by Lucy Dillon
‘Good luck, Libby,’ she said, and gave her a quick hug. ‘You’re going to be fine. This is just the beginning.’
She didn’t mention Jason, or the fact that he hadn’t called, or that Margaret had announced she would be ‘out all morning’.
‘Yes, Libby,’ Luke added. ‘Good luck.’ He raised two crossed fingers. ‘Never seen this place look better. She’d be mad not to love it.’
Libby took a couple of deep breaths, nodded her grateful thanks and marched out to welcome Tara to the new-look Swan Hotel.
‘. . . Obviously we haven’t fully opened yet, and you’re our first guest, so please bear with us if there’s anything we’ve forgotten . . .’
I should shut up, thought Libby. My impression of a confident hotel owner isn’t even convincing me. She’d shown Tara upstairs to room three, a dog-friendly one with a view of the garden and a wall full of round mirrors from the charity shop. Luke, rather charmingly, had carried Tara’s bags up without being asked. She noticed a stray wrapper from the creamy blankets delivered only last night from Michelle’s shop and grabbed it while Tara was examining the biscuits on the tea tray.
But Tara didn’t seem to notice any rough edges. She was looking around with a surprised smile playing on her lips, running her gaze over the fresh flowers on the dresser and the lavender bags on the pillows. Her Yorkshire terrier – Mitzi – had given the room her seal of approval by going to sleep in her carrier.
‘This is so lovely,’ she said. ‘Really peaceful. I love how there’s no television. Or is it hidden?’
‘No, we decided no televisions.’ Libby nodded as if that were the plan, rather than because they couldn’t afford them. ‘It’s all about decompression,’ she said, glad she’d put her own Roberts radio on the dressing table. ‘Back to old-fashioned relaxation.’
‘Perfect! Right, so my room is adorable, but what I’d really like is if we could go back to that nice lounge, have a cup of tea and a chat about you. How you came here, what your story is. Can we do that?’
Libby’s heart, which had slowed down as she’d shown Tara the bathroom (room three had one of the good baths), now sped up again. The lounge had only been cleared of debris the night before; Lorcan hadn’t really had time to do more than give it a quick lick of paint and move the sofas back in.
‘It’s not really ready . . .’ she started, but a voice in her head told her to stop drawing attention to the negatives and focus on the positives. ‘But of course,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
Gina’s carpet cleaners had done a miraculous job removing all traces of Lord Bob from the lounge, and Tara curled her long legs under her on the big velvet sofa, sinking into its depths with an appreciative sigh.
‘You’ll have to imagine that fire on,’ said Libby quickly. ‘Bit hot for June! And we can make this room very cosy with a Christmas tree. Oh, thank you!’
Alice had come in with a tray of tea and biscuits. She cast a hopeful glance between the two and Libby raised her eyebrows a tiny fraction to show things were going fine so far.
Tara put her phone on the table next to the teapot to record the interview. ‘So,’ she said, ‘tell me how you came to be here.’
Libby took a deep breath. ‘Well, my husband Jason’s parents ran the Swan for thirty-five years until his father sadly died last year and we decided that it would be a good time to move home and let his mother take a back seat.’
If Margaret had agreed to talk about this interview, she thought, she could have asked her how she wanted to set it out, but she’d refused, point blank. ‘None of my business,’ she’d said, looking like a martyr in search of a bonfire.
‘So it’s a family concern,’ said Tara. ‘I like that.’
‘Yes, Luke, who took your bags upstairs, he’s my brother-in-law. He helped with the wiring. We all pitched in. Lord Bob, my mother-in-law’s dog, you might have seen on the website.’
‘Ah, yes. Tell me about the dogs. That’s unusual!’
Libby talked carefully about the hotel, her plans, getting in all the details she’d bullet-pointed in preparation, skirting round the tricky topics of Jason’s absence and Margaret’s contribution, until Tara put down her teacup and broached the subject Libby had hoped she wouldn’t.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, this is totally different from the hotel I had in my brief.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose I was expecting something a bit more . . . upmarket? That’s probably the wrong word.’
Upmarket? Libby’s face flushed with the old skin-crawling uncertainty she used to feel surrounded by the wealthy stockbroker wives in London, before she learned the fashion singular language of statement bags and investment cashmere. But then, looking away to hide her blush, she caught sight of Alice at reception, typing away under the stag painting. By ‘upmarket’ did Tara mean slick? Seamlessly metropolitan? Because she was proud of the personal contributions on show. Lorcan had stayed past midnight one night to get the reception area finished. Alice had spent a whole day polishing the reception desk with beeswax. One of the cleaners had actually brought her some original 1960s lamps. They’d turned a drab and tired hotel into something warm and stylish and ready to grow.
A bit more . . . upmarket? What did that even mean?
Through her nervous exhaustion, Libby felt a twist of indignation on behalf of the hotel.
‘Well, that was my original plan, that boutique feel,’ she began. ‘But when I’d been here a while, I realised that would be all about me and not about the hotel. An indulgent hotel experience isn’t about stupidly expensive sheets or carpets; it’s about being treated with care, feeling like nothing’s too much trouble. Being surrounded by comfort and kindness. I only really understood that when I saw some old photographs of the hotel in the 1960s,’ she went on, realising how much she really meant it. ‘The guests seemed so relaxed and happy – that wasn’t because of the Italian marble in the bathroom, but because of the staff, and the atmosphere. That’s why we took the 1960s feel as our starting point and mixed it up with modern comforts. But the old-fashioned service is our touchstone.’
‘You sound very passionate about it.’
‘I am,’ said Libby. Maybe it was the gallons of coffee she’d drunk to stay awake this week, but affection for the Swan was rushing out of her. ‘It’s been such a learning curve, not just about running a hotel, but about myself, about my friends, about the town, everything. We had . . . we had a major setback with our first builders that made me want to pack it all in, to be honest, but I was just overwhelmed by the help I’ve had locally. They made me believe this would work. I didn’t know anyone when I came to Longhampton, but the way people have rallied round us, to make sure we kept going . . . it’s made me change the way I look at everything.’ She could feel tears rising in her throat and had to battle to stop them filling her eyes.
‘So you’re planning to stay?’
‘Definitely.’ Libby nodded. ‘I’m only just getting to know Longhampton, but it’s as if I’ve been waiting all these years to come home. I’d love to pay that back by making the hotel successful, and supporting the businesses that have supported us.’ She smiled, because suddenly she knew it was true. All she needed now was for Jason to come back and see what she’d done. Her heart lurched.
‘Aw,’ said Tara, visibly moved. And she didn’t look the sort of journalist who was easily moved. ‘This is going to make a great story. Is your husband about? Can he tell us some of the builder nightmares? Readers love a builder nightmare.’
Libby faltered. She didn’t want to lie, but at the same time, she couldn’t bear to say that Jason had walked out.
‘Unless that’s . . . a problem?’ Tara’s sharp writer’s eyes spotted Libby’s discomfort.
‘Jason’s working away during the week.’ That was true enough. ‘But he’s very supportive of me. I don’t think I’d have stepped up and done this if he’d been here
– I’m definitely not the person I was when I left London.’
‘Really? You seem very capable to me. I wouldn’t have guessed from your welcome email that this was your first hotel.’
Libby considered it. ‘Maybe that’s it – you don’t know what you can do till you’re doing it.’
Or who you are until someone tells you.
Come back, Jason, she thought sadly. Come back and see what I’ve managed to do.
‘Well, that’s a great hook for the feature,’ said Tara, reaching for a biscuit. ‘So often you read about these ex-City types who buy up hotels for nothing, then just sell up and sod off once they’re profitable. I love the idea that you’ve found community support and want to give something back.’
Libby nodded. ‘That’s it. We’ve got a lovely function room that’s still mothballed that I’d love to do up for christening parties and charity teas and—’
There was a knock on the wooden frame of the lounge door and she looked up to see a middle-aged, balding man in a shiny suit standing there, a hopeful smile playing beneath his moustache.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Corcoran,’ he said.
Libby rose to her feet. ‘Hello. I’m Mrs Corcoran.’
‘Hello, hello.’ He hurried over, juggling his file and his phone to shake her hand. ‘Norman Connor from Connor Wilson. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Pleased to meet you too,’ said Libby politely. Connor Wilson – were they a supplier? A solicitor? ‘I’m sorry – I’m not quite sure what . . . Did you want to make a reservation? Our receptionist would be delighted to help.’
‘No! Goodness me. No, I’m your estate agent. I have an appointment to meet with yourself to value the property.’
Libby felt herself freeze; then a hot flush flooded her cheeks. He’d stressed the words ‘value’ and ‘property’ with loud relish. So loud Tara couldn’t help but hear. ‘I think there’s some mistake. I definitely didn’t arrange . . . I mean, we’re not thinking of selling. We’ve barely relaunched!’
She glanced back at Tara, who wasn’t even pretending not to be listening. And it was all going on her recording.
‘It was definitely today,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve got a message here from my secretary – Mrs Corcoran, Swan Hotel, two thirty. Valuation, possible view to putting on the market. I’m so sorry to interrupt your tea,’ he added to Tara. ‘My apologies.’
‘Not at all,’ said Tara. She didn’t look very impressed – as she wouldn’t, thought Libby, if she believed I’d just spent the last half-hour lying through my teeth. ‘I think you must have spoken to my mother-in-law,’ she said, with grim politeness. ‘We definitely aren’t thinking of selling, but she’s perhaps got her wires crossed with—’
‘Ah! Hello! Is that Norman?’
Now three heads swivelled as Margaret appeared at the frosted-glass doorway. She was wearing the pale blue suit she saved for special occasions – Jason jokingly called it her Margaret Thatcher tribute number – and her hair had recently been coaxed into soft waves around her head, the new silvery threads softened back into her usual chestnut.
So that’s where she’d been all morning while they were rushing around frantically polishing everything in sight: at the hairdresser’s. Ready for her big moment.
Libby’s head throbbed with fury and embarrassment. She’s done this on purpose, she raged inwardly. This is to show me she’s still in charge. That I can plan all I want, but ultimately, I’ll be somewhere down the pecking order after Jason, Donald’s last wishes and probably Bob.
Norman Connor was delighted to see Margaret. He swapped his files around again, shook hands and introduced himself; all the while Libby was praying that Margaret would see Tara and explain that this was a mistake.
Libby gazed at her, pleading with her eyes. If she prompted her, it would look as if she was trying to cover it up.
Margaret didn’t say anything of the sort. With a look of petty triumph, she smiled at Libby and Tara, and said, ‘So sorry to have interrupted, Elizabeth! Do excuse us.’ Then she turned back to Norman, and as they left, Libby heard her saying, ‘We should start with the bedrooms. They’ve been recently refurbished.’
Their voices faded away and Libby was left feeling as if she’d just been kicked in the chest.
Tara reached out and turned off the recording on her phone with a withering glance.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Libby looked across the coffee table at Tara and wondered if there was anything at all she could say to recover the situation.
‘My mother-in-law,’ she stammered. ‘I really have no idea what—’
‘You should have said.’ Tara’s face, so sympathetic a moment ago, had hardened, and Libby realised she didn’t know how to brazen this sort of thing out anymore. Any office wiles she’d ever had had deserted her.
Before she could speak, there was yet another knock and another interruption.
‘Hello! Sorry to interrupt!’ It was Alice, sporting her brightest hospitality smile. ‘Just wanted to say that one of the services we offer our guests with dogs is an afternoon walk before tea. I’m happy to take Mitzi for a spin round the park if you want to put your feet up, Tara, or you’re very welcome to come too? Perfect plan for an autumn weekend. We have several walking routes, and one goes past some wonderful independent local shops . . .’
For a moment, Libby thought Tara was going to announce she was off home, but she drew in a resigned breath and got up. ‘Well, since I’ve come all this way . . .’
‘Great! Do you need a lead?’ Alice was full of solicitous care, escorting Tara out and leaving Libby with the remains of their cosy tea: a battered silver teapot and hot-water jug from the original hotel. Her face looked scratched and warped in the reflection, and that was exactly how she felt. Every niggle she’d been suppressing, trying to ignore, forgiving, writing off to Margaret’s grief, burst through the worn-down banks of her self-control. There was no other way of looking at it: Margaret had staged Norman’s arrival on purpose.
The hot tide of fury that swept through Libby’s chest was weirdly refreshing.
The moment Libby heard the front door open and close, signalling Tara and Alice were safely out of the hotel, she pushed herself off the sofa and marched out of the lounge.
‘Hey, hey!’
She nearly bounced off Luke, coming down the stairs. He held up his hands. ‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’
‘I’m going to have it out with your mother,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough. She did nothing to get this place up and running again, and now I’ve managed to turn things round, she asks an estate agent in, today, and makes me look like a total liar! If Tara scraps the feature, I’m blaming her. And I’m leaving.’
Luke put his hands on her arms and looked at her, his eyes calm like a soldier’s. ‘Libby? Libby, listen to me. Listen. Don’t go storming up there. That’s not going to help.’
‘No! I’m sick of this family never talking about anything.’ She shook herself free. ‘She needs to hear it, and I need to say it. It’s about bloody time.’
Margaret’s sales tour of the hotel had reached Libby’s prize honeymoon suite, where to her intense annoyance, Margaret was showing Norman Connor the luxurious bath and fabulous shower head – the only spectacular one she’d managed to hang on to when half the order went back.
‘. . . has the wow-factor for any potential investor,’ he was saying, and Margaret was preening as if she’d plumbed the bloody thing in herself.
Libby’s fury peaked. So her ruinous choice of bathrooms was to blame for the collapse of her marriage, but it was fine to use them to flog the hotel?
‘Margaret, can I have a word, please?’ she said tightly.
Margaret turned round. ‘Right now?’
‘Yes, please.’
She touched Norman on the arm and said, ‘Remind me to ask you abo
ut that colleague of yours who played golf with Donald,’ then glided out of the room.
Libby strode down the corridor to the furthest room, then closed the door behind them. ‘What the hell is he doing here?’
‘I decided, on the advice of a friend, to go ahead and be guided as to the hotel’s current value.’ It sounded rehearsed, as if she’d been prepared for Libby’s reaction and had decided on her moral defence.
‘But I asked you to wait. Until after this feature, at least!’
Margaret lifted her chin. ‘You’re not the only one who can make decisions round here, Elizabeth. You’re not the sole owner.’
‘I might as well be!’ Libby’s eyes boggled with frustration. ‘I’m the only one who’s doing anything to keep this place going. You haven’t lifted a finger since we arrived. Jason dropped us both in it, then buggered off and you blame me. Luke’s worked his socks off, for no thanks from you, and Jason’s done nothing. Jason thinks sending a few hundred quid now and again is the extent of his obligations when it’s his fault we’re here!’
‘Jason left because of your decisions,’ Margaret snapped back. ‘You ripped this place apart. Everything Donald and I built up, you destroyed on a whim! Why shouldn’t I sell? This hotel means nothing to me now. Thanks to you.’
Libby tried to ignore the sting of guilt.
‘Fine. So I made mistakes! I’ve admitted I was wrong! But the hotel needed updating – you couldn’t stay stuck in the past. Didn’t you ever look to see how much money you were losing, or did you expect us to bail you out forever?’
Margaret drew a shuddering breath and played her trump card. ‘Donald would be horrified to see what you’ve done.’
‘Would he? Really? I don’t think so.’ Libby stuck her hands in her hair and made herself modulate her voice to a reasonable level. ‘I came back here because Jason convinced me this was a family business. So far, all I see is one son who can’t deal with being in the wrong, another son who can’t do a thing right in your eyes and a mother who’s happy for someone else to carry the can and do all the work, so long as she gets to be in charge.’