One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

  Libby spent the morning in the office, sorting through a drawer of unopened paperwork that had come to light when Jason was dealing with the accounts at the weekend, and at eleven, Pippa knocked on the door frame, her brown hair still damp from the shower.

  ‘No,’ said Libby, before she could speak, ‘there is nothing you should be doing to help. Apart from sitting in that chair over there and making me a cup of coffee every half an hour. If you want to tell me every so often you can’t hear a thing going on upstairs, I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Are you sure I couldn’t . . . ?’

  ‘Sit,’ she insisted. ‘Please.’

  ‘Let me make some fresh coffee,’ said Pippa, spotting her empty mug on the pile of council tax arrears, and the machine on the filing cabinet. ‘You look like you could do with some.’

  They’d barely got settled down again – Libby to the paperwork, Pippa to her notebook – when Jason came in, and something in his manner set Libby’s nerves jangling. There was no smile in his eyes, and his mouth was set; that morning’s exuberance had vanished behind a very grey cloud of visible stress.

  ‘Libby, can I have a word?’ he said. ‘I need to ask you something.’ He glanced between her and Pippa. ‘Um, it’s about the building work.’ He gestured with his head towards the door, and the hotel beyond.

  ‘What? Now? This minute?’

  ‘Yes, now,’ said Jason. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  Libby pushed back her chair. ‘Won’t be a second, Pippa,’ she said. ‘If the phone rings, can you answer it and take a message?’

  She followed Jason out into the reception, but he carried on walking towards the empty lounge. ‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘Has Bob been doing his own redecorating work upstairs again?’

  ‘No.’ Jason checked there was no one in the lounge, then perched on the arm of a big chesterfield sofa. Libby hesitated, then sat down opposite.

  ‘Jason? Are you all right? Is everything OK?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ He smiled, but he didn’t seem entirely relaxed. Then he ran a hand through his thatch of hair and her heart sank. ‘Babe, I need you to do us a favour.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby slowly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You know you said that we might be able to ask your dad to invest some money in the business?’

  At the words ‘your dad’ and ‘money’, Libby’s heart sank even further. ‘In an emergency, maybe. Not as a choice, though. I’d rather look into selling a kidney. There’d be fewer strings involved.’

  ‘Really? Even if it was a proper investment? Now he knows we’re going to be featured in a magazine and will be the boutique hotel of the area in six months’ time?’ He frowned. ‘You’re his daughter. This is a family business.’

  ‘And that,’ Libby replied, ‘shows how well you know my dad.’ For a couple who’d been together as long as she and Jason had, they still had a lot to learn about each other’s families. Or maybe up until now they’d been able to stay a good distance away from them.

  ‘Bear in mind we’re talking about the man who still jokes’ – she added air hooks to the word ‘jokes’ – ‘about how my sister should pay back her university fees after she dropped out of college with an eating disorder after her parents’ acrimonious divorce? Sarah doesn’t live in Hong Kong for no reason, you know.’

  ‘Well, fine.’ Jason looked chastened; he liked Sarah – they’d spent part of their honeymoon in Hong Kong. ‘But it depends how much you want to refit the en suites.’

  That brought Libby up short. ‘What? I thought you said we had enough to do all this?’

  ‘I did.’ Jason rubbed his chin. ‘And we do. But the estimate’s suddenly gone up by another fifteen grand. I’ve just spoken to Marek’s foreman and he says we need to redo the plumbing if we want the new showers to run properly – that damp Marek could smell is coming from the old pipes leaking. Finding it and fixing it’s going to be another week’s work minimum, plus materials. On top of that, I spoke to the bathroom suppliers and they want a deposit before they’ll put the order for baths through.’ He turned his hands over helplessly. ‘You know how little we’ve been taking, so some cash has gone on day-to-day costs, and the bulk of the house equity’s tied up in other accounts. We need cash now. This week.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby felt a stab of guilt: she had gone slightly overboard with the baths, but they were going to be a feature, something that would sell the whole hotel. ‘Can’t we talk to the bank? Can they do a short-term loan?’

  ‘I’d rather not go to the bank. We’ve only just got things back on an even footing there. And I’m not sure they’d lend us what we need that quickly. They’ve seen the books.’ Jason fiddled with the dried-up head of a thistle in one of the flower arrangements, then looked up at her. ‘They’re not very risk-happy out here.’

  ‘I know. I was in that meeting.’ The bank manager had been an old friend of Donald’s. He hadn’t exactly told them they were idiots for wanting to renovate the Swan, but there was a lot of bushy-eyebrow-raising and muttering about ambitious London folk he’d known make terrible losses, over-investing in country pubs in the area. They’d assured him that there was no way they’d be making those mistakes, oh no.

  ‘Although . . .’ he paused, and his voice when he spoke again was different. More guarded, but at the same time, more confident, ‘there is another option.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Jason’s eyes warned her not to snap. ‘Darren called me last week.’

  ‘Darren from Harris Hebden? I didn’t think you were still in touch with those guys.’

  Jason hadn’t exactly been marched through the office with his desk contents in a box, but the lack of a typical boozy leaving-do hadn’t gone unnoticed. He’d had lots of friends at work. Everyone had loved Jason at Harris Hebden. Up to a point.

  ‘Course I’m still in touch with Darren. And Tim. I worked with those guys for seven years.’ He crossed his arms defensively. ‘Anyway, Darren called the other day to give me a heads-up on an oilfields deal he’s putting together. Quick turnaround, low—’

  Libby didn’t want to hear any more. Her hand flew up to stop him, before she even knew what she was doing. ‘No, Jason, please. Don’t. You promised. This is our future. Your mother’s future.’

  ‘There’s no need to be dramatic,’ he said tetchily. ‘Darren wanted to help me out, that’s all. It’s not a risky deal – he’s getting into it himself. And he’s got four kids.’

  ‘But you promised.’ She could hear it now, in her head: Darren – nice guy but a wide boy and proud of it – offering a taste of the old excitement, the easy multiplication of imaginary cash, all done with a click of the mouse at the right moment. And Jason, she knew, would have found it hard to say no. That had been his reputation in the office: his instinct for an opening.

  Libby had loved how good Jason was at his job: he had the perfect blend of pragmatism, diligence, client skills and sheer luck. In the time they’d been together, he’d grown from an eager trainee into a seasoned, confident operator, the golden country tan turning into a Verbier and Maldives glow. He often explained what he did, but she’d never completely understood the markets: Libby’s mind worked with people, faces, anecdotes, not figures. At first, its ever-shifting rewards and shocks, rising and falling like a powerful, international tide, excited her, then frightened her; then she’d taken it for granted.

  And now the tide was licking at their toes again here. In the place they’d come to escape its seductive ebb and flow.

  Jason rolled his eyes, an impatient gesture Libby hadn’t seen in a while, and without warning, the physical taste of the day he lost his job flooded back: the fresh-paint smell of their new kitchen, Jason at the table, his face bloated, eyes scared, his loud tie halfway down his shirt looking sickeningly like a Hermès noose, the sour tang of the wine she’d drunk at lunch with Erin repeating in her throat a
s she struggled to understand his broken half-sentences. The truth about his own trading slipped out painfully. It was only when Libby logged into their online banking and saw her modest savings account had been wiped to zero that the extent of Jason’s gambling suddenly sank in. Those few thousand had been real, in a way the bonus nest egg had never been, and they were gone. No job, no salary. No salary, no mortgage. No mortgage, no house . . . ? And then the ripples had spread from Jason’s laptop to their home, to his office. And then finally to their happy, careless world, washing everything away.

  They’d gone from a flat in Acton to a villa in Wandsworth almost overnight, and Libby had worried that their new world could vanish just as suddenly; then, almost as soon as she stopped worrying, it did.

  Jason opened his mouth to speak, and the thought filled Libby’s head like a shout. No. That is not coming back into this life.

  ‘You promised me,’ she repeated. Don’t shout, Dad shouted. ‘It’s the only thing I asked, that you wouldn’t take any more financial risks.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, but I think you’re over-reacting. This is a few grand, Libby. And I know what I’m doing – I’m not some spare-room hobbyist with his PC and his copy of Investing for Dummies.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how much it is – the stakes are totally different now! We can’t afford to lose.’ She fixed her gaze straight at him, willing him to understand that it wasn’t just about the money. ‘I need to know exactly where I stand. With our finances, with the hotel . . . with you.’

  It was the first time since they’d left London that she’d brought up his sacking and their debts. After that surreal afternoon, they’d dealt with the immediate fallout in a kind of efficiency trance, not unlike the brisk to-do list that had got Jason through Donald’s funeral a few months earlier. What they hadn’t talked about, not properly, was what the betrayal had done to their relationship, once the floods had receded and they were left, exhausted and suspicious, surrounded by wreckage, with everything changed. Jason had been ashen with shame; Libby hadn’t wanted to kick him when he was so down.

  But we need to be able to talk about this kind of thing if our marriage is going to work, she thought. Jason had always been so sensitive to her feelings; why couldn’t he see how this bothered her? Libby knew on one level he was right – the deal probably would work out – but this was about Jason listening to her, rebuilding her trust, or else she’d never be able to stop worrying when this new life, with its risks, might all collapse too.

  ‘So what’s the answer?’ he said flatly. ‘You don’t want to ask your dad. You won’t let me speak to Darren. We can’t go to the bank. Your mum has no money; neither does mine. We need to pay for this plumbing – it’s not an option. And we need the money now. This week.’

  ‘Why don’t we ask Luke?’

  Jason looked twitchy. ‘You know why not. Mum made a huge deal about only working with us in the hotel. She doesn’t want Luke involved. And we don’t have time for the painful Family Talk that would entail . . .’

  Libby took a deep breath and tried to order her thoughts. Already she felt bad about challenging Jason on the one area of their marriage he’d always managed so well. At least, for most of their marriage. Maybe I’m making this worse, she thought glumly. I’ve forbidden him to trade, the one way he had of earning, I can’t support us, and we need the money for the hotel, for our new start together.

  ‘Right.’ She readied herself. ‘I’ll speak to my dad. Do you think we should email him a proposal first?’

  Jason’s face registered surprise, then relief. Libby didn’t want to look too closely at the relief. ‘I don’t think there’s time. Marek wants the starting payment today, and I’ve got to pay the bathroom suppliers.’

  There was another long pause, and Libby felt as if the hotel were looming over them both, its heavy hand on their shoulders. The ticking clock, the smell of the old carpet, the endless dusty wood wherever she looked.

  She pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘Fine. But we have to prioritise repaying him even if it means eating nothing but porridge for the next year.’

  Jason reached for her hand. Libby let him take it and he slowly raised it to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers, keeping his gaze fixed on her.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I know this is a big thing for you. I appreciate it.’

  ‘If it’s what we have to do . . .’ Libby didn’t expect the ripple that ran through her, as if they were both standing at the edge of a cliff. This was it, from now on. Every time they made a decision, it seemed to raise the stakes one more notch. But it would be worth it, she told herself. This was a future built on something solid.

  She squeezed his fingers. ‘Just go and make me a strong cup of coffee. No, actually. Make me a gin and tonic.’

  ‘So,’ said Colin Davies, when he picked up the phone on the second ring, ‘it’s not my birthday, and it’s not your birthday, so how much do you need?’

  Libby reminded herself that her dad always started phone calls like that – it was the joke of his friends that he was ‘plain-spoken’. Normally she was only ringing for a dutiful monthly catch-up, but now she had a favour to ask, she felt even more on the back foot. When she was a teenager needing a pocket-money advance, he’d made her feel like one of his useless junior solicitors asking for a raise; now she was a grown-up, he made her feel like a teenager.

  Still, if he wanted to be plain-spoken, she could be too.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said. ‘Is this a good time to chat? I was hoping I could ask you something about the hotel.’

  ‘Ah, so you do want something. Well, out with it. I was on my way out to the tip.’

  ‘Right.’ It sounded as if he’d just had words with Sophie, her stepmother. Arguments in the Davies household were often punctuated with some ruthless recycling, one of the reasons her mother had finally filed for divorce: the junking of their wedding albums. That and the demands for receipts and teabag reuse and the screaming rows. ‘I’ll get to the point. Jason and I are making some substantial upgrades to the hotel over the next few months and—’

  ‘You want Daddy to pay for them.’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Libby gripped her pen and stared at the figures Jason had given her, as well as the handy phrases she’d jotted down. Her mind tended to go blank during conversations with her father. ‘We just need a sort of bridging loan, to get some initial renovation work underway. Obviously we’d pay you back with interest, and a fixed repayment time frame.’

  She hoped he wasn’t going to push her too hard on those details. Not that Libby didn’t want to pay the controlling sod interest, but she didn’t put it past him to ‘test’ her on the technicalities. Since he retired, on his generous civil service pension, he’d got even more into investing; it was one of the reasons he and Jason used to get on so well, and he’d shamelessly squeezed Jason for share tips. Not that they’d had many of those conversations latterly.

  ‘Sounds very official,’ he said. ‘Would it be easier if I talked to Jason about this? Without wishing to be rude, Libby, you’ve got your mother’s brain when it comes to figures.’

  ‘No, Jason’s dealing with the builders right now. I’m happy to discuss this with you. I’m an equal partner in the business.’

  And a graduate who had an enviable media job until two years ago and did manage to pay off the one credit-card debt every student racks up . . .

  Colin let out an amused noise that made Libby squirm, even though she angrily told herself not to.

  ‘How much are we talking about, then?’

  She glanced down at Jason’s notes and told him. The sharp intake of breath would have been the same had she said twenty quid or two million.

  ‘That’s quite a substantial sum, Elizabeth. What are you doing, gold-plating the taps?’

  ‘No, just some overdu
e updating. We’re bringing the hotel into line with modern expectations, so we can start marketing to a broader clientele. When we’ve got things going, we’re looking into wine tastings, small weddings, maybe a spa . . .’

  ‘Not my sort of place, then.’

  ‘Of course it’ll be your sort of place!’ Just be interested. Please. Stop trying to come out on top.

  He chuckled. ‘With the best will in the world, I doubt it. And is there a reason you’re approaching the Bank of Dad and not the actual bank? This is definitely for the hotel, and not some personal debt you’d rather not go into?’

  ‘Of course it’s for the hotel.’ Libby’s nails were digging into her other palm. ‘I thought you might enjoy being involved in our new project.’

  This is mad, she thought. Surely the normal way for this conversation to go would be for the father to phone the daughter to offer to help her out of the financial crisis her reckless husband had got her into? Let us tide you over. Let us help you get back on your feet. You’re being really brave and we’re proud of your fighting spirit.

  Although that assumed the father was aware that the daughter was in financial crisis. Colin was yet another person under the impression that she and Jason had downsized for the love of hotel-keeping. Libby knew she’d never have heard the end of it if he’d had the full story, and somehow, once the shabby truth was laid out, it’d probably have ended up being her fault, somehow – ditzy Libby who hid credit-card statements for one credit card, ten years ago.

  After a long pause that he’d learned from television talent shows, Colin cleared his throat. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let me have a think about the amount I’d be willing to advance you. But for heaven’s sake, Libby, don’t think you can make a habit of this. If you’re going to go into business, you’ve got to be scrupulous with money. Scrupulous and honest. I’m surprised Jason hasn’t been through all this with you.’

  ‘He has,’ said Libby, through gritted teeth. ‘And thanks, Dad. I really appreciate this.’

  As she put down the phone, her skin still crawling with the shame of begging her own father for help, Jason appeared at the door. He was carrying another large gin and tonic, and when he saw she’d finished the conversation, he came in and handed it to her.