by Lucy Dillon
‘It’ll be beautiful again when the decorators have been in, I promise.’ Libby stroked her mother-in-law’s arm. ‘Look – which of these colours do you like?’
‘I don’t care. Whatever you think best. I’m not going to look again until it’s done.’ Margaret had made a gulping noise and hurried downstairs. Jason had had to drive her to the big Waitrose to restore her equilibrium. He didn’t say so, but Libby was pretty sure he’d picked up the bill for the five bags of artisan foodstuffs that later materialised in the fridge. Margaret definitely didn’t have the money to pay for organic tiramisu, but then neither did they.
‘It’s a good thing they’ve got so much done,’ Libby pointed out to Alice, while they were checking the latest delivery of baths and basins on Wednesday morning. It was stacked up in boxes in the lounge, nearly filling the room. ‘The plumbers are coming tomorrow, and when these are in, it’ll look much better.’
She ran her hand round the curved rim of one of the roll-top baths. It was a massive double-ended slipper, more a work of art than a bath. A whole page of the new website was going to focus on the Swan Hotel bathrooms, their signature treat. Glass of wine, big white church candles, Wi-Fi throughout so you could listen to the in-room iPod while you soaked. Who could resist that in the magazine spread?
We could do our own range of toiletries eventually, she thought, imagining the photographs. With a white swan as the logo.
‘Is this the Chatsworth double-ended tub?’ Alice was flipping through the delivery invoice.
‘It is. This is going to be in the honeymoon suite,’ she said proudly. ‘With a circular shower rail above it, and this stunning lacy curtain I’ve found in Anthropologie.’
Alice peered at it. ‘Which room’s that? Will it fit?’
‘We’re making room five the honeymoon suite and knocking into room six to make the bathroom,’ explained Libby. ‘Room six was always on the small side. Better to have a really gorgeous romantic suite we can charge more for.’
‘OK,’ said Alice. ‘And the taps for that – are they these?’ She indicated a big box, full of bubble wrap.
‘Yes, they’re amazing, look.’ Libby struggled to lift the heavy fittings. ‘You need a huge mixer tap and a proper Edwardian shower head with that bath.’ They were about the size of a tuba when she finally managed to heave them out of their seafoam wrapping.
She and Alice gazed at the majestic silver contraption.
‘Wow,’ said Alice. ‘And that was separate? On top of the bath? Do I even want to know how much that cost?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Jason insisted that he’d negotiated a good price, and after their showdown about Darren’s deal, Libby felt she needed to show she trusted him and his financial acumen. ‘It’s going to be worth it, though. I’ve got this vision in my mind of how it’s all going to be when it’s finished, and I know people are going to be clamouring to stay here. If I would, they will. Why? Is there a problem?’
Alice tapped the paper with her pen. ‘According to this despatch note, and your order, only half the stuff’s here. You’re missing three baths, three showers, four loos and some brackety things.’ She compared the lists. ‘This is what Jason ordered . . . This is what they’ve sent.’
Libby rolled her eyes. ‘Brilliant. This always happens, doesn’t it? If you don’t check things . . . Good job we found out before the plumbers did. Jason can get on to the suppliers today. Have you seen him this morning?’
‘He was going into town.’ Alice looked mischievous. ‘He said that if you went mad because he’d gone out, I should tell you that he was shopping for your anniversary present.’
‘Oops.’ She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Thanks for the reminder. It’s on Friday. Five years.’
‘I know it’s on Friday,’ said Alice. ‘Margaret asked if I wouldn’t mind stepping in to do some cover, so you and Jason could, and I quote, “make a night of it”.’
Libby noted that Margaret wasn’t ‘stepping in’ to do the cover herself, but was touched she’d remembered. It couldn’t be easy for her.
Or for Alice, she thought guiltily, seeing her eyes drop momentarily to the invoices. Gethin still hadn’t called. By now they weren’t even jumping when the phone rang.
‘Listen, I bet you anything he’ll walk in on Friday night,’ she said impulsively. She didn’t need to say who. ‘He’ll have been working away all week, back on Friday, sees your note . . . Bam. Round here, bunch of roses, apologies, tears, happy ending.’
Alice forced a smile. ‘Yup. That’s generally how it works out in Hollywood.’
‘And Longhampton.’ Libby pretended to look outraged. ‘As Margaret is very fond of reminding me, nothing bad ever happens round here. They only keep the policemen on because they’ve got a nice male-voice choir.’
Libby knew from various ‘special meals’ of the past that Ferrari’s was generally regarded as the graduation/anniversary/birthday restaurant in Longhampton and had been since it opened in the early 1980s. It served a variety of Italian dishes, some of which had been in and out of fashion twice since their original arrival on the menu.
When Libby and Jason arrived on Friday evening, the maître d’ arrived to take their coats and make a huge fuss of Jason, whom he’d known since he was so high, and then of Libby, whose hand he kissed.
‘How is your mother?’ he asked Jason solicitously. ‘And her lovely dog?’
‘Both very well, Gianni,’ said Jason. ‘And Mrs Ferrari?’
This was obviously a long-standing joke, as Gianni roared with half-Italian, half-Longhampton laughter.
Throughout this performance, Jason’s eyes kept darting towards Libby, as if asking her to be patient, to play along, but Libby’s smiles were genuine. She liked the kitschiness of the place, and the sweet way Jason kept up his end of the routine. It reminded her of old times: Ferrari’s wasn’t unlike some of the cheap dates he’d taken her on before he had much money to splash or knew where to splash it.
They were shown to their table – the date-night table in the corner, with the two red roses in the centre – and Jason held out her chair.
‘Very kind,’ she said, sliding in.
‘Champagne!’ announced the waiter, presenting the chilled bottle to Jason with a flourish. ‘Sir?’
‘You’d better show it to madam – she’s the expert,’ he said, waving the bottle towards her.
Libby smiled across the table at him. ‘Looks perfect,’ she said to the waiter. ‘Please go ahead.’
The champagne was poured with maximum care and attention, a middle-aged couple dining nearby smiled benevolently at them, and with a final ceremonious lighting of the single candle, the waiter shimmied off.
‘Alone at last,’ he said. ‘Well, as much as you ever are round here.’
‘So,’ said Libby, lifting her glass.
He touched it with his. ‘Cheers. Happy anniversary.’
‘Happy anniversary, darling.’ She took a sip of champagne, savouring the tingle of the bubbles on her lips, and instantly the biscuity taste brought memories of all those other nights crowding back into her mind.
‘Here’s to the next five years.’ Jason took a more generous swig and made a ‘that’s better’ face. ‘Ah, that’s not bad at all, is it?’ He checked the label and looked impressed.
It was like old times, thought Libby – happier old times. To watch Jason in charge of a situation, checking wine labels, pretending he knew what he was looking for when they both knew he didn’t. She’d forgotten how sexy Jason looked in a suit, and felt a low, dirty buzz of excitement at the thought of later on: cufflinks out, shirtsleeves rolled up, his tanned forearms bare. She loved the intimacy of skin revealed under businesslike tailoring. Morning after morning, before she knew his name, Libby had gazed across the packed carriage at the soft gap between the good-looking stranger’s stiff white collar and the unruly
blond curl at the nape of his neck, and imagined pushing all the commuters aside so she could press her lips against it.
When the hotel was finished, Jason could wear a suit on Fridays, she thought. Dress-up Fridays. So she could trap him in the office, against the partners’ desk . . .
‘What are you thinking about?’ His expression was flirty now too. ‘You’ve got that look on your face.’
Libby let a seductive smile spread from her mouth up to her eyes. ‘What sort of look?’
‘The “where are we going on after?” look,’ said Jason. ‘No, I know. Are you wondering what I’ve got you for your anniversary present?’
‘No! Since you ask, I was thinking of how this all started. On that 6.53 train. You spilling your coffee over yourself.’
‘Oh!’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘That.’
‘That lovely scarf.’ She sighed. ‘I still miss it.’
‘Don’t I know it. How many scarves have I bought you to make up for it since?’
When the promised dry-cleaning didn’t work – to Jason’s mortification – a brand-new cashmere scarf had arrived at her desk. Libby had been dazzled. It had cost the same as two months’ salary for her. Too nice to wear.
‘You don’t need to buy me things,’ said Libby. ‘It’s you I want.’ She took another sip of champagne and eyed him over the rim of the flute. ‘That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You.’
‘Oh, so you don’t want this?’ He reached under the table and slid a small box in front of her. ‘Happy anniversary. Now where’s mine?’
Libby put her glass down and pulled her bag onto her knee. Jason’s beribboned present had only just made it in time. Thank goodness for internet shopping, she thought. ‘Open together?’
‘OK, go.’
There was the usual theatrical scrabbling at the paper, and when it was off, Libby found herself holding a box from Tanners, the town’s jeweller’s.
‘Oh, now that’s embarrassing,’ she said, looking across at Jason’s box. ‘I went for a joke present, for budget reasons.’
‘This is . . . perfect.’ He held up the Longhampton United football mug, personalised with his name on one side.
‘Your old one was on its last legs,’ she explained. ‘And they’ve changed their logo twice since then. It was that or the home strip, and I didn’t think black and red was really you.’
‘No. And I’ve nowhere to wear it these days. The rugby club tends to frown on people turning up in football kit.’
‘I do realise you play rugby, by the way,’ Libby added, in case he thought she’d got them mixed up, ‘but I noticed your coffee mug and, you know, new start, new team, back home . . .’
‘No, I get it.’ Jason smiled. She hoped he did like it. She hadn’t had as long as normal to think about his anniversary present; it had seemed like a flash of inspiration unloading the dishwasher, but now she wasn’t so sure.
‘Go on,’ he said, nodding at the box.
With a tiny twinge of misgiving, she pushed back the lid. The box was padded inside with red velvet, and sitting on top of it was a pair of diamond earrings. They were tiny – not the sparklers he’d given her in the past – but they were pretty, and real. The sort of thing he used to buy her because all the other wives had wish lists at Asprey, and he didn’t think she meant it when she said she’d prefer books or some jewellery she could wear without worrying about losing it.
‘Jason!’ she said, feeling ridiculously churlish. ‘They’re gorgeous! But . . .’
‘Don’t say it.’
‘I have to.’ Libby swallowed. ‘I love them. But you don’t need to buy me diamonds when we’re on a budget.’
She didn’t say shouldn’t. She didn’t want to take away the spontaneous gesture of it. The generosity she’d always loved.
Jason met her gaze. ‘I was in town, and I was walking past Tanners, and I remembered how Mum always used to make me stop while we were out shopping, so she could look at the display. And I used to think, When I’m a grown-up and I’ve got a wife, I’ll buy her nice things from Tanners. And now I’m lucky enough to have a wife, a better wife than I ever dreamed of having when I was a kid, and I felt so good, finally coming out with that little bag.’
‘Jason . . .’
He reached across the table and took her hands in his. ‘I know this last year’s been hard, and I know you’ve compromised on a lot to start again like this. Making breakfasts, and the dog, and my . . . my mother. But I promise you, Lib, I will make this seem like the best decision we ever made.’ Jason gazed up at her and Libby felt her heart flip at the hope in his expression.
‘I couldn’t do any of this without you,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to do it without you.’
‘Jason, I don’t know what to say.’
‘You don’t have to say anything. Put the earrings in. See if they fit?’
‘Course they fit. Diamonds always fit. That’s why they’re a girl’s best friend.’ Libby smiled and carefully unhooked her little gold hoops.
He watched as she slipped in the studs. ‘You’re my best friend. And you’re more beautiful than they are.’
Libby turned her head back and forth in the candlelight, making the diamonds sparkle, pretending she was modelling them. It felt nice, but she couldn’t quite enjoy it. The memory of the conversation with her dad still gave her a bad feeling. And where had Jason actually got the money from? The renovation account? Had it gone on a card?
She caught Jason gazing at her, so proud and pleased at the looks they were getting from the other tables, and she told herself to give it a rest, just for tonight. Tonight wasn’t about the hotel; it was about them. Their marriage. They might have lost material things, but they still had each other. They hadn’t had much when they first met, but it had been more than enough. Accepting these would show that, even if he had stuck them on a card, she believed they’d make enough to pay it off, together.
Libby reached across the table to take Jason’s hand. ‘I haven’t compromised to run the hotel with you, you idiot,’ she said, playing with his wedding ring. ‘I want to do it. I want us to make something real together. It’s going to be amazing.’
‘Well, it will be now we’re not reliant on me faffing around with a sander . . .’
‘You were great at sanding. You have no idea how much I fancied you in protective eye goggles. But you were right to get Marek in – it’s coming together so fast now. It’s going to be amazing.’
‘You have to take credit for that. Marek says you’ve got a great eye.’ Jason stroked her palm, following her life line. ‘Even Mum’s going to love those baths, once she sees them plumbed in.’
Libby wasn’t so sure. There’d been a slight chill in the air around Margaret since the weekend; she didn’t seem to think Libby had paid quite enough attention to Jason’s ‘alcohol poisoning’ and had expressed her disapproval in a series of passive-aggressive comments about the showers. ‘Ostentatious’, apparently.
Actually, Libby realised, that’s not passive aggressive.
‘Turns out all those spa breaks with the girls were good research.’ He smiled. ‘I bet Erin’s chomping at the bit to come out, is she?’
‘She says so.’ Libby wavered. ‘She might just be being polite. They go to some pretty smart places . . .’
‘And the Swan won’t be? Come on! Once the website’s up and she reads about your romantic boudoirs, the whole street’ll be trying to make a block booking. How many thread counts were we supposed to be having? A thousand? Ten thousand? Is that the same as togs? How many togs did you order?’
Jason pretended to look bewildered and Libby laughed at him.
‘Four hundred should be fine. But we don’t have to . . .’
He raised a warning finger and touched her lips, knowing what she was about to say, then moved it away, before it could feel mean. ‘Don’t. Just tr
ust me, OK?’
‘I do.’ Libby gazed into his beautiful pale blue eyes, hoping he could see into her heart the way she felt she was looking into his. ‘But none of this is worth more than us. You know that, don’t you? I’d rather have nothing and you than be running Claridge’s and be . . . and be where we were before.’
‘I just want to give you everything,’ he said simply. ‘You can’t blame me for that, can you?’
‘The earrings are more than enough,’ said Libby firmly. ‘More. Than. Enough. Look. Here comes Gianni for our order – do you know what you want?’
‘Yes,’ said Jason, and the burning, hungry look he directed straight at her, over the date-night-table candles, made her shiver inside.
After the champagne, they put away a bottle of red wine, some homemade ravioli, and shared an ice-cream sundae – which was brought with two long spoons and an avuncular wink – and as they were finishing, two brandies arrived, a gift, Gianni explained, from the older couple they’d seen on the way in.
‘Stan and Rosemary. They tell me they were given champagne on their honeymoon,’ explained Gianni as he delivered them on a silver tray, ‘and they like to pass on the gesture to a young couple in love on their anniversary.’
‘That’s very romantic,’ said Libby. By the door, Stan was courteously helping Rosemary into her smart pink coat, a picture of married bliss. Libby smiled and blew a tipsy thank-you kiss to them and they smiled.
‘We should come out more often,’ said Jason, turning back to the table. ‘I think that’s the first time anyone’s bought me a drink back here.’
‘I’m going to put it on the Tree of Kindness in the hospital.’ Libby was feeling quite emotional. Or ‘emotion-ale’ as Jason termed any booze-enhanced humanitarianism. ‘Thank you, Stan and Rosemary, for giving me and my husband something to aim for on our anniversary.’
‘What? Still going out for dinner in our fifties?’