One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

  She laughed, and Libby laughed too, even though she didn’t feel like laughing at all. Her stomach had dropped as if she were on a rollercoaster.

  The end of June was the week after next. Fourteen days. She stared at the calendar on the wall in front of her and blanched. They hadn’t even started sanding the floors, let alone painting the walls, and none of the new rooms had beds in, let alone soft furnishings. Could you get paint dry in that time? What if they poisoned the journalist with . . . floor preserver, or whatever it was? There was still room four, but they could hardly put her in one room, and keep every other door closed . . .

  ‘I mean, if that’s going to be a problem, then I understand—’ Tara started, but Libby didn’t even let her finish. She couldn’t let this opportunity slip. They’d just have to do it, somehow.

  ‘Not at all. We’d absolutely love to see you, um, the week after next.’

  ‘Week after next?’ Alice mouthed, in horror.

  ‘Thank you so much! You are a star. I was so hoping it’d be all right – Erin was really excited about your project when I spoke to her. I think she’s jealous I’m staying before she is!’

  Shit. Libby’s hard-nosed Apprentice attitude melted abruptly. She’d forgotten that Erin had probably told Katie, who had commissioned Tara, to expect Soho House with cider. That definitely wasn’t what she’d be getting now. It was more knitted hot-water-bottle covers and homemade shortbread, to draw attention from the basic linen and refurbed bedside cabinets. Would she pull out if she knew? They couldn’t afford for that to happen.

  Alice’s huge eyes were so wide Libby could see the white all around the brown irises. Libby had to turn away in case her panic transmitted down the phone.

  ‘We’re looking forward to seeing you too, Tara!’ she said, with a touch of the old London Libby. ‘I’ve got your contact details – I’ll pop a welcome email over to you, and if you could confirm a date, we’ll have your room all ready!’

  Welcome email. That was another thing she had to do.

  On the chair, Fido and Alice were both staring agog at her. Lord Bob, unwitting star of her website design, carried right on sleeping like the delegator he was.

  ‘What was that about?’ demanded Alice.

  ‘Change of plan,’ she said, putting the phone down and immediately turning on the coffee maker. ‘Journalist now coming in approximately fourteen days.’

  ‘What? I thought I’d misheard that. Did you find a time machine in the cellar or something?’

  ‘I know. But what could I say? We need that feature.’ Libby sat down, then stood up again. Her misgivings were growing. Blithely agreeing a new timetable without checking with Lorcan was bad, but misleading Katie about the hotel style . . . ‘Should I have told Tara we’re not going for that Grazia luxe experience anymore? Oh God. She’s going to walk in and ask where the massage and sauna are, and all we’ll have to offer is Bob sitting on her knee with the heating turned up.’

  Libby put her hands on her cheeks and pulled her face down into a Scream pose. ‘You don’t think she’d turn round and leave straightaway, do you?’

  ‘Not without having a cup of tea. It’s a long way to come to flounce off. Anyway, you’re going to send her your welcome email, aren’t you? Surely that’ll give her a rough idea of what to expect.’

  ‘But . . . she’s probably been briefed that the Swan Hotel is a little piece of Soho in the middle of the apple orchards. What if that’s her human-interest story? Trendy London couple standing on a tractor?’

  Alice looked awkward. ‘In that case, I’d be more worried about the fact that Jason isn’t here.’

  ‘That’s a very good point.’ Libby stared at the big oil painting of the lonely stag – she’d been spacing out Margaret and Donald’s melodramatic Scottish collections throughout the hotel, which was now painted in paler, calmer colours, and they all looked much better in isolation than they had in a gloomy herd. Maybe the misty drama would be peaceful against a cream wall, rather than this blood-red wallpaper. You’d see the rolling hills, rather than the doomed stag. ‘How am I going to get round that?’

  ‘I suppose you could say he’s shy?’ said Alice. ‘Lock Luke in one room and pretend he’s Jason, and he’s got himself stuck? Hint that he’s away?’

  Libby raised her hands helplessly. ‘She’s bound to ask. And what about Margaret? I mean, I’d love reading about “Sisters Doing It for Themselves” – if it was happening to someone else.’

  ‘But you are doing it without Jason. You’re doing it on a shoestring, without your husband . . . to keep his family business going.’

  ‘That makes it sound like he’s dead.’

  ‘Well, if you’re Gethin, that’d be a perfectly acceptable explanation to give her.’ Alice frowned. ‘Just bring him back to life when he conveniently reappears.’

  Libby laughed, then put her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.’

  ‘No, laugh,’ said Alice. ‘It’s what Gethin and I need. Running jokes.’ She looked wistful. ‘They’re what glue you together, aren’t they? Running jokes and memories.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby. She hated making the bed on her own. It was quicker with Jason at the other end of the duvet, being stupidly competitive with the buttons. ‘But come on, let’s focus on the hotel. We need to break it to Lorcan that he’s on borrowed time. Bring Fido.’ Fido, it turned out, reminded sentimental Lorcan of his girlfriend Juliet’s white terrier, Minton. ‘He can’t say no to anything when you’ve got Fido with you.’

  Fido wagged her long tail.

  ‘We all earn our keep in this hotel, Fido,’ said Libby, and grabbed her notebook.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lorcan was supervising the final tiling of number seven’s en suite, which had reached a critical stage, but he took the news that he only had fourteen days left to finish the entire job with his usual equilibrium.

  ‘What? Are you sure you’re not filming this for some television yoke?’ He rubbed his stubble doubtfully. ‘First you cut your budget; then you halve our time . . . What are you going to do next, Mrs Corcoran? Bring on some celebrity plasterers? Should I expect David Hasselhoff with a trowel tomorrow?’

  ‘No, I’m going to have you working blindfold,’ said Libby. ‘Seriously, can we make it? Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it. I’ll paint all night, if you want me to.’

  ‘Ah, come on, now. That’ll add about another ten days, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I mean it about the painting,’ she said. ‘Though it might be quicker if you don’t have to redo things in the morning.’

  Lorcan lifted his broad shoulders, then dropped them, making his curls bounce. ‘Sure, we’ll get it done. Somehow. Have you told Gina?’

  ‘I thought I’d tell you first so you could give me the real answer, before she makes you say yes. She won’t say no, on principle.’

  ‘Ha!’ He pointed at her. ‘You’re learning fast. Anyway, sooner you’re up and running, the sooner you’ll be earning money and we can all get paid. Besides, I’m sure you’d much rather be behind that reception desk dealing with guests than slapping on primer upstairs.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Inside, Libby’s confidence wobbled. She hadn’t thought past the moment of finishing the building work. Actually running the hotel on her own was something else again. But she dragged her focus back to the moment.

  ‘I’ve made a list,’ she said, waving her notebook. ‘One thing at a time, right?’

  ‘My best advice is, phone Gina.’ Lorcan patted her shoulder. ‘She’s never met a deadline she couldn’t destroy in a morning and four coffees.’

  Gina swung into action with a barrage of suggestions and lists, and Libby found herself working and planning and making decisions from the moment she got up to the second she fell asleep. Decisions, it turned out, were easy when you didn’t have time to agonise ov
er them.

  The web designers were based in the same warehouse conversion by the canal where Gina had her office; unsurprisingly, the draft version magically turned into a ready-to-go-live version several days ahead of schedule. It was uncomplicated but stylish; they designed a simple new logo for the hotel, and a pencil drawing of Lord Bob wandered across the special page devoted to canine guests. Libby had borrowed Doris’s photo album, and, with her permission, used some of the old snaps of the hotel alongside the new photographs taken by Gina’s husband, who managed to make the place look far more finished than it was, and agreed to take his payment in the form of a weekend break in the honeymoon suite.

  Libby was getting very good at bartering.

  While the decoration was going on at a frantic rate upstairs, Libby shut herself in the office and wrote the reservation email to go out with all bookings – starting with Tara Brady’s. It was an idea she’d borrowed from a romantic hideaway Jason had taken her to for their third anniversary; she couldn’t match the complimentary champagne, but at least a bit of charm was free. It was a friendly email, welcoming the guest and outlining the Swan’s routines and cancellation policies, along with a printable location map and suggestions for nearby places to eat, since they didn’t offer food. She set up a template so she could add seasonal local events and other little ideas that would make a guest’s stay as easy and pleasant as possible.

  Libby checked and checked and rechecked until Alice, arriving with some lunch for her, finally lost patience and clicked to send it to Tara; the second it swooshed from her outbox, they exchanged excited looks.

  ‘No going back now,’ said Libby, and her stomach tightened with nerves. They were down to seven days and counting.

  To make doubly sure everything finished on time, Lorcan had pulled in some extra pairs of hands from his ex-roadie mates. After a worrying moment when Libby was convinced the hotel was actually falling down as the floors were being sanded by two bald men in Metallica T-shirts, the rooms started to come to life. Colour crept up the walls in soft heathery shades of lilac and thistle and cream, picked out by Gina’s interior designer, Michelle, who provided them with curtains in a sturdy oatmeal fabric for a generously discounted rate. A chunk of the miniscule budget was reserved for decent bedding, and everything else had to be sourced in more creative ways. Gina arrived one morning with a van full of old ‘magic carpet’ rugs from the house-clearance charity, which she instructed Lorcan’s apprentices to shampoo back to life in the garden, while Libby raided the local charity shops for vintage wall clocks and mirrors, leaving notes with all the organisers to save any spiky sunburst decorations for the hotel.

  They worked late and started early, fuelled by Alice’s supply of coffee and sandwiches, and Lorcan’s equally constant supply of soft-metal mixtapes. Gethin wasn’t thrilled about Alice’s overtime; he’d taken to arriving on his way back from work to collect her, making pointed remarks about her health, and one day she hadn’t come in at all, because he’d insisted she needed a day’s proper rest. But apart from that, the atmosphere in the hotel was like nothing else Libby had ever known at work. Everyone was determined to get it done, happy to help out wherever they could. Whenever she tried to thank someone – Margaret’s old part-time receptionists who dropped in to polish mirrors and clean windows, or the nearby farmer calling with breakfast samples and a new deal on fresh milk and vegetables – they just waved away her gratitude.

  ‘It’s all good for the town,’ was the comment she heard again and again, and it made her realise that the Tree of Kindness wasn’t just something the hospital had made up. Longhampton wasn’t home, but with every kind gesture, it felt more and more like somewhere she was proud to belong. Libby was just sad Jason wasn’t there to share it with her.

  The only person not caught up in the dash to get the place ready was Margaret.

  With Jason still sulking, Libby had made a superhuman effort to involve her in all the decisions she could think of, big and small, but whatever she tried was met with a stubborn lack of interest. Libby couldn’t believe Margaret really felt nothing, not when the hotel was starting to look so amazing, and it hurt her to think that all the work she was doing to save the family business somehow wasn’t as good as it would have been had Jason been there.

  ‘Maybe you should check with Jason,’ she kept saying, and when Libby explained that it was her opinion she wanted, Margaret just sniffed and muttered something about being out of touch with what people wanted. She still seemed to be taking Jason’s absence more personally than even Libby.

  But as the day of Tara’s visit got nearer, unexpectedly Margaret started to take more of an interest in what was going on. Libby was upstairs, arms aching as she hung yet another pair of curtains, when she sensed Margaret behind her. A cloud of Yardley Lavender, basset-hound hair and disapproval.

  ‘Do you like these?’ Libby asked. ‘They’re double-lined, to block out the light for a good night’s sleep. More important than posh material, I thought.’

  ‘They’re quite plain . . .’ Margaret rubbed the fabric between her finger and thumb.

  Well, yes, thought Libby, compared to the floral madness that was your colour scheme. People had gone insane in plainer bedrooms than Margaret’s.

  ‘. . . but they seem well made. I suppose this rustic look is in now, is it?’

  ‘Simple quality is the idea.’ Libby climbed down from the stepladder. ‘Was there something I can do for you?’

  Margaret was gazing around the room; it was one of Libby’s favourites, painted thistle green with a pristine dark wooden double bedstead she’d found in a charity house-clearance shop, with bedside chests and dressing table to match. A bargain for the hotel, a couple of hundred quid for charity. Libby had put a thank-you on the Tree of Kindness for the person who’d donated that from their nan’s spare room.

  Libby waited for her to say how nice it was, but the compliment didn’t come. Instead, Margaret said, ‘I was talking to Timothy Prentice from the round table, and he was saying that it might not be a bad idea to get an estate agent over to value the place, once it’s finished. Just to get an idea for insurance,’ she added, stroking the radiator for dust.

  There was no dust. Libby had cleaned it herself.

  ‘But we’re not going to sell,’ she said. ‘I thought we discussed this. I’ve worked on a plan for the coming year – Gina and I brainstormed ideas for expanding our appeal locally.’

  ‘I do understand why you’d feel like that, dear, but it’s a lot of work. You can’t possibly know how draining it is. And if Jason doesn’t come back . . .’

  It hung in the air between them, more acrid than the fresh paint.

  ‘Jason will come back,’ said Libby, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. ‘He’s just . . . working through some things. We can’t do anything without his say-so, anyway, not legally. He’s a co-owner.’

  Margaret tilted her head. ‘You’ve been saying that for a while, and he hasn’t come back. And if I haven’t heard from him, I have to ask myself if you really know what’s going on.’

  Libby had really, really tried with Margaret, but she was rapidly coming to the end of her rope. Luke was right: she shifted the goal posts constantly; it didn’t matter how you tried to please her, you could never win. Donald must have been a saint.

  ‘I appreciate what you’re saying, but can’t this wait? The journalist is coming at the end of the week and I want everything to be right for her. And I don’t want everyone who’s thrown themselves into helping us this week to feel we were only doing it up to sell. Just . . . be positive.’

  ‘I am positive. Whatever gave you the idea I wasn’t?’ Margaret looked outraged and turned to leave. ‘Oh,’ she added over her shoulder when she was almost out of the door, ‘you haven’t fixed the final ring to the end of the pole.’

  Libby looked up. She hadn’t. She’d have to start again.


  Bollocks.

  Tara Brady arrived in a brand-new Range Rover just before lunch on Friday.

  ‘She’s here!’ Alice announced, peering through the net curtains in the office. ‘And . . . it looks like she’s brought a dog with her.’

  ‘How big?’ Libby glanced at Lord Bob and Fido, sprawled long back to small back in a patch of sun. ‘Small enough for Bob to squash?’

  ‘It’s in a bag.’

  ‘Oh God. A really small one.’ Libby felt her coffee repeating on her. ‘She didn’t say she was bringing a dog.’

  ‘That’s good! It’ll be a test for my dog hostess trolley.’ Alice’s special trolley was parked outside the four rooms Libby had designated dog-friendly: it was stacked high with Bonios, wipes, bags, Febreze, red towels, spotless water bowls and a spare lead.

  Libby clapped her hands, without thinking. ‘Right, action stations.’ She hadn’t been able to sit down since her breakfast at 6 a.m., stalking from one room to another, tweaking cushions, hoovering corners, checking loos for hairs. Lack of cash at least meant there were fewer things to tidy up.

  ‘Calm down – you’re making me nervous,’ said Alice, just as Luke popped his head round the office door.

  ‘I think your woman’s here,’ he said.

  She noted the way Luke’s eyes slid across to Alice, lingered for a moment, then self-consciously returned to her. Lorcan had had to leave for another job, so Luke had come back to be on hand in case of any practical emergency during Tara’s stay.

  Margaret, naturally, didn’t see it like that. Libby found she no longer cared what Margaret thought.

  ‘Let’s go, then – Alice, are you set?’

  Alice, the Swan’s official new receptionist, was dressed in a plain navy suit with a high-necked blouse. Libby was surprised: it seemed more formal than her usual clothes, but Gethin had apparently chosen it; he liked her in simple styles, she said. Libby wanted to suggest something a little less puritan might fit the hotel – and Alice – better, but not today. Later.