by Lucy Dillon
Libby took a deep breath. ‘How much does Marek reckon it’s going to cost?’
Jason didn’t reply immediately. He stared out at their cars parked by the rhododendron bushes and chewed his lower lip. He did that when he didn’t want to say something; it was a tic Libby had learned to spot at parties. He’d rarely done it with her.
‘How much, Jason?’
‘We always said that if we were going to do this, we should do it properly.’ He spoke slowly. ‘If we’ve got a vision, for something that’s our own . . .’
‘Then we should go for it.’ Libby’s breath quickened in her throat. ‘It’d be a false economy to make half the hotel really nice and leave the rest shabby – people would notice. And we’ll make the money back, when we’re full of guests.’
‘We certainly will. When your amazing website’s lured them in.’ He slipped his arms round her waist. ‘And your amazing breakfasts. And your luxurious bedrooms. And you in the reception, making everyone feel special.’
Libby blinked, as the hard edges of the task ahead peeked out from underneath the euphoria: how much there would still be to do, after Marek had finished and gone. The hotel would look fabulous, but they’d have to drive it, every folded towel, every promotional idea, every fresh smile for a new guest when they were feeling dead on their feet. Those snitty TripAdvisor reviews would be about her.
‘What?’ Jason pulled back to look at her properly. ‘You look freaked out. It won’t just be you doing all that – I’ll help.’
‘Too right you will. No, it just dawned on me what we’re taking on. I’ve never done something like this, where it’s so . . .’ She searched for the right words, wanting to sound realistic, not negative. ‘Where everything we do is so open and obvious. How well we do, how hard we work – there’s nowhere to hide. I’ve always been more of a back-room person.’
Jason tilted up her chin, so she could see his face. His eyes were bright, and he looked energised for the first time in months.
‘But that’s what I want, Libby,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent the last ten years moving money that I never saw, trading things that didn’t even exist. This is real. This is going to be something we can look at and think, We did this. When guests leave looking all blissed out because we’ve got the best beds in the county, or when someone comes up from London and books to come back because it’s the best experience they’ve had . . . we’ll have done that.’
‘I know,’ she said.
‘And I am going to make this work, Libby,’ he said fiercely. ‘I promise. This is going to be the best thing that could have happened for us.’
He looked so hopeful that Libby forgot her follow-up questions about the finances, the mortgage, the staff. Jason had lost a lot of things when he’d lost his job, but the thing she missed the most was his sense of purpose, that bounding enthusiasm that she’d liked so much about him when they’d first met. Now he seemed more like his old self, it made her own excitement sharper and safer. Libby hated nagging him, chivvying him about rotas; it reminded them both of the days after the sacking, when she had literally had to force him out of bed each morning.
‘Yes,’ she said, wrapping her arms round his neck. ‘One day we’ll talk about this moment, when the Corcoran boutique hotel empire began.’
He grinned. ‘Brilliant. Now we just have to tell Mum.’
Libby tried to put a cosy spin on the meeting in the cluttered office by bringing cake and tea along, but Margaret sat at the heavy partners’ desk as if she were facing a firing squad. Bob lay at her feet, occasionally sniffing the air in case any cake found its way to floor level.
Jason outlined the revised building plans, and Libby showed her the mood boards, and the bathroom catalogues Marek had left for them to choose from, and the colours they’d be using, all of which were met with a faint smile and murmurs of ‘Lovely.’
The main change to the plans, Jason explained, was that they’d be putting in new bathroom suites, rather than repainting what was already there.
‘But I don’t see why we have to,’ protested Margaret. ‘What’s wrong with what we have now?’
‘Nothing’s wrong, but it’s time to update them,’ said Libby tactfully. ‘Guests like a bit of luxury – white baths, lovely shiny taps, a powerful shower.’
Margaret glanced at Jason, looking for support. ‘As long as everything’s clean, what does it matter whether the bathrooms are fashionable or not?’
‘They do need updating, Mum,’ he said. ‘I read a few comments in the guestbook about stains on the baths, and when Libby had a word with Dawn, she said they can’t get them any cleaner.’
‘Then we need to look into better cleaning products.’ Margaret’s jaw tightened. ‘Those baths are top of the range – they were extremely expensive.’
‘I’m sure they were. But in when, 1983? That’s over thirty years ago.’
‘No, it’s—’ She stopped. ‘Oh. I suppose it is.’ She blinked. ‘Thirty years. Goodness.’
Jason took advantage of her temporary distraction. ‘The thing is, Mum, guests expect different things now, and we’ve got to find some new business. This feature’s a great shot at some national exposure. It gives us a target to aim for.’
‘I don’t like the implication that what we currently have is beneath anyone’s target.’ Margaret’s chin rose, to Libby’s surprise. She hadn’t seen Margaret argue this hard against the decor before. ‘I appreciate things aren’t up to . . . to London standards, but we’ve been ticking over fine, in our own unambitious way, for a few years . . .’
‘Oh, Mum. It wasn’t a criticism.’ Jason stopped and Libby could see him deflating, his earlier bouncy mood dissipating under his mother’s reproachful gaze.
‘Of course it’s not a criticism. What Jason means,’ Libby said quickly, ‘is that you’ve always said the hotel’s in need of some TLC, and this is a good chance to spend money once and get everything ticked off. Decoration, any repairs, any maintenance – Marek can sort it out in one go. It sounds like a lot, but really, once you see it, it’ll just feel like . . .’ She scrabbled for a comparison, because actually, she did want to effect a massive change. Libby wanted the place to be unrecognisable, from the mangy stag’s head up. ‘. . . like when you get a new pair of glasses and it takes a day or two to get used to them,’ she said. ‘And then you wonder why you didn’t choose that style years ago.’
There was a long pause. She felt the pressure of Jason’s foot against her ankle under the table, a silent thank you.
Eventually, Margaret’s defiance slipped away. ‘Well, clearly you’ve already put a lot of thought into this project. There’s not really a lot I can add. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’
‘But we want your input, Margaret,’ insisted Libby. ‘It’s your hotel too.’
Too late, she wondered if that ‘too’ was wrong. Margaret let out a long breath through her nostrils. Nuts, thought Libby. It was.
Chapter Seven
No one’s coming to get me.
Pippa’s eyes snapped open. The words were so clear that for a sleepy half-second it felt as if someone had spoken them into her ear. No one’s coming to get me. That brutal truth had been floating behind her thoughts for days now, while she’d managed to cover it with other things, but now it was the only thing in her head. No dreams. No drifting, unfocused memories, slipping away in the light. Just cold, helpless fear.
No one’s coming to get me. I have no name. I have no home. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to start.
Pippa’s head filled with white noise, pinning her to the bed and making her heart thrash painfully in her tightening chest, while her mind raced round and round like a mouse, frantic in a humane trap. She stared at the ceiling, trying to go through her routine of exploring her memory for fresh fragments, but fear blocked out all thoughts. Seven days. Seven days and no one had missed her. Fine, so the
re wasn’t a boyfriend beside himself with worry. Fair enough. She could be between boyfriends. But no family? No workmates? No flatmates? No one?
It frightened Pippa, deep in the pit of her stomach. Who was she? She didn’t feel that she was reclusive or unloved or unpopular in some weird way. She got on fine with the nurses, and she’d even had a laugh with Libby Corcoran – Libby, a total stranger who’d come to see her twice now, and stayed over an hour each time. Where were her friends? Was she a shy person, outside this room? Had she had some epic falling-out with everyone she knew? Had she jilted someone? Had she just got out of prison? Run off with someone’s husband? Was that why she’d been heading to a hotel – she’d left her home?
She stared at the bright strip of sunlight around the curtains, as the sound of the swing doors heralded the arrival of the first shift, and the familiar noise brought her panic down a notch. Prison was a bit melodramatic. And she didn’t feel like an offender or an adulterer. But who knew? The possibilities were too big to comprehend. She could literally be anyone. Without a past, without memories, how would you know what you were like? The magazines Libby had left were full of features encouraging readers to make a fresh start – ‘Reinvent Your Wardrobe!’, ‘Transform Your Love Story!’ – but that was only fun if you knew what you were changing from. Pippa felt sick.
The nurses had suggested various reasons why no one had turned up to claim her, all of which felt very plausible, but they still weren’t quite as reassuring as they probably hoped.
‘Ah, they’ll be on holiday,’ was Bernie’s favourite. She had a thing about holidays, Pippa had noted in her book; she monitored everyone’s time off like a hawk. ‘Won’t they turn up here with a tan and presents for you, and feeling terrible that they’ve been sunning themselves all this time?’
Karen, the other daytime nurse, lived alone, miles from her family in Scotland, so her theory was that Pippa probably had an enviable independent lifestyle, which was nothing to be ashamed of. ‘I’d have to be in hospital for a month before any of my family noticed I was missing,’ she said, punching the pillows hard as she rearranged them behind Pippa’s aching ribs. ‘Over Christmas. And they’d only report me missing here if they were short for a shift.’
It was kind of them to be so quick with explanations, Pippa thought, but what if she really was as friendless as she seemed? She’d have to face it when her memory came back. As the morning sun got stronger outside, she finally allowed herself to think the thought she really had been trying to ignore. With every satisfactory blood pressure test, every reduction in her pain meds, every inconclusive chat with the head injuries specialist, who said she was perfectly fine, apart from this memory loss, it loomed closer and closer.
Where was she going to go when they discharged her, if she didn’t know who she was?
Pippa lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes tightly, willing the morning to stop. Willing to slip into another deep sleep and wake up with her memories all back.
At lunchtime, Scottish Karen put her head round the door. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’ She smiled encouragingly and Pippa hoped it was Libby, but it wasn’t.
The woman standing behind Karen wasn’t someone she recognised, but she seemed pleasant: a middle-aged woman in a flowery summer dress, with a navy short-sleeved jacket on top and comfortable sandals that suggested she spent most of her day on her feet. Her hair was wispy and blonde, pulled back into a small bun that revealed her earlobes, weighed down with a gold hoop earring on each side.
Pippa scanned her face for familiarities – were those eyes like hers? Could she be an aunt? An old friend? A landlady? She was surprised to feel a flicker of nervousness, not relief.
‘Hello . . . Pippa,’ she said, and as the lady’s eyes dropped to her file, to check her details, so did Pippa’s heart.
She didn’t know her. She was another stranger, being nice because she was nice, and also because it was her job.
Pippa managed a hopeful smile. ‘Hello.’
‘My name’s Marcia, and I’m from social services,’ she explained, sitting down on the chair by the bed, without asking. ‘The police have passed your case on to me now, as you’re not a missing person, and there’s no record of your DNA on their system.’ She paused and smiled. ‘Which is a good thing!’
As Marcia spoke, she opened the file on her knee; it was thin and had only a few pieces of paper in.
Is that me? thought Pippa. Is that all I am? Of course it is. I’m starting from scratch here. I’m only seven days old.
‘Social services?’ she repeated.
Marcia saw the panic in her face and made a soothing noise. ‘Because of the nature of your head injury, someone needs to keep an eye on you once you’ve been discharged by your medical team. Normally the hospital would release you to a family member, but as that’s not going to be possible until your memory comes back and we find you a family member, it falls within social services’ remit.’
‘Oh,’ said Pippa weakly.
‘I’m sure it’s just a temporary measure,’ said Karen robustly. ‘You could be fine by this afternoon, in which case . . .’
They let the thought hang in the air. And if she wasn’t?
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Karen made to go. ‘Press your buzzer if you need me.’
‘So . . .’ Marcia uncapped her pen and glanced at her watch. Pippa noted that she hadn’t even removed her jacket. This obviously wasn’t going to be a long visit. ‘I’ve been advised by your consultant that as far as he’s concerned, you’re physically ready to be discharged. He wants you to maintain regular contact until your memory is fully recovered, but that can be done via appointments. There’ll be a support pack that will have all the info in it.’
‘I can’t stay here?’ Pippa asked. Her voice sounded more desperate than she wanted it to.
Marcia made a quick, sympathetic ‘Sorry, no’ face. ‘Unfortunately not. As you can imagine, there’s a lot of pressure on bed space. Here and in the psychiatric ward.’
The psychiatric ward. She flinched. ‘Of course. Yes.’
‘So, what I’m going to do,’ Marcia went on, taking out a pamphlet and circling some phone numbers, ‘is give you our hospital discharge protocol for homeless people—’
‘I’m not homeless!’ Pippa stopped, shocked. To all intents and purposes, she was. Where was her home? She didn’t know. And anyway, just because you didn’t feel like a homeless person didn’t mean you couldn’t be one. She could be anything. Homeless. Divorced. A mother. What hole had she left in someone’s life? Or hadn’t she left one?
The unanswerable questions swarmed into her head again, and a shrinking feeling of being at the mercy of total strangers clutched her stomach. She half coughed, half gasped.
Marcia reached for the water by the bed, concerned. ‘Do you need a moment? Would you like me to call the nurse back in?’
‘Sorry.’ Pippa tried to gather herself. ‘It’s just . . . Sorry, carry on.’
‘I’ve managed to allocate you a room in some emergency accommodation in a women’s hostel just outside Hartley. It’s only a temporary arrangement, as again, we’re pressured for space right now, but Mr Reynolds seems confident that it shouldn’t take more than a few days for your memory to come back, so ideally you won’t be there long term.’
Hostel. The word conjured up images of drug addicts, frightened women hiding from abusive partners, locked doors, people crying at night. Lost people.
‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ Marcia reassured her. ‘It means you’d have some contact with people on a day-to-day basis. In case your medical situation changed suddenly.’
There was a noise over by the door and they both looked up, expecting to see one of the doctors with a flock of medical students (Pippa was something of a star attraction for the neurologists) or a cleaner. But in the doorway, in her black jersey jacket, was Libby and she wa
s almost hopping from foot to foot, trying to contain herself.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she said, ‘but you’re not really going to send Pippa somewhere on her own, are you?’
Pippa felt a wave of relief rush through her at the sight of Libby’s face. The plain jacket, shoved up at the elbows. The huge plum bag. She clung to each familiar thing as if it could anchor her.
‘Are you family?’ Marcia looked hopeful.
‘Um, no . . .’
‘Libby was a witness to the accident,’ Pippa said quickly. ‘She’s been visiting me.’
Could she ask to go home with Libby? Was that too much? Was that going beyond kindness?
Libby took a confident step into the room and perched herself on the spare chair with a smile, ignoring the officious way Marcia covered up Pippa’s case notes.
‘I know it’s rather unusual, but this is such an unusual set of circumstances . . .’ Pippa noticed that Libby’s accent had suddenly gone more London, more assured, as if she was used to talking her way around situations and settling things. ‘Might I suggest that Pippa stays in our hotel, if it’s just a short-term arrangement? She was on her way there at the time of the accident. It could be that something about the place triggers a memory. We’re not busy at the moment, and rather than going into a hostel . . .’
She glanced at Pippa and Pippa knew from her eyes that the word ‘hostel’ had given her the same shudder.
‘That would be an option,’ said Marcia. ‘Although obviously there are no funds to meet hotel bills . . .’
‘That’s not an issue,’ said Libby firmly. ‘And my mother-in-law has been on the hospital volunteer committee for years, so we can arrange for transport to the appointments too. She’s up and down to the hospital a few times a week. As am I. With our Pets As Therapy hound. You might have met her? Margaret Corcoran.’
Marcia’s face lit up. ‘You’re Bob’s owner?’