by Lucy Dillon
‘I don’t know if I can do that,’ she said, and this time her voice cracked.
‘Oh, you can,’ said Libby. ‘They’re not Mensa questions.’ She started flipping through the pages. ‘I’ll do it with you. I love being told what personality I’ve got. They never say, “Oh dear, you’re a psychopath.” It’s always variations on nice.’
Pippa settled back into the pillows. There was something restful about Libby’s good-natured bossiness.
‘First question. “What’s your ultimate must-have in a relationship? Is it (a) romance, (b) trust, (c) humour or (d) passion?”’
‘Shouldn’t all four of those be must-haves?’
‘Hmmm. Yes, probably. But which is the most important for you? And don’t think too much about it. I don’t think whoever wrote this did.’
Pippa weighed the options up in her mind. ‘I’d say . . . trust. I think you have to know exactly who you’re with. You have to trust them in order to be yourself.’
‘Oh, I like that.’ Libby circled it. ‘OK, I’m going for . . . romance. If you don’t have that, then you might as well just have a flatmate.’
‘How did you meet your husband? Was that romantic?’
Libby smiled and rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, it was, actually. We used to get the same train into London every day for work, and I’d noticed Jason, and Jason had noticed me, but you know what it’s like – we never said anything. I fancied him so much I was sure he could feel it across the carriage. Then one day, he got on at a different door, so we were squeezed up together. The train stopped suddenly and he spilled his coffee all over himself – I mopped him up with my brand-new scarf before it could stain his suit.’ Pippa noticed Libby’s cheeks were flushing as she spoke, and a nostalgic smile was lifting the corners of her wide mouth, as if she couldn’t think about it without being there again. ‘Ruined my scarf, obviously. He insisted on taking it away with him to have it cleaned, and later sent me a new one with some flowers . . . And it sort of went from there.’
She had gone very pink and young-looking. Rosy, like a milkmaid.
‘That’s very sweet,’ said Pippa, but her brain was whirring as it always did now when someone fed it new information.
What did that say about them? Libby was spontaneous? Jason was clumsy? They were both quite shy? It wouldn’t matter what happened in the future, that memory would always link them, a gold loop round that shared moment, joining their lives together from that point. And now she was in that memory too. That was what linked everyone together. Memories. Memories of conversations.
Pippa ached. Other people now had memories of her, when she didn’t. She’d been cut loose, existing in their minds, not her own. ‘How long have you been together?’ she asked quickly, to stop herself thinking anymore.
‘Nine years. Five-year wedding anniversary coming up!’ Libby looked as if she was going to say something else, then stopped, blushing. ‘Enough about me. Question two! “Would your ideal hero live in (a) a castle, (b) a Manhattan apartment, (c) a Georgian farmhouse or (d) a Parisian garret?” Don’t think too hard.’
‘Georgian farmhouse.’
Libby raised her eyebrow. ‘Are you trying to pick Mr Darcy here?’
‘No, I just don’t see myself in a Manhattan penthouse or a French attic. Or a castle.’ So that ruled out certain lifestyle choices, she reasoned to herself. I’m a traditionalist. I’m not a traveller.
‘I’m going to go for the farmhouse too.’ Libby circled the answer, neatly completing an ‘O’ round the letter. ‘There’s something very romantic about fireplaces, men warming their breeches by them. And I am trying to choose Mr Darcy, by the way.’
‘He’s your ideal man?’
‘Yup. I like a man of quality, taking charge, being honourable. I kept making Jason wear big white shirts to fancy-dress parties until he got the hint. Refuses to learn to ride, though, sadly.’
They carried on going through the questions. Pippa felt she was learning more about Libby than she was about herself: Libby happily showered details of her life, of Jason, what she liked and didn’t, and Pippa realised she envied her for knowing the answers, for having those memories to throw around.
Eventually, Libby concluded the final question and started to tot up the scores. She did, as she predicted, get Mr Darcy, and looked pleased to have her personality confirmed.
‘And your ideal hero is . . .’ Libby turned to the other page. ‘Jack Dawson from Titanic. You want someone you can laugh with as well as fall in love with. Someone loyal and faithful you can rely on, but with a sense of fun.’
‘But what does that say about me?’
Libby considered. ‘It says you’re the sort of person who’s independent but likes having an equal partner. You’re not easily pushed over. And presumably if the opportunity arises, you’re happy to get your kit off and be painted like one of those French girls.’
‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘Sounds ideal.’
‘So now we know who’s coming to get you,’ said Libby, with an encouraging smile. ‘We just have to wait for him to turn up.’
‘How do you know someone’s coming?’ Pippa asked.
‘I’m sure there’s someone’s looking for you right now,’ said Libby, and her sunny face reflected her certainty. ‘I just am. And if there isn’t, there will be soon.’
Pippa smiled back, but something flickered inside that wasn’t quite as sunny; a few dark moths fluttered among the pale butterflies of anticipation.
Chapter Six
Erin’s journalist friend, Katie, phoned on Wednesday morning, enthused at length about the ‘charming’ hotel and the romantic adventure Erin had described to her, and by the time the call had ended, Libby was buzzing with excitement and had agreed that Tara, the freelancer, should come to stay at the beginning of September.
Which was four months away. Sixteen weeks.
Or, as she put it to Jason, ‘Sixteen weeks!’
Jason’s response was succinct. First he said, ‘You are absolutely amazing, you networking genius!’ and kissed her so hard they both ignored the ringing of the reception phone for two lots of rings.
Then he said, ‘We need to call Marek. Time to get the professionals on the case.’
Even though she’d suggested getting decorators in, Libby couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed, hearing it from Jason. ‘Do we? I told Katie what a romantic experience it was, that night we stayed up till three, getting the paper off and listening to talk radio.’
Describing their DIY therapy to Katie had reminded her what fun it had been. How much they’d laughed, what a sense of achievement she’d felt seeing the room come back to life. And, added a quiet voice, they were going to be so busy from now on, when would they get those hours to themselves? Was every evening going to be spent ‘keeping Margaret company’, watching Poirot reruns and nodding when she told them how Donald had read every single Agatha Christie novel?
Jason had pulled her close. ‘It was a romantic experience,’ he said, practically, kissing the tip of her nose. ‘We had it, and we can treasure it, and we can talk to this journalist about it, and if you want to bond with the builders finishing it off, that’s fine with me. Just don’t ask me to scrape off any more of this wallpaper. It’s only a matter of time before I have someone’s eye out with something.’
A smile forced its way through Libby’s disappointment.
‘Be realistic. We’re not really cut out for DIY, are we?’ he went on. ‘Don’t disagree with me. I saw you reading the instructions on the paint can. It’s paint. There’s only so much it can do.’
‘But can we afford Marek?’ Marek was the best, she knew that, but he was expensive. Libby worried about money. She couldn’t help it. ‘Shouldn’t we ask about local firms?’
Jason had looked very serious. ‘I think what you should be saying at this stage is, “Can we afford n
ot to get Marek in?”’
And with that her resistance crumbled. Already Libby could see the smooth, professionally improved version of the hotel appearing around her and a weight lifted from her shoulders. The relief surprised her.
Jason kissed her again, and before she’d had time to say, ‘Don’t you remember how much Marek cost in the end?’ Jason was dialling his number.
Libby didn’t know what Jason had said, or how much he’d promised to pay, but somehow the following day, just before lunch, a familiar black van crunched onto their gravel drive.
Margaret had just escorted Bob on his walk and Libby was relieved she wasn’t going to be around for the builder’s visit – Marek had quite a pragmatic way of talking about houses that she knew would have Margaret springing to the defence of her Highland scenes and rag-rolled office. He’d been pretty brutal about her kitchen, and she hadn’t even liked it that much herself.
Libby hurried over to the residents’ lounge, where Jason was up a stepladder changing the dusty light bulbs in the big chandelier; it was down to five bulbs now, which flattered the cobwebs but wasn’t ideal for reading.
‘Marek’s here,’ she said. ‘Have you done the list?’
‘What list?’ Jason started to come down and Libby steadied the wobbly steps.
‘You said you were going to make a list of things we need doing. So he quotes on everything.’
‘Ah, no, sorry. Didn’t get round to it – I was sorting out Mum’s phone.’ Jason pushed his hair out of his face. ‘Do we need a list? Marek knows what he’s looking at.’
‘Did you have time to work out the new budget?’ Libby gave Jason a calm look that hid a flicker of inner nerves. This was where she had to show she trusted him. Fresh start. Total honesty. No loaded questions.
‘Yes,’ said Jason, equally calmly. ‘I worked out a budget.’
‘With new en suites included?’
‘With new en suites.’
They looked at each other, and Libby asked the question she’d have preferred not to ask, but knew she had to. ‘And we definitely have enough money in the account?’
‘Yes,’ said Jason, his pale blue eyes locked on hers. ‘We definitely have enough money. Now, you said they were here?’
They went out to the front porch to welcome Marek, who was walking up the gravel accompanied by his sidekick, Jan the electrician, both in shades and black polo shirts, a vision of pure London amid the floral backdrop of the hotel’s hydrangeas. Excitement fizzed inside Libby’s chest. The frantic wallpaper and dismal lounge were vanishing before her eyes, without so much as another splinter or sandpaper burn.
When Margaret saw how well they worked, even she wouldn’t mind the changes, Libby told herself. It’d be finished and lovely before she even had time to get her disappointed face on – and didn’t Donald appreciate quality workmanship? He’d want to see his hotel back up and running, the way it had in its heyday.
‘Aye aye, the Reservoir Dogs are back,’ said Jason under his breath.
‘Don’t call them that,’ murmured Libby. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not the look they’re going for.’
‘I’m not so sure . . . Morning, guys – hope the journey up wasn’t too bad,’ said Jason, holding out a hand.
‘Hello, Jason, Libby,’ said Marek, and the memories rushed back at her: the long, hot summer of Radio 1 from eight till five, unearthing festering coffee mugs, and the smell of dust and Lynx and Ginsters pasties. Six months she’d spent camping out in one room while Marek and his merry men ripped half the house to pieces and put it back together again, seemingly with fifty per cent more light and air. No one had ever walked into that house afterwards and not marvelled at how gorgeous it was, as if clean light filtered in through invisible windows. And now he was going to work his magic on this place.
‘Hello, Marek!’ she cried, and only just stopped herself adding a kiss.
Silent Jan managed a hint of a smile and Libby felt a warmth towards them that she’d never have believed she’d feel at the height of her own building work.
‘Can I get you something to eat or drink?’ she asked. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘That’s very kind, Libby,’ said Marek, taking off his shades to rub his bloodshot eyes. He worked insane hours and ran an undisclosed number of super-efficient building teams, all sporting his company’s logoed polo shirts. ‘But can we make a start? I need to get back to quote for a job in town this afternoon. It’s further from London than we thought . . .’
‘Ha!’ she said. ‘And not just in motorway terms! What?’ she added, seeing Jason give her a reproachful look.
‘It’s three hours, tops,’ he said.
‘And about twenty years!’
‘Libby . . .’
‘I’m just making sure Marek knows that although we’re a long way out of London, we haven’t gone all green wellies and floral borders,’ she said brightly. ‘We want the Swan Hotel to have the same high standards as the top hotels anywhere. It’s going to be the best hotel in the county.’
‘I can smell something.’ Marek lifted a finger and sniffed analytically. ‘You have damp?’
‘Or drains,’ said Silent Jan, uncharacteristically moved to speech. Libby winced: it must be something he found particularly revolting.
Jason sighed. ‘No,’ he said, with a ‘Don’t say, “I told you so”’ sideways glance at Libby. ‘It’s the dog.’
‘You have dogs? Inside the hotel?’ Marek looked even more horrified than he had been at the thought of damp.
‘For the moment. It’s something else we need to discuss.’ Libby smiled. ‘Now, shall we start at the top and work down?’
‘So,’ said Jason, when Marek’s black van had disappeared round the corner several hours later. He let the word hang between them like the smoke from a starting pistol. The hotel suddenly seemed quiet without the steady background noise of rasping tape measures, short bursts of intense Polish discussion, Marek’s phone ringing every three minutes and Jan’s increasingly anxious hmmm noise every time he found evidence of Donald’s enthusiasm for amateur electrical engineering.
‘So,’ said Libby. She wanted Jason to speak first, in case she’d read the situation wrong and the shimmering vision she’d glimpsed was all in her head. Marek had made it seem so possible, turning her Pinterest inspiration pages to reality there in front of her, just with a few minutes’ scrutiny, and one or two radical and expensive suggestions about plumbing.
They stood on the stone porch of the hotel, framed by the stone pillars like the original Georgian owners, posing for a portrait in front of their country estate.
‘This would be a nice photo for the website, us on the front steps,’ she added. ‘Maybe have Bob in here. If he could stay still.’
Jason glanced at her with a wry smile. ‘For the website? Shouldn’t we get the damp fixed first?’
‘No, we need to think beyond that. Write the perfect pitch, then build it.’ Libby breathed in, enjoying the freshness of the air after the stuffiness of the over-furnished hotel. It was the first spring day with a touch of summer in it, and the air smelled green with leaves and grass.
Jason slung an arm around her and she relaxed into his chest. They stood like that for a moment or two, enjoying the sparkles of splashy light in the mossy fountain that filled the turning circle; Libby imagined the shiny Austins and Fords that must have dropped off party guests in the 1930s. Before it was a hotel, when it was still the home of a prosperous country family.
She turned her head to bury her nose in Jason’s clean blue shirt, inhaling his familiar smell: Hugo Boss, and washing powder, and the spice-warm masculinity of his golden skin, the combination of sexy and comforting that had clicked with something in her brain the first time she managed to get close to him, on that commuter train. She’d spent weeks wondering what he smelled like, from across the carriage, what his skin woul
d feel like under her fingertips. Now she knew. It was exactly as she’d imagined.
‘It feels more real now, doesn’t it?’ he said, and she felt the buzz of his voice deep in his chest. ‘The hotel, I mean.’
‘What? It’s always felt real. You just haven’t been getting up to do the breakfasts like I have.’
‘No, real as in I can see Marek getting on with this.’ He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe his own stupidity. ‘We should have called him right at the start. Four weeks for the decorating, a week or so for the general stuff . . . We should be ready to reopen by the beginning of July at the latest. Get some practice in so we’re up to speed when this journalist comes.’
We are thinking the same things, Libby thought, relieved. ‘Is it good that Marek can start so soon? Shouldn’t he be booked up for months?’
‘Well . . . he’s the ringmaster, isn’t he? He’s got teams working for him.’ Jason leaned back against the stone pillar and blew air out of his cheeks. ‘Marek’s not the cheapest, but we know him, and we don’t know any builders round here. And we need someone good, and quick.’
He spoke casually, but Libby knew he was dropping tiny warnings. This wasn’t going to be cheap. This was going to raise the stakes. This was going to take them back into a situation where money would have to be discussed, big sums of money that they didn’t have anymore. They no longer had the safety net of Jason’s huge salary, or the safety net of their own undented confidence.
Can we do this? she thought, and her positive mood wobbled for a second. Wouldn’t it be easier to scale down their ambitions, keep the avocado bathroom suites, learn to live in a smaller, quieter way? Margaret would be happier with that.
Then she looked up at Jason, watching for her reaction with guarded hope in his eyes, and she knew he wouldn’t be. She wouldn’t either. They needed to achieve something new, and better. And working towards a shared goal – wasn’t that something that would rebuild their marriage?
Jason wanted to prove she could trust him. She wanted to prove that she was willing to. There were lots of good reasons to take a chance on themselves.