The hotel needed sorting out properly. Guests noticed things like cracks and creaks. Then they wrote snotty reviews on TripAdvisor about them.

  ‘Hey, babe, what are you up to?’

  Jason swung into the office with a couple of B&Q bags and a copy of the evening paper. He’d gone out at lunchtime ‘to look at some new doors’ and hadn’t been back.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Libby frowned, ready to nag him about vanishing, but then he reached theatrically into one of the B&Q carriers and dropped a twisted paper bag from the town bakery in front of her. An Eccles cake. Her new favourite.

  ‘I never stop thinking about you,’ Jason informed her solemnly. ‘Even in the sandpaper aisle. What have y
ou been doing while I’ve been out?’

  Before she could speak, he came round to the desk, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling the side of her neck, and Libby melted inside, as much at the small thoughtfulness of the cake as the instinctive way Jason knew just where to kiss her. He was trying, she told herself. And he loved her whether she ate carbs or not, unlike Rebecca Hamilton’s husband.

  ‘I’m making plans,’ she said. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘B&Q for more DIY stuff. And town.’ He pulled a chunk off her Eccles cake and ate it over her shoulder. ‘Amazing how many of the old shops are still there. And there are some good new ones. Two delis! Who’d have thought it? If you’d told me Longhampton would have stuffed olives when I were a lad, I’d have laughed. And asked who Olive was.’

  ‘Erin phoned,’ said Libby. ‘She’s got us a brilliant lead for some PR, but we’re going to have to get real about the redecoration timetable. Oi!’ She slapped his hand away as he went for more cake. ‘Can we talk about it tonight? With your mother? I think we’re going to have to bite the bullet and spend some money on proper decorators.’

  Jason broke off a large chunk of pastry and popped it in her mouth at the same time as he said, ‘Can we do it tomorrow? I’m out tonight.’

  ‘What?’ spluttered Libby, through the pastry. ‘You’re supposed to be on reception tonight. It’s on the rota! The one we promised we’d stick to?’

  Jason pulled his ‘forgive me’ expression, the one that made his blue eyes appealing and boyish. He didn’t look thirty-five generally. His ‘forgive me’ expression brought him down to about ten. ‘Sorry, I forgot. Chopper’s asked me to the pub for a beer.’

  ‘Chopper?’

  ‘Mike Prosser.’ He did a sort of mime that was evidently supposed to jog her memory. ‘You know Chopper. Mike! The Chopper!’

  ‘The only Mike I know is Mike Adams,’ said Libby. ‘Our dentist. He was more . . . the Gummer.’

  ‘Ha!’ Jason laughed and pointed at her. ‘Funny girl. Didn’t you ever meet Chopper? You must have. He’s a legend.’

  ‘I have never met Chopper. It sounds like I’d have remembered.’

  ‘Oh, well, maybe you didn’t. We played rugby together. Year above me at school, first guy I knew who could down a pint in one. His dad had a farm near Hartley, and we used to go there to—’

  ‘Chop wood?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Jason grinned with delight. ‘Anyway, I saw him in town this afternoon. Invited me out for a drink – couldn’t really say no.’

  Except you could. Libby’s chest tightened and she had to concentrate not to let the sensation spread. What is this feeling telling me? she asked herself, as their counsellor used to say. Or had said, in the two sessions they’d managed to go to before the house was sold and they had to leave.

  I’m annoyed Jason’s already bending our agreement about sharing jobs?

  I’m jealous that he’s got friends here and all mine are in London?

  Or is it that Chopper is going to be some sort of reckless rugby idiot who’ll end up getting Jason pissed and then he’ll be useless for most of tomorrow, as well as out of action tonight? When I’d hoped I’d be watching him steam wallpaper with me?

  Libby stared at her hands on the keyboard of her laptop. Her nail varnish was chipped from the wallpaper stripping, and she hadn’t had time to redo it. A flake of tangerine paint had wedged itself under the diamond of her engagement ring, an Edwardian one from an antique shop in Brighton that still made her think of a bedraggled Jason proposing in the rain on the London Eye, because he’d lent her his coat when the heavens opened. It wasn’t a huge diamond. It predated his promotions. She’d never wanted to change it, despite pressure from her new friends to upgrade.

  ‘Aw, Libs, you’re not mad, are you?’ He hugged her. ‘Don’t be mad. I won’t be late back. It’s just a pint – he’s a lawyer now, probably a good guy to know.’

  With an effort, she reshuffled the thoughts in her head. Maybe Chopper had a wife. Maybe Mrs Chopper could be someone she could have coffee with. Someone who could tell her where to get her hair cut round here, or which garage wouldn’t rip you off because you had an offcomer’s accent.

  ‘Why don’t I come too?’ she said brightly, spinning round in her chair. ‘Just for half an hour or so, say hello. I’d like to meet your old friends. Why don’t we book a table somewhere nice and do some research for the hotel information packs?’

  ‘Ah.’ Jason’s expression changed. ‘Thing is, I’m going to join in with the training session, then go on to the pub after.’

  ‘What training session?’

  ‘At the club,’ he said, too casually. ‘They’re a couple of men short for next season. Mike wondered if I fancied making up the numbers in the training squad. See how I get on.’

  She widened her eyes in disbelief. ‘What for? Not the rugby team?’

  ‘No, the flower-arranging team. Ha, ha! Of course the rugby team.’

  ‘But you haven’t played rugby since . . .’ Libby tried to remember. ‘Since before we got married. Have you forgotten how that went? You swore you’d never play again after you got that black eye before my sister’s wedding.’

  Jason made a dismissive gesture. ‘There hasn’t been anywhere for me to play in London. Anyway, it’s different when you’re playing with your mates.’

  ‘But that was fifteen years ago, Jase. How much wallpaper stripping are you going to be able to do with a crocked back?’

  ‘It’s not like I’ve been sitting around.’ Jason looked affronted. ‘I’m not unfit, Libby. I did that 10k.’

  Libby bit down on what nearly came out of her mouth. The 10k had nearly killed Jason, on his City diet of strong coffee, booze, late nights and stress. He’d done it with the most spectacular hangover known to man and only sheer bloody-mindedness – and the sponsorship money, and the competitive non-training in the office – had got him over the finishing line. One of the things she loved about Jason was his refusal to go back on a promise, but not when the personal costs were that high.

  ‘What? You’ve got that look on your face, Libby.’

  He was staring at her in a way he never had in London, not even when they were thrashing things out after he was sacked. Defensively. Libby looked straight back, and felt the row building. She hated how it came out of nothing. That downward spiral that they could never get off these days once they started. It always led to the door of a very bad place, and although they never went through the door and into the heart of what they were thinking, they got close enough to see it. The silence was worse than the row. It told them both they were scared of what was on the other side.

  ‘So you’re saying that after a hard day’s work, I can’t even go out for one beer,’ he began, with a martyred expression that looked very Margaret-ish to Libby, but she didn’t have the energy for a big argument. She ached in places she didn’t know existed.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, raising her hands, ‘but for God’s sake, don’t break anything.’

  ‘Sure, not until the rooms are all finished,’ he said. ‘Ma’am.’

  Libby wasn’t sure how much he was joking. She got up and walked to the window to open it, not because it was particularly hot but because she needed to shake off the mood in herself.

  ‘What? It smells of dog in here,’ she said, when he looked questioningly at her.

  Jason folded his arms. ‘What’s up? Come on.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone to go for a drink with, Jason. And I’m knackered.’ Libby tried to keep her voice level, but now the euphoria of Erin’s call had worn off, and the reality of what they had to do was sinking in, she felt limp. Minimal sleep, cleaning, scrubbing and smiling all day, struggling with figures, soaking up Margaret’s despair: it was taking every ounce of energy she had. ‘How am I going to meet people when I’m working here and everyone our age is either too
busy for new friends or on the school run? It’s not as if there’s any chance of me joining that anytime soon, is there?’ Her voice cracked at the end. She hadn’t meant to go that far.

  The surliness melted from Jason’s face. ‘Oh, Lib.’ He stepped closer to her, holding out his arms with an apologetic murmur. ‘Come here, babe.’

  Libby resisted for a moment, then let him hug her, rocking her from side to side. His touch always made her feel better, his smell, his solid warmth.

  ‘I’m sorry if you feel like that,’ he said softly. ‘You just seem to cope so well with everything.’

  She didn’t say anything. She didn’t trust herself.

  ‘How about I suggest a get-together?’ he went on, his breath in her hair. ‘I’m not sure what Chopper’s situation is at home, though. He got married to Steff Taylor while I was at uni, but I don’t know if they’re still together. I didn’t like to say, “How about dinner with my lovely wife?” if he hasn’t got one. You know what I mean? You’ve got to tread carefully till you know what’s what.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ he went on. ‘Tonight. Test the waters. Then maybe set something up for next week?’

  ‘I need to make friends too, Jase,’ said Libby. ‘It’s easy for you – you’ve already got friends here. I miss . . . being a friend.’

  ‘I know. I want you to be happy. I do.’

  They looked at each other. If it is just us, Libby told herself fiercely, it’d be fine. Me and him. We’ve known each other a long time, we’re not like those whirlwind couples who marry and have two kids in the space of a year and wake up one morning and realise there’s a complete stranger lying next to them.

  But if he turned back into a man she didn’t know, a man he’d been before . . .

  ‘We’ll talk when I get back,’ he said. ‘Promise.’

  And then he kissed her forehead and went off to find his gym kit. Whistling.

  Libby didn’t remember Jason ever whistling in London.