by Lucy Dillon
Again, it was a blessing that Alice was around, Libby thought. If it weren’t for Alice, and her calm attitude to crashing broadband, and noisy builders, and sulking mothers-in-law, and now Bob’s engagement diary, she’d probably go mad.
‘You’re juggling a lot,’ said Alice kindly. ‘Bob should have left you a note about his transport requirements.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she said. ‘I thought Margaret was taking him up to the PAT session, but apparently not.’
‘Put it on the Tree of Kindness while you’re there,’ said Alice, swivelling on her chair behind the reception desk, as Libby rushed to get Bob’s paraphernalia together. ‘“Thank you, Alice, for doing a job you really don’t mind doing, and in fact used to play at on a regular basis when you were little.”’
‘I won’t be long.’ Libby hunted for her handbag. ‘Margaret’s had to go out somewhere with Jason. Who had to take her, apparently.’ She glanced up, guiltily. ‘I’m being a cow, I know. I’ve got a feeling it’s some sort of minor Donald anniversary, but she knew I needed Jason to help me measure up the windows for curtains today. It’s like she wants to prove she takes priority. She’s making it into some sort of competition, and it’s really not.’
‘I’m sure she’s not doing it on purpose. Well’ – Alice twisted her mouth – ‘she probably is. But cut her some slack. How long till you can show her another finished room? Not long now.’
Libby found her lanyard and looped it round her neck. ‘It’d just be nice if Jason would say something, instead of leaving it to me the whole time.’
They exchanged a weary glance. Jason, Libby had come to realise, was brilliant at avoiding confrontation. He was never at the desk when guests wanted to make a fuss about something or the builders needed a decision.
‘Don’t rush back from the hospital,’ said Alice. ‘Have a coffee in town. Forget about this place for an hour. I’ll be fine here – it’s not like we’re busy.’
‘Thanks,’ said Libby. ‘I might do that.’
The roads were clear, and the sun was out, and by the time Libby walked into the hospital with Bob, she was in a better mood. Longhampton wore late spring like a pretty dress: the hedgerows were spriggy and green, distant white lambs speckled the fields, and the freshness in the air felt as if it could clean her from the inside out.
She smiled at everyone they passed in the corridors en route to the geriatric wing, and when Bob made his entrance to the patients’ usual delight, Libby felt quite proud of him. He was wearing a floppy velvet bow tie Jason had bought for a fancy-dress party; it gave him a rakish yet academic air.
Bob made a beeline for Doris, the old housekeeper, and Libby dutifully followed.
‘Morning, Doris,’ she said, when Bob arranged himself at her feet, his noble head lifted for attention. ‘How are we today?’
‘How do you think a ninety-three-year-old woman usually feels? Happy to be alive, just. How are you, my lad?’ Doris was still crotchety at first, but she sweetened up considerably the longer Bob sat there. ‘Have I got a biscuit for you? Have I?’
Libby sat down in the chair next to Doris and let Bob do his solemn pat-enduring in return for an illicit custard cream. Across the room, she saw Gina, sitting patiently while two old ladies in wheelchairs talked animatedly to Buzz, her greyhound, who gazed steadfastly between them, his ears lifted as if he were listening to their conversation.
Gina raised a hand in greeting and Libby waved back. Another friend, she thought, and it gave her an unexpected glow.
‘How are you getting on with your hotel?’ Doris asked, and Libby jumped, since Doris always seemed more interested in Bob than in her.
‘Fine, thanks.’ Libby seized on the opener. ‘Doris, you were going to tell me some stories about when you were there . . .’
‘Ooh, we’d be here all day, love. I started working there when the Hannifords first turned it into a hotel. That’d be 1950.’
‘What was it before that?’ Libby sometimes wondered about the house’s life before Donald’s tartan takeover. Whether the sideboards had held silver kedgeree dishes instead of plastic cereal containers. Whether the lounge had thrilled to smart parties, rather than the bored rustle of people reading back issues of Country Life. What the ghosts of those people made of the glass-eyed stags and avocado suites she didn’t like to imagine.
‘It was Dr Cartwright’s house. Very nice it was too. Not the smartest house round here, but up there. Far too big for one family after the war, once you couldn’t get maids to do all that housework, so he sold it and the Hannifords came from Birmingham and turned it into a hotel.’
‘And you were the housekeeper?’
‘I started as a maid and worked up,’ said Doris. ‘I learned how to run the hotel from the old housekeeper, Miss Greene. She was a right tartar. She’d been a sister from the old hospital in town. Very particular. Things were much harder in those days, you know. We still had fires in the rooms. The grates I cleaned in that place . . . The day Mrs Corcoran had them taken out and replaced with electric fires, I got on my knees and thanked her, so to speak.’
‘How funny. We’ve just taken all those heaters out and unboarded the fireplaces.’ Libby smiled. ‘How times change, eh?’
Doris looked at her as if she were mad. ‘And who’ll be cleaning them grates out?’
‘No one! I’m going to fill them with pine cones.’
Doris muttered something under her breath and gave Bob’s ears an extra scratch.
‘So Margaret and Donald took over the hotel when – in 1980?’
‘About that time, yes. And with two little babies too. Two under two, she had.’ Doris’s wrinkles conveyed what Libby assumed was amazement. It could have been mild disapproval, though. ‘Very determined, Mrs Corcoran. Never known organisation like it. Took to hotels like a duck to water.’
‘She wasn’t from a hotel background, then?’ Libby knew she wasn’t, but Doris clearly enjoyed telling her things she didn’t know. Libby knew from interviewing people that was the best way of teasing out gossip.
‘Oh no. No, I don’t think so. They moved in from Worcestershire. Funnily enough, my cousin Pamela came from the same town as Mrs Corcoran, so when I told her who I was working for, she said, “Oh, that wouldn’t be Maggie Jackson as was, would it?” And it was. Pam was at school with her. Same year.’
‘Really! Isn’t it a small world,’ said Libby. She couldn’t imagine Margaret being called ‘Maggie’. She definitely wasn’t a Maggie.
‘It is indeed a small world.’ Doris’s eyes twinkled. ‘And—’
Libby’s bag beeped and she reached into it apologetically. ‘Sorry, that’s my phone. I’m expecting the last of the new baths to come today, and the builders said they’d call when they arrived. I can’t relax till I know they’re here.’
Doris folded her hands in her lap and regarded her with an inscrutable ‘old lady knows all’ expression.
The text was from Alice’s new phone; Gethin had sorted her out with a mobile, which he’d dropped off a few evenings ago. He’d stayed for dinner, of course, and told them some funny stories about his awful school drama tour. Libby liked Gethin; Margaret adored him; she’d invited him back ‘anytime he liked’. The only person who hadn’t been that keen was Lord Bob, probably because Gethin got his priority spot next to Margaret.
Libby frowned. The message was, Come back ASAP. Problem at hotel.
With builders? she texted back, and waited. Nothing came.
‘Sorry, Doris, you were telling me about Margaret. Thirty-five years, eh? Maybe we should have a party when the renovation’s finished? For the original staff?’
‘I’d like that,’ said Doris. ‘I can’t wait to see your fireplaces. With the pine cones.’
‘And you have to tell me all your stories about the hotel, so maybe I can put them in a little book.’ Libby’s mind was
racing now; maybe she could make it a present for Margaret? A celebration of the Swan Hotel from 1980 onwards – could she take offence at that?
‘Oh, I’ve plenty of stories,’ said Doris, and Libby’s phone beeped again.
Big problems with builders and Jason. Please come back ASAP.
‘Oh dear,’ said Libby. ‘I think we’re going to have to go.’
Libby knew something was up even before she got out of her car back at the hotel.
Three of the builders were outside loading up the van with their working gear: circular saws, tubs of paintbrushes, dust sheets. And they were doing it about twice as quickly as they’d ever unloaded.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, in a friendly tone, but they nodded towards the hotel. Libby cursed inwardly; only two of the builders actually had designated speaking roles, and most of them didn’t make eye contact with her if they could help it.
She hurried inside with Lord Bob and found Alice hovering around the reception desk, her face clouded with anxiety. Two more builders were dismantling the trestles they’d been using for . . . something or other, and another one walked past with a stepladder.
‘Hey,’ said Libby. ‘That’s our stepladder, isn’t it?’
Sulkily, he put it back against the wall.
Libby flashed him an ‘I’m coming back to you’ look and turned to Alice. ‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know! I’m so sorry to drag you away from the hospital,’ said Alice, ‘but I heard Jason and Simon yelling upstairs about half an hour ago, and then the builders started coming downstairs with their gear. I asked Simon what was going on and he says they’re leaving!’
Simon was the foreman who made the decisions in Marek’s absence; he wasn’t completely convincing, and spent a lot of time on the phone checking things with the boss.
Lord Bob was straining to go upstairs and investigate, so Libby pushed him inside the office and shut the door, not even caring about the risk he posed to her good biscuits. ‘Why are they leaving?’
Alice widened her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I heard Jason shouting something about money and being paid, but . . .’
‘What?’ Libby’s heart sank. ‘Stay there. I need to find out what’s going on.’
Jason was upstairs in room six, which now had ragged holes in two walls, and he was jabbing his finger at Simon, who had his hands raised in a manner that managed to be simultaneously passive and enraging.
‘You can’t do this!’ Jason’s face was bright red and he looked as if the situation had left his control some time ago. ‘You get that gear back in here right now, and you tell the lads to keep working or I swear I will sue you from here to next week. I know some shit-hot lawyers and they will have a field day—’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, come on, folks – can’t we talk about this calmly?’ said Libby, but they ignored her. Clearly things had escalated way beyond calm discussion.
‘Instructions from the top, Jason,’ Simon replied. ‘We’re needed on another job. It happens.’
‘But you haven’t finished this one! For Christ’s sake!’ Jason pointed wildly at the matching holes in the walls. ‘You can’t leave it like this!’
‘It’s not going to fall down – they’re internal walls. Besides, the boss is really strict about late payments. What can I do? No money, no job. Be reasonable. Do you work for no pay?’
Late payments. No pay. Libby’s stomach clenched. There had to be a good explanation for this. She turned to Jason, but he wouldn’t meet her eye. Dread rose inside her.
‘What can you do?’ Jason looked as if he was about to hyperventilate. ‘Because I don’t believe there’s nothing you can do.’
‘Jason, can I have a word?’ Libby tried to keep her voice calm, but alarm bells were ringing about the hysterical way Jason was arguing. He was an inveterate blame-shifter. He’d managed to blame Bosch for making dishwashers that didn’t take Fairy Liquid. The more he tried to make this about the builders, the more Libby’s gut instinct told her he was at the bottom of this.
Besides, she reasoned, there was no point joining in with his yelling until she knew what they were yelling about.
‘In the office?’ she added, as he and Simon continued to glare at each other. She had to pull Jason’s arm, and then finally, with a glower at Simon, he followed her.
As they went downstairs, they had to dodge a couple of builders carrying more gear towards the front door.
‘Can we make this quick before they strip the entire hotel?’ Jason said loudly in their direction, and Libby marched into the office and shut the door behind them.
Bob was demolishing the packet of Jaffa Cakes Libby had bought to share with Alice after lunch. Sensing the simmering mood, he abandoned the crumbs and retreated to a place of safety under the desk.
‘What’s going on?’ Libby gestured to the van being loaded outside. ‘What did Simon mean, they haven’t been paid?’
‘There must have been a mix-up with the bank,’ Jason started, but as soon as he said it Libby’s heart sank, because she knew from the way his eyes slid sideways that there hadn’t been.
‘Don’t bullshit me. Please. When were we supposed to pay them?’
‘Friday. But that’s not the point.’ Jason stuck a hand in his hair and looked evasive. ‘I bet Marek had another job lined up all along and he’s just using this as an excuse. I knew this would happen . . .’
‘Really? Friday?’ Libby was trying to do calculations: staged payments . . . materials . . . How much did they owe? She kicked herself for not knowing. Was that trusting Jason or being lazy? She knew, deep down, she’d never liked dealing with money. That had been part of the problem. ‘That’s nearly a week late. How much are we talking about?’
‘What? Are you suggesting I’m lying?’ Jason demanded. ‘Or that I don’t know what I’m doing?’
‘I’m not suggesting either,’ she said. ‘But they’re walking off the job. They’re not going to do that over a few quid. Marek’s a reasonable man.’
‘Apparently not. Simon had the nerve to say to me—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, now’s not the time to get on your high horse about builder etiquette,’ said Libby impatiently. ‘Just pay them, Jason!’
‘With what?’
Their voices were rising and Libby made an effort to lower her tone, not wanting Alice to hear. Or Margaret, if she was back. ‘With the money allocated for this phase of building work in the budget.’ It came out through gritted teeth and sounded more sarcastic than she meant it to.
Jason stared back at her. The vein on his forehead was throbbing.
‘The renovation account,’ she said. ‘The money from the sale of our house that we set aside to finance this project. I know you said it was tied up and you couldn’t get hold of it for that plumbing invoice, but surely you’ve managed to move things around now?’
He still didn’t speak and her heart sank.
Oh no, thought Libby. Please no.
‘Are you telling me there isn’t any money?’ she said. ‘There has to be – I saw it in the hotel bank account . . .’
When? When had she seen it in the bank account? She’d been so busy lately that she hadn’t been keeping track of the internet banking.
‘Bloody hell, Jason, just tell me what’s going on.’
He sat down at the desk and put his head in his hands. The gesture sent a chill through Libby’s whole body. ‘I had to pay some bills.’ His voice was muffled. ‘Staged payments, and the materials, and the insurance – it added up. And then I found some rate arrears Mum hadn’t paid and they were about to go to the bailiffs. She was very upset, obviously, so I paid them.’
‘Why hadn’t she paid them?’
‘She didn’t know how. Come on, she never paid any bills while Dad was alive. She just put things in the drawer and hoped they’d go away.’
Libby stared. It felt as if this was happening to someone else. And neither of them had told her that minor detail? Jason or Margaret? It had been her money that had gone into repaying Margaret’s mortgage too.
‘Anyway, that wiped out our cash. Including the money your dad loaned us.’
‘What? Oh my God. Then what?’ Libby prompted him. She didn’t want to know, and yet she did.
Another long pause. ‘Then Darren phoned me again. About the oilfields deal.’
‘The one I asked you not to invest in?’ The gaping holes in the walls upstairs flashed in front of Libby’s eyes. The unplumbed baths. ‘Are you joking? The risky investment opportunity you promised you wouldn’t risk our only capital on?’
‘You know it’s not risky.’ He looked petulant. ‘It’s a small company that’s got a mining licence to—’
‘Don’t tell me what I know!’ Libby wanted to cry, but her eyes felt strangely hot, and dry. ‘And don’t give me that “you don’t understand investments” bollocks! After what you put us through, some people might think that asking you to walk backwards for the rest of your life wouldn’t be unreasonable, but all I asked you to do, all I wanted, so I wouldn’t have to worry like that again, was for you to swear you wouldn’t do anything with our money without telling me first! How hard was that?’ She sank down into a chair, her knees suddenly unable to support her.
‘So . . . tell me. That money in the account, from the house. Tell me there’s some left.’ Her voice didn’t sound like hers. A hundred thousand pounds. A safe amount of money.
‘No. It’s gone.’
‘What?’ Libby stared. ‘Gone? How?’ A horrible thought dawned on her. ‘Oh my God, this isn’t the first deal you’ve done, is it? Is it? It’s just the first one you’ve told me about!’