by Lucy Dillon
Libby shook her head in disbelief. ‘Margaret, don’t defend him. Please. He’s let us both down. The fact that Jason can’t ever accept he’s wrong is at the bottom of all his problems. You’re just reinforcing that.’
‘Have you ever thought you might be wrong?’
‘Yes!’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘All the time! I worry constantly about whether I’ve done the right thing – not just here, everywhere. But Jason doesn’t. He never does. He cannot be criticised, by me or work, or anyone, and it comes from never being wrong in this house. And meanwhile poor Luke . . . God, poor Luke works his arse off, builds up a successful business and you haven’t got a good word to say about him! I don’t know what you see when you look at those two.’
‘What would you know about parenting?’ said Margaret icily. ‘Another thing you’ve been very selfish about, in my opinion. Was that something else you were pressuring Jason to provide for? Private schools? A nanny? Wasn’t that why you kept putting him off about starting a family?’
Her words hit a sore spot, and Libby recoiled. Had Jason discussed their family plans with his mother? Had he moaned to her? How many cosy chats about the state of their marriage had they had since she’d given up her life to move in here?
Margaret saw she’d landed a blow and pursed her lips.
‘Actually,’ said Libby, ‘I’m relieved we haven’t brought children into this mess. It’s their future that Jason’s gambled away.’ She wanted to be cold, like Margaret, but she couldn’t; the reality of what she’d just said made her want to cry.
‘Stop saying gambling.’ Margaret’s mouth twitched. ‘It makes it sound so . . . sordid.’
‘Currency trading is gambling. Just because someone wears a suit to do it doesn’t make them any better than the lads down at William Hill betting their rent on the dogs.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! We’re not in a soap opera! I think you need to calm down, Elizabeth.’ Margaret switched tack back to patronising. ‘We don’t want to say things in the heat of the moment that we might regret. Jason could walk back through the door tonight with everything sorted out. Then what sort of atmosphere would we have?’
You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Libby thought. All sorted out, nice and neat, and you don’t have to do a thing.
‘I very much doubt he’s coming back,’ she said aloud, instead.
‘He will. I know my son. He’s probably gone away to think. How can anyone think in this mess? Jason’s like his father. He’s a coper.’
Oh, the things I could tell you about Donald. Libby’s nails dug into her palms. Donald didn’t cope at all. He just asked his friend at the bank if he could remortgage – he had all the business sense of a cod.
But she made herself bite her tongue. Donald wasn’t here to defend himself. And Libby could already see how that would be repeated to Jason, her spiteful attack on his dead father’s memory.
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ she said. ‘He’s already refused to get his stake back from his mate. Too proud. So he’s left us. To deal with his mess.’
‘Your mess,’ snapped Margaret. ‘The mess you’ve made of my hotel.’
‘No,’ Libby reminded her. ‘Our hotel. My redundancy payment took care of your overdraft. I’m on the deeds, as well as Jason.’
They stared at each other furiously. Libby couldn’t decide whether she was angrier that this nightmare was basically down to Margaret’s spoiling of Jason or that Margaret held her responsible.
It’s Jason’s ego that’s the problem, pointed out a little voice in her head. No one made him invest that money.
‘You seem to have given up on him already,’ said Margaret, rather dramatically for someone who didn’t think she was in a soap opera. ‘I’m glad I don’t share your lack of faith. When Jason comes back, I’ll be in my room. Come on, Bob.’
And she swept out, leaving Libby staring at the shabby kitchen units, too shattered to reply.
The next morning, when Alice tiptoed into the kitchen, there was no one there but Bob, sitting by the fridge waiting patiently for his breakfast.
‘Oh good,’ she said to him. ‘At least someone’s acting normally.’
To her extreme embarrassment, Alice had heard Libby and Margaret’s entire row from beginning to end; she’d been on the point of stepping in to try to defuse the tension when things had taken a personal turn, leaving her stranded on the squeaky-floorboarded landing, unable to move without drawing attention to herself, but equally unable to go in while they were airing so much dirty family linen.
She’d managed to duck into the bathroom as Margaret stormed out, but when she went in to comfort Libby, she’d been unresponsive and sadder than Alice had ever seen her. She hadn’t known what to say, and Libby had gone to her room soon after. Alice had stayed up late, hoping Jason would phone or Libby would emerge to talk, but the hotel was eerily silent for the rest of the night, apart from the heartbreaking sound of Libby stifling her crying.
Bob thumped the floor with his tail, and then thumped the fridge with his mighty paw and looked hopeful.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ said Alice. ‘Breakfast can wait.’
She put Bob on his lead and led him out behind the hotel and down the footpath. It was a crisp, grass-scented morning, and Alice’s spirits lifted along with the pale clouds drifting over the treetops. She walked on until they were out of earshot; then she pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket and dialled the number from her notebook.
It rang three, four times, and then he answered.
‘Luke Corcoran?’
Relief flooded through her. The sound of Luke’s voice, brisk, familiar, swept away the niggling doubts; she’d been right to call. Well, he was the only one who could help, wasn’t he?
‘Luke, it’s Alice.’
‘Alice!’ He sounded pleased. ‘How are you? Everything all right?’
‘Ye— No.’ She stopped smiling and remembered why she was calling. ‘No. The builders walked off the job yesterday, because of some money problem, and then Jason and Libby had a massive row and he’s left. Then your mother and Libby had a row, and they’ve both been in their rooms since supper, and . . .’ Alice stopped walking, suddenly floored by unhappiness.
The worst thing was, these weren’t the people she knew. Kind and snobby Margaret; funny, stylish Libby. She didn’t know the catty, angry women sniping at each other. It felt like the ground was shifting beneath her again.
‘Alice? Are you OK?’
‘Fine,’ she gulped, but it came out half as a sob.
Pull yourself together, Alice told herself. Imagine how Libby feels. This isn’t about you.
‘I probably shouldn’t be calling, but I don’t know what to do for the best, and I want to help,’ she confessed. ‘Libby’s on her own, and the place is in a right state. Should we try to get new builders? Can you come and advise her? Or get hold of Jason?’ The words tumbled out. ‘I mean, is it dangerous to leave building work like this? Is it legal?’
‘OK, stay calm. First things first,’ said Luke. ‘Are you sure Jason isn’t coming back?’
‘I don’t know if Libby would let him in if he did. She looks . . . like she’s either about to cry or punch something.’
‘And the builders definitely aren’t coming back?’
‘Not anytime soon. I managed to speak to Simon, the foreman, as they were packing up and he says Marek’s pulled them off the job to do a house conversion in Highgate. He reckons Marek’s cutting his losses – he doesn’t think Jason’s got the money to finish the hotel.’ She paused. ‘Does he?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Jason wouldn’t talk to me about something like that.’
Alice watched Bob prance happily down the path in the morning sunlight, glossy ermine coat gleaming as his sturdy legs covered the ground in powerful strides, and she felt a vivid déjà vu. Clear air, si
lent companionship. Morning walks with a dog make me happy, she thought. I’ve been here before. When?
She struggled to find the memory but couldn’t quite catch it. It was there, though. It was fighting to get through the curtain.
‘Do you want me to come back?’ Luke asked. ‘I’m doing a job up in Scotland, but I could get back for . . . Thursday? Is that too late? I’d come sooner, but I’m under contract to be here the whole time.’
As he said it, Alice felt her whole body answer, Yes, please come back, but she made her brain take charge. ‘I think Libby would appreciate some support,’ she said. ‘None of us knows much about building, as you can guess.’
‘And you? Are you all right? Things going well with Gethin?’ His tone was more neutral, which somehow made it more concerned.
Alice hadn’t spoken to Luke about the new arrangement with Gethin, or how the date night had gone. Or all the things she’d since found out about him, and herself.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Thanks. Libby invited me to stay at the hotel while Gethin and I get to know each other again – good thing, as it turns out, eh? So, um, yes. It’s going well. It’s good.’
That was a mixed message, she thought, despairing of her own intentions. On the one hand, she wanted Luke to know she was back at the hotel, alone; on the other, she needed him to know that things were going fine with the boyfriend who clearly loved her. The loving, supportive relationship she needed to remember.
Alice gazed out over the trees. I don’t know who I was, she thought. That’s the trouble. I only know who I am now, and I don’t think it fits. Why?
‘We can talk more on Thursday,’ said Luke. ‘Can’t promise I can fix anything, but . . . we can try. Let Libby know I’m coming, but don’t tell Mum.’
‘OK,’ said Alice, and the weight on her shoulders lifted a fraction. They weren’t completely on their own. Luke would know what to do.
The sun was shining over the trees and fields of Longhampton. Maybe it’s not that I’ve been here before, she thought. Maybe this is where I was supposed to be all along. It was a strange sensation, and she pushed it out of her mind quickly, before hurrying back to the hotel.
Chapter Twenty-One
Libby woke the next morning in a panic, thinking that she’d forgotten to get up to make breakfast, but as her bare feet touched the carpet, the events of the previous day caught up with her and she fell back against the pillows as if an invisible hand had shoved her down.
Things looked even more desperate now the adrenalin and anger had worn off. She stared at the ceiling and couldn’t find one disaster to be positive about. Jason – gone. The builders – gone. The hotel – ruined. Their money – gone. The rock that they’d been pushing up the hill together had rolled back down again, right to the bottom, and the way Libby’s entire body ached now, it had rolled right over her.
She pulled the duvet around her for comfort and curled into a foetal position, trying to block it all out.
It was just too much. Libby had no idea where to start, and she had to deal with it alone. No, worse than alone: stuck here with grieving, furious Margaret, who blamed her for the whole thing. The ice-cold look in her eyes as she’d said all those mean things . . . Libby shuddered, because deep down, she wondered if maybe Margaret had a point about most of this being her own fault.
Her alarm went off, but she smacked it down. What was the point of getting up? A lie-in was about the only small pleasure left. After half an hour or so, she heard the bedroom door push open. Since Margaret was hardly likely to be bringing her breakfast in bed, she assumed it was Alice, checking if she was awake.
Libby couldn’t face Alice’s kindliness this morning, so she pretended to be asleep.
At least Alice was here. She could have gone back to Gethin – he phoned every night to check she was all right, to hear everything she’d been up to – but thank goodness she hadn’t. She’s so lucky to have found Gethin, Libby thought. A steady, loving, reliable man who adores her.
Jason. Steady, loving, reliable, adoring – two days ago, she’d have said the same things about him. Tears sprang to her eyes again.
Without warning, Libby felt a weight on the corner of the bed, then heard a faint grunt and a solid mass of dog sprang onto the mattress next to her. Well, the back end took a while to slither up.
‘Go away, Bob,’ she said, but he took no notice. Instead, he clambered over and sniffed her wet face. Libby had never had Bob so up close and personal, but her arms were trapped under the duvet and she couldn’t push him away. He smelled of biscuits and sleep. She squinted at him, surprised at how intricate his huge black nose was, the fine white whiskers on his snout. Delicately, he licked the tears that had run down her cheek, drooping his velvety dewlaps over her nose; then with an almost human huff, he settled himself around the crook of her body, using her hip as an armrest and filling the hollow of her legs with his soft body.
‘Get off me,’ she said, but found she didn’t really mean it. There was something comforting about Bob’s heavy warmth. With another grumbly huff, he laid his head flat along her hip, and it struck Libby as such a gesture of trust – she could have got up and sent him flying at any moment – that her heart broke inside her. Bob raised his wise brown eyes to hers, full of hopeful affection, and she thought, So this is what those old people up at the hospital find so soothing. That restful, simple, trusting love in his face. Fixing you in the moment.
I’ve screwed up quite a lot here, she thought, as a lump rose in her throat. But as far as Bob’s concerned, I’ve been all right.
Lord Bob and Libby gazed at each other, and then he nuzzled his head against her and she freed a hand from under the duvet and buried her fingers in his luxuriant folds of warm fur.
‘Don’t think this is the start of dogs on beds,’ she warned him. ‘This is a one-off. Because I’m too sad to kick you off. OK?’
Bob grunted happily and closed his eyes.
A while later, there was a knock on the door, and this time it was Alice.
‘Libby? Are you awake? I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’
‘Come in,’ said Libby, but Alice was already pushing open the door. She had a mug in each hand, and when she saw Bob, she did a double take.
‘Off!’ she said. ‘Off! Sorry, Libby, I’ve just taken him out for a walk. I didn’t realise . . .’
‘He’s fine.’ Libby struggled into a sitting position as Alice perched on the edge of the bed and handed her a mug of tea. Thankfully, it wasn’t Jason’s new Longhampton FC mug.
‘Listen, I heard everything last night,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Libby flinched. ‘Everything?’
‘Pretty much.’ Alice’s uncomfortable but sympathetic smile told Libby she wasn’t judging, and it gave her a feeling of relief not dissimilar to Bob’s weight on her legs. Better than actual words. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What can I do?’ Libby closed her eyes, but the images that flared up in her mind made them snap open again straightaway. ‘I don’t know the first thing about this, really. I thought I did, but . . .’
‘Right. Well, who can you ask for help? Are your parents nearby?’
‘No. And they’re the last people I’d turn to.’ She flinched; how was she going to tell her dad he wasn’t getting his money back any time soon? ‘I don’t know anyone round here, apart from you, and Margaret’s friends, I guess. Doubt any of them are tilers, though. Maybe we could fill the gap in the walls with some really big flower arrangements?’
Alice tapped her mug with a fingernail, then said, ‘What about the PAT lady? Gina? With the greyhound? Her card says she’s a project manager.’
‘You kept her card?’
‘Yes,’ said Alice patiently. ‘That’s what they’re for. I’ve started a card file for you in the office. I can’t think why there wasn’t one before. I was a PA, reme
mber,’ she added, when Libby looked impressed. ‘It’s pretty basic stuff.’
Hope flickered, then died in her chest. ‘We can’t afford a project manager.’ She thought of the man who’d pitched for the job of managing Marek’s builders in London; he’d wanted twenty per cent of the budget.
That’d have been enough to get this finished, thought Libby ruefully.
‘Well, you can ask. Maybe ask her in front of the Tree of Kindness so she gets the hint?’ Alice nudged her. ‘You’ve given up plenty of your time taking Bob to the hospital – if you tell her what a pickle you’re in, I’m sure she’d give you an hour of advice. What? What’s that look for?’
Libby was cringing. ‘Just . . . I hate the thought of it going all round the town what a cock-up we’ve made. We should have used local builders, shouldn’t we? I bet they’re already talking about that – Londoners coming here, with their fancy plans . . . Me, putting poor Margaret through the mill, ruining her hotel. That’s even before they get wind of Jason leaving. It’ll be all over the rugby club before you can say . . . Deep Heat.’ She tried to sound light, but inside she wanted to die. And if it got back to London – who was Jason talking to now? Whose shoulder was he crying on?
Alice said nothing, but looked at her in her familiar perceptive way, computing all the tiny details.
‘What?’ said Libby. ‘What are you thinking?’
Alice shook her head. ‘Just that I don’t understand you sometimes. Why do you care what people who don’t know you think? I appreciate that this is a nightmare situation, but really, people aren’t going to judge. They’re not going to think, Oh, that Libby Corcoran’s a right cow – her builders didn’t get paid, and her husband’s disappeared. Are they? They’re going to think, Poor Libby – her builders were unreliable, and now her husband’s had to go back to London, probably to work.’