One Small Act of Kindness

by Lucy Dillon

‘I’ve got to check the lights, apparently. Boss’s orders.’ It was Luke. Luke! Alice felt a rush of absolute relief. She was safe with Luke.

  ‘Give us a moment, mate.’ Gethin started to close the door, but Alice jumped up.

  ‘Luke,’ she gasped, ‘Fido’s hurt. Gethin kicked her! We need a vet, quickly!’

  ‘Kicked her?’ Gethin laughed, as if surprised. ‘Why would I kick Fido? She’s having a nap. Seriously, are you feeling all right, Bunny?’ He glanced at Luke. ‘Is there a doctor here? She’s . . .’ He didn’t finish but raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Is Rachel here, the lady from the rescue? Her husband’s a vet.’

  ‘The big bloke? Yes, they’re in the garden, talking to Bob.’ Luke didn’t move, but stood there taking everything in, and Alice felt as if something that had been suspended was moving again.

  I was leaving for him. She didn’t have to think. When she reached for memories now, they were already in her head. I was leaving because I wanted to make things clean and honest for Luke. He needed everything to be straight. He insisted. After that one . . .

  Alice took a sharp intake of breath as the memory flashed across her mind. Luke met her gaze and she knew he had felt it too: it was there in his face, in his concern. And yet he hadn’t said anything; he’d been waiting for her to remember. Now she knew why, in a collage of moments: the smell of old beer, Luke’s long fingers playing with a coffee spoon, his eyes resting on hers, the light of the bar shading his cheekbones. They’d talked, about his past, about his bad teenage reputation, the way his family assumed the worst every time and how he had to work so hard not to fulfil that.

  He’d been booked in for a fortnight, with his team. They’d shared their stories; they’d still liked each other despite them. The tension, building, building every evening, as the conversations got longer and the tiny electrical links between them built into a web of attraction, pulling them closer. Secrets, glances, coincidences, music, the smell of each other, the irresistible tug from the core of her whenever she saw his dark eyes watching her, knowing her and liking her anyway. The moon outside, growing bigger each night, into the full opaque disc. That night. They’d watched it rise over the trees.

  Luke looked at her now and Alice knew what had happened.

  ‘I’ve remembered,’ she said. Her voice was too high. ‘I remembered everything.’

  His eyebrows lifted, more in hope than in question. ‘Everything?’

  And at last Alice did remember: the missed bus, the bottle of wine, her hands on his leather belt, his hands tangling in her hair, the sense that this was so right, so natural, just a continuation of their conversation but with their bodies, his mouth against the soft skin behind her ear, breathing raggedly as something lifted her out of her own body, his contrition afterwards, and her decision to make things right for him. So he could feel like the decent man she knew he was.

  ‘Everything,’ she said, and felt Luke’s heart expand in his chest, even though she was nowhere near him.

  ‘What about the dog?’ said Gethin petulantly. ‘What does he look like, this vet? I’ll go and get him . . .’

  ‘No, I think you should stay here,’ said Luke. The warning tone in his voice was just enough. ‘I’d like a word with you. Alice, you go. Run – Rachel said they couldn’t stay long.’

  Alice’s legs stumbled as she got up, adrenalin still coursing through her veins, and she didn’t know how she made it to the door, but she did.

  Libby thought the party was going very, very well.

  She’d done an interview with the paper and had her photograph taken with Margaret behind the reception desk. When she made a joke about them both being Sybil, Margaret had said, ‘Ooh, I know!’ in the most spot-on Sybil Fawlty impression she’d ever heard. The unexpectedness of it made her laugh out loud.

  The photographer had shown her the photo on the back of his camera: her head thrown back with delight, Margaret gazing solemnly at the camera, perfectly aware of what she was doing. Libby loved it. It summed up everything she wanted people to think about the hotel: happy, elegant, friendly, a little surprising. A family business.

  Margaret had asked if she could give a speech and Libby had said of course. She didn’t mind about giving Margaret her moment in the spotlight. It was better, she reckoned, to say thank you personally to all the people who’d been so kind to her. A speech was really about her, not them. And so many people were here: Michelle, lapping up the praise for the decor; Lorcan and his caterer wife, Juliet, who’d arrived with trays of fondant fancies that she said she’d be happy to supply for afternoon teas; all Lorcan’s apprentices, scrubbed up in clean shirts and looking like babies, with their tattoos covered up. Even Doris had been brought over by one of the carers from the hospital; she was sitting by the reception desk, holding court and telling everyone outrageous stories about the old Longhampton sherry circuit. Libby wasn’t sure what Margaret made of that.

  And Erin. Erin’s amazement at how gorgeous the hotel was, how proud she was of Libby, how honoured they were to be the first official guests – it made Libby want to cry with relief and gratitude. She did have friends. Maybe the silver lining to all this mess was finding out exactly how good friends they were.

  From worrying that no one would turn up, there was now a real risk that the champagne Luke had had delivered might run out, and that cars would have to spill over into the next field. But Libby had another reason to keep moving, thinking, smiling – so she couldn’t dwell on what had happened just after she’d opened the doors to the first guests.

  Secretly, she’d been daydreaming about Jason coming back for the party, walking in and seeing what she’d done. His face would be suffused with admiration, love and apologies, in that order; he’d beg to make a fresh start, a proper one this time. Every tweet, every Facebook post, every website update about the party had been done with him in mind; Libby wanted to believe he was out there, reading about them.

  Then, just as she was handing the mayor and his wife a drink, her phone had buzzed. She’d pulled it out of her pocket with trembling hands and – yes! – it was a text from Jason. But all he said was, Good luck for today.

  That was it. Not I’m coming. In fact, it might as well have said, I’m not coming. Libby’s disappointment had been so bitter she could taste it. But this is still a good day, she told herself. It’s a good day. Donald would be pleased.

  Margaret’s speech was due to take place at twelve in the garden, and at a quarter to, Libby thought she’d better round up Lorcan, Alice, Gina, Luke and anyone else Margaret would be thanking. She was making her way slowly through the milling people when she nearly bumped into Rachel’s husband, George, coming out of the lounge with something wrapped in a bath towel. A brand-new white one, from her linen cupboard.

  ‘Whoa!’ she began, then saw Alice right behind him, her face streaky with tears, and Luke and Gethin following. Luke’s face was tight and purposeful, and Gethin seemed to have been crying too.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Fido,’ Alice gasped. ‘She’s—’

  ‘She’s had an accident,’ said Gethin.

  To Libby’s surprise, Alice turned on him. ‘No, Gethin. It wasn’t an accident. Stop lying!’

  ‘Quiet, the lot of you. We don’t have time for this,’ said George, and carried on marching towards the door.

  Libby took a step back to let him through. ‘Fido?’

  ‘Gethin kicked her.’ Libby had never seen Alice angry, but now she was almost trembling. ‘He kicked my dog and now George thinks he’ll need to X-ray her for internal injuries. And he’s lied to me about everything.’

  ‘Alice . . .’ Gethin began, but Luke was moving him towards the door too. He was barely touching him, but Libby could tell he had some kind of invisible army moves going on.

  ‘I think it’s time you left,’
he said mildly.

  ‘No! I . . . There’s been a massive mistake.’

  ‘No mistake,’ said Luke. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

  ‘Can one of you open the bloody door?’ demanded George. ‘Can’t you see I’ve got my arms full?’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Alice, but he shook his head.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do apart from wait in our surgery upsetting the other clients. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything, but please don’t worry.’ His face softened. ‘Rachel would never forgive me if anything happened to this one. But for God’s sake, update your identity chip in future, all right?’

  Luke gave Gethin another prod, and Libby watched as he escorted him out of the front door.

  She turned to Alice, baffled. ‘You’re going to have to tell me what happened there. I feel like I’ve missed something vital.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Alice grimly. ‘But now I’ve caught up.’

  Margaret stood in the middle of her perfect garden surrounded by thirty or so of the guests and blushed when a spontaneous ripple of applause greeted her as she got up onto the hastily set-up stage (two catering crates with a tablecloth draped over them). Behind her, bees bumbled from rose bush to rose bush, and the clean-laundry scent of honeysuckle floated from the big tree in the corner. The garden was entirely her own creation; it was the star of the Longhampton Open Gardens weekend, but now Margaret looked shy.

  Libby had never noticed Margaret being shy before, but then she’d always been there with Donald, tucked happily next to him, a step behind. This was her appearing on her own for the first time. Good for her, thought Libby. Although she is totally going to steal my thunder.

  ‘Speech!’ called someone, and Margaret said, ‘I’m waiting for some quiet!’ and everyone laughed.

  Luke slipped into the space next to her. He was smiling in a dazed manner, and his whole face was lighter than she’d seen it. ‘Has she started?’

  ‘No, you’re just in time.’ Libby raised an eyebrow. ‘What the hell was that about? With Gethin?’

  ‘Alice told you, then?’

  ‘She said Gethin had completely invented most of their relationship to make her stay.’ Libby widened her eyes. ‘It’s always the quiet ones. Did you know he was like that?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘No. She once said she was worried about some mate with a possessive boyfriend who refused to take no for an answer and I suppose I . . .’ The smile faded. ‘I suppose I knew, but I didn’t . . .’ He wiped his face with a hand. ‘I’m not brilliant with the female mind. I gave her the address of the hotel, and told her if her mate needed to get away, there’d always be a bed for a mate of mine there.’

  ‘So she was run over on the way to us then? Was she leaving for you? Why didn’t you say something when she came back?’

  ‘I didn’t know what she’d said to Gethin. I mean, yes, there was something, but I told her she needed to sort things out before it went any further between us.’ Luke’s expression shifted between guilt and relief. ‘I wanted to say something when she came back, but Alice didn’t remember me, and I didn’t know what was going on. She’s very loyal . . . If she couldn’t remember about us, and things were OK with Gethin, I didn’t feel I had a right to ruin things.’

  Libby watched Luke struggling with himself; once, she’d have rolled her eyes and thought, Commitment phobic, but now she saw Luke in a new light. His dad. His genes. His free will. ‘But you’re staying now?’

  Luke glanced down, and when he looked up, there was a sweet determination in his dark eyes. He had a chance to right an old wrong, Libby thought. A chance to be the man his biological father hadn’t been – instead, to be the rock his real dad had. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘I’ll be whatever Alice wants.’

  ‘Did I hear my name? Am I too late?’ Alice wriggled her way into a gap next to them. ‘Sorry – I was clearing up.’

  She hadn’t been, though. Libby noted her fresh make-up, the damp curls where she’d splashed her face with cold water. Luke put an arm round her, and Alice leaned back into him; silently, he moved so she was in front of him and wrapped both his arms tightly round her, fitting their bodies together as if they’d been made as a pair. They both smiled at the same time, at nothing, at everything.

  Libby opened her mouth to say something, then decided not to. There would be time later.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Margaret was enunciating carefully, in an accent a shade posher than normal. The prompt card in her hand trembled, but she didn’t glance down at it. ‘Guests past and present. Friends old and new. And of course, dogs.’

  ‘She’s missed out family,’ Libby muttered to Luke.

  ‘Of course,’ he muttered back.

  ‘This won’t be a long speech, as public speaking isn’t really my forte. I’m delighted to see so many of you here this afternoon, and thank you for all the kind things you’ve said to me about the renovation. I’m very sad Donald isn’t here to see his hotel looking so beautiful, but I know he would thoroughly approve. Something fresh has been brought to the Swan and yet it still feels like the hotel we all know and love.’

  ‘Hear! Hear!’ someone murmured.

  ‘However, I can’t take credit for it, and nor do I want to.’ She was growing a little less formal as she went on. ‘It’s all been the work of one person – my very talented daughter-in-law, Elizabeth . . . Libby. Ably assisted by many of you here today, including Alice Robinson, our receptionist . . . and my son Luke.’

  Libby hadn’t been expecting that. Her eyes filled up as Margaret glanced in their direction with a tentative smile.

  ‘One thing my husband always used to say to me was that it was best to be the first at the party, but not the last to leave.’ Though Margaret’s voice was strong, her eyes seemed misty. ‘And this seems like a very good time for me to leave this particular party and hand the reins of the hotel over to the next generation. Thank you all, for the years of support you’ve given me, and I hope you’ll continue to love the Swan in its marvellous new incarnation.’

  Spontaneous applause broke out and Margaret had to wait a moment or two for it to die down enough to speak. Her face was wreathed with a sort of startled pleasure, as if she’d surprised herself, as well as been surprised by the reaction from the guests.

  ‘Now, as president of the gardening club, it seems only appropriate for me to hand out some bouquets. Happily, I found an assistant who is just as keen as I am to acknowledge the hard work that Libby has put in, to the hotel, and to our family.’ She stepped back and Libby realised someone was standing at the back of the crowd behind Margaret.

  It was Jason. He was wearing a white shirt and jeans, his hair washed and cut shorter. He was gazing at her with a mixture of wonder and pride. And he was holding the biggest bunch of home-grown tea roses she’d ever seen.

  ‘You know my mum’s never been to London on her own before?’

  Jason and Libby were sitting under the jasmine trellis in the garden, away from the crowd of guests tucking into Juliet’s afternoon tea.

  ‘She came to see us,’ Libby pointed out. ‘When we were first married.’

  ‘Yeah, with Dad. And we had to see them in their hotel. Which they accessed by a series of black cabs. I don’t think Mum’s feet actually touched London pavements the entire time.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  Jason gazed into her eyes. ‘She came to see me at Steven’s house. In Clapham. She said that what she had to say to me wasn’t something she could tell me over the phone, and that she needed to know I’d heard it.’ He looked down and plucked at the grass. ‘She’s never yelled at me before, either. Mum told me that unless I pulled my finger out, I’d lose you and she’d never forgive me. And that you’d done an amazing job on the hotel, and if my dad were here, he’d give me a right earful for putting you through the last year.’<
br />
  A week ago, Libby would have found that impossible to imagine. Now, after Margaret’s speech, and the new haircut . . . maybe.

  ‘And what did you say to that?’

  ‘Well, I pointed out to her that I wasn’t exactly sitting around crying into my beer. I was going to work every day . . .’

  ‘Where?’ This was news to Libby.

  ‘In the marketing department at Sanderson Keynes. It’s not a brilliant job, but it’s . . . a job. Have to start again somewhere.’ He pulled out more grass. ‘Bit embarrassing, having to go through the whole “So why did you leave Harris Hebden?” thing, but . . . I told them I was willing to work hard, and I got some good references.’

  ‘From Steven?’

  ‘No! From my old boss. Everyone’s allowed one mistake, apparently. Even Mum.’ He looked up, and from the serious way he met her gaze, she knew Margaret had told him her own one mistake, the one she’d turned round into a great life.

  ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘That takes guts.’

  He moved his hand so the edge of his little finger was touching hers. ‘I’ve never minded working hard. You know it was never about the money for me? With the stockbroking? I only ever wanted to make some cash, come back here and have a nice life. With a nice girl.’

  ‘That you could buy presents for in Tanners.’

  He grunted. ‘Mmm. Did you take the earrings back?’

  ‘I tried. I told them they didn’t suit me.’ Libby winced at the memory of that awkward conversation. First with the assistant, then the assistant manager, then the manager. ‘Apparently I could have a credit note, but I didn’t think I could use that to pay the electricity bill, so . . . they’re still upstairs.’ She paused. ‘Let’s give them to your mother, for Christmas. It’ll make a change from bath oil.’

  Jason took her hand in his. ‘I’m an idiot, Lib. I put you through all this, and it took you, and my mother, to make me get a grip, and it scares me how I nearly screwed up all our lives. I know it’s easy to say I want to try to make this better, but . . . I can only show you. Because none of this means anything to me without you to share it with.’