One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

  Libby went directly to what she couldn’t put into words, as usual. ‘Don’t you fancy him?’

  ‘Yes! Well, in theory. He’s a good-looking guy, but . . .’ Alice bit her lip. ‘I remember enough to know I had my fingers burned with good-looking guys in the past. In London, when I was temping. And Gethin’s different. Whatever we had is more emotional than that. More . . . subtle.’

  ‘Maybe you need to go on that holiday again. The one where you met?’

  ‘Maybe. I looked it up on the internet – the photos were familiar. Ish. There were lots of testimonials from people who said it put them in touch with who they really were. I don’t remember it at all. I know I was stressed, with work, I think, and a relationship that didn’t end well . . .’ She tailed off. Did she know that? Or was that what Gethin had told her? Same thing. Her memories, just stored by him.

  ‘You can’t remember actually being there?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘That’s the point where it all goes blank. I can’t remember Gethin, and I can’t remember what he told me about why he was there.’

  ‘Urgh, tricky.’

  ‘I’m going to have to ask him. I’m walking on eggshells, worrying I’m accidentally going to put my foot in it, not knowing something personal he confided in me. It really seems to upset him when I can’t remember details about our relationship. I think Gethin’s struggling, me not recognising him. And he knows everything about me.’

  Almost everything. Gethin didn’t know why she was in Longhampton when she was knocked down. Or why she’d been so ungrateful about his lovely holiday surprise. Little holes that neither of them could explain, but which Alice felt she could fall through at any moment.

  Libby looked sideways at her, her ‘problem-solving’ expression on her face.

  ‘This is just a suggestion,’ she said, ‘but why don’t you let Gethin court you all over again?’

  ‘That’s not easy when you’re sharing a bathroom.’

  ‘That’s what I mean – don’t share a bathroom just yet. Why don’t you come back to us for a week or so and have dates with Gethin? Going back there obviously hasn’t triggered your memory, so why don’t you take the pressure off by letting things develop slowly again? I bet he’d love to court you. He looks the romantic type.’

  Alice considered it. It wasn’t a bad idea – and Gethin was romantic. He had an old-fashioned gallantry about him that was very sweet, and this might give him a bit more control over the weird situation he’d been thrust into. ‘I don’t want to impose on you and Jason . . .’

  ‘You’re not imposing! You’d be doing me a favour. And we miss you. Don’t we, Bob? How about it? Run it by Gethin, and enjoy the romance. You already know it’s got a happy ending – sounds win-win to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘I think you might be right.’

  Gethin’s reaction that evening was as Alice had guessed: a flash of disappointment crossed his face when she put it to him, but he quickly rallied.

  ‘I’m going to show you exactly why you and I are made for each other,’ he told her, as she packed a bag for herself. ‘We’re so lucky to get the chance to fall in love all over again. Just wait.’

  Their first ‘date night’ was on Thursday. Alice got the train from Longhampton to Stratton, and Gethin collected her at the station. He was wearing an unfamiliar jacket, instead of his usual polo shirt, and seemed to have done something to his hair – the unruly curls were tamed and smooth. But instead of driving into town, as she’d expected, he headed back to the house.

  ‘Wait there,’ he said, before Alice could get out. ‘I just need to do a couple of things . . .’

  She fidgeted while he was gone. Libby had been very excited at the date-night idea and had helped her get ready; they’d both assumed it’d be a meal out, or a film or something, and she’d dressed up accordingly. Before she had time to think how she could downgrade her outfit, Gethin was opening the car door and ushering her into the house.

  Inside, the hallway was transformed by a flickering sea of tea lights, and the smell of garlic and herbs drifted through from the kitchen, along with the gentle murmur of an Adele album. The light bounced off the framed photos of the two of them on the hall table.

  ‘Wow,’ said Alice. ‘This is very . . . romantic.’

  ‘Good! I hoped you weren’t going to say, “Have you had a power cut?”’ Gethin rubbed his chin. ‘I’ve just put dinner in the oven. Should be about an hour or so.’

  ‘Oh! Sorry – I sort of assumed, when you said you were planning something special, that we’d be going out.’ She eyed his jacket and smart trousers. They didn’t ring a bell, either.

  ‘Nothing wrong with making an effort.’ He held out his hand for her jacket. ‘And very beautiful you look too!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Libby had lent her one of her own going-out dresses (‘You should make an effort! Plenty of time for jeans later!’), and though Alice had scoffed at the tiny black dress on the hanger, it did look very different on. She didn’t have anything like it in her own wardrobe, but the shape suited her, fitting her neat curves as if she’d had it tailored. It was very tight.

  ‘You should keep that dress,’ Libby had sighed. ‘I’ve never looked as hot as that in it.’

  ‘In fact,’ Gethin went on, ‘you look more than nice. You look amazing.’

  Alice blushed, and did a self-conscious twirl, ending in a slight wobble. She was wearing the green stilettos she’d found in her wardrobe, and clearly she hadn’t worn them for a while because her balance was off.

  Gethin put his hands out to catch her and the sudden touch of his fingers on her bare arm startled her. Touching should have been easy and natural, but instead they were both hyper-conscious of every movement they made.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, with a small smile. ‘These shoes . . .’

  ‘Ah, I’ve never been a huge fan of those, to be honest. I don’t know how you can walk in them.’

  ‘Well, clearly I can’t. They’re gorgeous, though, aren’t they? Do you wear a suit a lot when we go out? Because you should.’ She put a hand on his sleeve jacket. That felt safe. ‘It suits you.’

  Gethin’s puppy-dog eyes widened with surprise, and then amusement. ‘No, I’m more of a casual dresser. But if you like it . . .’

  ‘I do,’ she said, and finally a flirtatiousness seemed to enter the atmosphere between them. Alice felt her muscles loosen a degree or two. First dates always felt contrived.

  ‘So, would you like to come through?’ He gestured towards the sitting room. ‘Can I get you a drink, to start with? What’ll you have?’

  There’s a right answer to this, she thought, and I don’t know what it is. ‘What do I normally have?’ she asked, trying to sound jokey.

  ‘You’re quite partial to cider, as a matter of fact,’ said Gethin.

  ‘Am I?’ Alice hadn’t felt a yearning for cider at all, but then the consultant had said that some things might change as the brain reset itself. Still, at least she wouldn’t have to relearn how to love homebrew or something.

  ‘You’re something of a connoisseur,’ Gethin went on. ‘We went to a cider festival last summer, in Herefordshire? We camped so we could go to an all-day tasting. It was the first time we went away together.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Separate tents. You insisted.’

  ‘Did I?’ That was a good tick box too. Moral standards.

  ‘You did. And you made me put your tent up too. Sit down and I’ll be with you in a second. Just got to check on the main course.’ He seemed to be waiting for her to say something; then when she didn’t, he ran a hand through his hair, releasing a thick curl from its carefully smoothed neatness. The nervousness of the gesture made something catch in Alice’s chest.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Should I . . . ?’

  Gethin gazed at her, with a twitch of his mouth. ‘No, it’s just n
ormally you’d tell me to stop fussing. It’s quite nice that you didn’t.’

  ‘In that case . . . stop fussing, Gethin,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure supper will be fine.’

  He smiled back, grateful, and even though Alice had had to fake it, she was pleased that she’d managed to strike the right chord for him. Familiar behaviour would coax out more familiar behaviour. Hadn’t she read that online somewhere?

  She walked into the sitting room, trying to take it all in by candlelight. By the door was a framed photo of Gethin that she hadn’t spotted before, fresh-faced and ruddy-cheeked, in his graduation gown. Where was that from? She ought to know that. Alice peered at the crest. Swansea University. She made a mental note. Swansea. 2004. Gethin Emrys Williams.

  There were plenty more framed photos in the sitting room: her and Gethin at a festival. Her on a swing, in wellies and a summer dress. Her and Gethin on the beach at Aberystwyth. The only photos that gave Alice a proper rush of recognition were older ones – her and her dad at Blackpool with candyfloss, her with her first car outside a flat-share in Haringey, her and her mum on a merry-go-round horse called Dana – and they were upstairs in her photo album.

  She picked up another photo of her and Gethin standing near a glowing bonfire, their faces spookily lit up with flash as they waved sparklers. Alice had drawn a heart in sparks; Gethin had written a ‘G’. Sparks, she thought. Like memories – so bright, then gone.

  ‘Now that was a fabulous night,’ he said, and she jumped.

  Gethin was behind her, holding two glasses.

  ‘Bonfire night, last year. Very special. There you go,’ he said, offering her a cold glass. ‘Westons Old Rosie. That is, let me tell you, your favourite ever cider.’ He looked excited. ‘Have a sip, go on.’

  Alice held his gaze. He was clearly hoping she’d have a Proustian moment with the cider. And she wanted to – she really wanted to.

  She closed her eyes and focused. The cold glass. The appley smell. She tried to conjure up the tents, the damp grass, the night air – it didn’t come, but she smiled anyway, and took a sip.

  It was nice cider. It didn’t make anything come flooding back, though. When she opened her eyes, Gethin was gazing at her hopefully.

  ‘Lovely!’ she said, then without knowing why added, ‘A cider festival, you said?’

  ‘It brought something back?’ His eyes lit up and Alice found herself nodding. ‘Excellent! So!’ He steered her towards the sofa facing the large television screen; next to it was a laptop and some cables. On the side tables were bowls of popcorn and nachos and olives – a strange mixture of nibbles and cinema food.

  Gethin put down his cider and rubbed his hands. ‘Tonight, Bunny, I’m going to take you through a multi-sensory date experience!’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I’m going to show you our entire relationship through the medium of food, wine, music, photos and finishing up with a film. By which time, I hope your memory will be well and truly jogged.’

  Before Alice could speak, Gethin kneeled down in front of the sofa and reached out for her hands, lacing his fingers between hers. It felt a tiny bit too much, but Alice let it happen, because this clearly meant a huge amount to him. ‘I know it took me back, going through the photos and things. Some really happy times. I hope this works for you. I don’t want to be the only one who remembers them.’

  Alice didn’t know what to say. The more wistful Gethin sounded about their relationship, the more guilty she felt that she might never regain her memory of it. It sounded so happy. Fish and chips, beaches, camping, holidays . . .

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said. ‘Slightly weird, I’ve got to admit, but . . . wonderful.’

  She settled into the leather sofa and watched him fidget with the laptop.

  ‘Gethin,’ she said, ‘why don’t you take your jacket off? I mean, I’m flattered that you’ve got dressed up and everything, but if you’d be more comfortable . . .’

  He turned. ‘If you don’t mind?’

  ‘Course I don’t mind.’ It was hard enough sitting on the squashy sofa in her tight dress; Alice’s thighs were already beginning to ache from the effort of keeping her knees together.

  We don’t normally dress up like this, she thought, slotting the fact into her new memory. He’s making a special effort. To show me how much this means to him.

  ‘Cheers.’ He slipped off his jacket, draped it carefully over the arm of a nearby chair and crouched down, his sturdy thighs straining against the trouser material.

  ‘All right. Here we go.’ He waved a remote control at the stereo. Adele stopped and Ellie Goulding started. On the television screen was a photo of them smiling up at the camera surrounded by tents, brandishing a bottle of cider each as the sun set. Underneath were the words ‘Gethin and Alice’.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he apologised. ‘It’s not all cheesy like that. The slideshow made me do it.’

  ‘It’s cute!’ said Alice. ‘Is that the camping holiday in Herefordshire?’

  ‘Yes!’ Gethin looked thrilled, then realised she was remembering something he’d just told her.

  He scrambled up and sat next to her on the sofa. ‘So . . . I started with some photographs from the retreat where we met,’ he explained, as the screen faded up on a picture of some vineyards, rolling in neat lines towards a perfect periwinkle sky. ‘You’re on the edge of the group there. I’m sitting on the wall.’

  Alice could just pick herself out of the group – twenty or so youngish people in long shorts and bright sundresses, squinting into the sunlight. She looked plumper than she was now, in a straw cowboy hat.

  ‘Is that me? I’ve got blonde hair,’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Yes, you were blonde when we met. You called it your break-up hairdo.’

  That rang a bell. Alice felt something click inside her, a slide slotting into the back of her head. Sore eyes, crying late at night outside a Tube station while people walked past her and not caring if they saw. Aching, aching, aching to talk to her mum, just once more, to bury her face into her chest.

  ‘Gethin, pause this a moment, will you?’

  He stopped the slideshow. ‘Have you remembered something?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Alice squeezed her forehead, above her eyebrows. ‘I just need to get it straight, before we go on. What was I stressed about? That I went on the retreat?’

  He looked at her and took her hand. ‘You worked through it. Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  Gethin breathed in, then out slowly. ‘Well, you were at a crossroads. You told me that you felt you should have aimed higher than just temping – you were smarter than some of the people you were working for, but the money was decent and you were worried you’d left it too late to get more qualifications.’

  Alice frowned. That sounded reasonable. Her wardrobe backed that up.

  ‘And you’d finished a relationship that . . . that wasn’t going anywhere.’ He dropped his gaze.

  ‘A married man?’ Alice guessed.

  ‘Um, yes. You didn’t tell me anything about him. Just that he was married. And you finished it.’

  ‘Oh.’ That wasn’t a nice thing to find out about yourself.

  Part of her felt ashamed that Gethin had known that about her. Still, if he’d known from the start and still liked her . . .

  ‘And I’d just broken up with my girlfriend,’ Gethin went on, to make the confession fair, ‘and I was thinking about changing jobs . . . We met just at the right time.’ He looked at her with his simple, guileless gaze. ‘We were each other’s fresh start. We were meant to be together. And from the day we met everything started to make sense.’

  Alice smiled, but inside she wasn’t quite so calm.

  He was lovely, and he trusted her, and she’d be an idiot to mess up this gorgeous relationship. But what if she’d done th
ings he didn’t know about, and they came back? What then?

  Gethin squeezed her hand tightly.

  ‘What?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Just thinking.’ He smiled. ‘How lucky you and I are. You and me, we’re meant to be together.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Libby didn’t know whether it had something to do with the building work reaching a new pitch in the hotel or some kind of early hay fever coming from the garden, but for a few days now both Margaret and Jason had been behaving in odd, and not particularly helpful ways.

  Since Alice was now more or less recovered and dealing with any small jobs around the hotel, Margaret’s mood had taken a turn for the worse. She wasn’t miserable, just critical, picking faults – always excruciatingly politely – about the building work, the frequency of Bob’s walks, whether anyone had checked with her before moving various paintings . . . Anything and everything. Libby was grateful for Alice’s diplomatic presence in the flat, because frankly Margaret’s unpredictable outbursts were starting to jangle her and Jason’s already stretched nerves.

  ‘Donald must have been an excellent listener,’ Alice observed, after Margaret had spent an entire supper telling them in great detail about Donald’s famous tackling of The Guest Who Complained Because There Were No Duvets, a story even Alice had now heard three times. ‘Do you think she needs something to do? It must be strange to be here, watching everything changing.’

  ‘She’s supposed to be taking it easy,’ Libby had replied, but she was beginning to think Alice might have a point. The trouble was, Margaret didn’t want to help with any of the changes they were making in the hotel, and Libby didn’t know enough people in town to make discreet enquiries about outside projects Margaret could be co-opted into.

  Unlike Jason. He’d been out nearly every evening that week, either with the rugby club or his friends, and on the nights he had been around, he’d been on his laptop in the office, ‘working on the accounts’. She hadn’t wanted to disturb him then, because her worries about the budgets wouldn’t go away: the manufacturer still didn’t have the entire bathroom order for some reason, and she was having sleepless nights about whether she’d maybe gone overboard with the specifications.