Nearly Almost Somebody (15 page)

He shook his head and tipped his head back, kissing her slowly, gazing at her with open affection.

‘Can I ask a question?’ Reassured, Libby rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Is Dora why you’re always so grumpy in the morning?’

‘This isn’t the time–’

‘You can talk about her – Vanessa, I mean – if you want to.’

‘Not the time, even if I did want to.’

‘Okay, question two. On a scale of one to burn in hell, how guilty do you feel?’

‘About one.’

Even sitting behind him, she could see him staring resolutely ahead, but his thumb fiddled with his wedding band. Wriggling from under him, she pulled on his shirt, fastening a couple of buttons.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

‘Telling you the truth so you will too.’ A few feet from him, she perched on the balls of her feet for a moment before resting in first position. ‘There are two things you should know about me, things that aren’t on my CV. Well, they certainly aren’t on the CV I gave you.’

She held out her arms and performed five passable fouettés before coming to a halt in an arabesque – hardly her best, but good enough.

‘I try not to tell lies in person, only on my CV. You were right. St Mary Magdalene’s School for Naughty Girls doesn’t really exist. I really went to the Royal Ballet School. I was a professional dancer for five years, but for medical reasons, I had to retire. I’m very rusty, but believe me?’

Robbie nodded, a smile threatening as she dipped forwards, raising her back leg until her face was level with his.

‘Secondly, my father taught me to play poker when I was seven. I can spot a tell a mile away and I’d say you are feeling guilty. You have a million tells. I’d say you’re the worst liar ever. It’s really very reassuring.’

His face said enough, but the eyes flashing to her left gave him away. ‘Maybe a five then.’

‘I’d rate my guilt at a nine.’ Slowly, she lowered her leg, and let him pull her towards him. ‘Look, can we be realistic? You need the ego boost and I need the distraction, but despite all the
who’s-got-what-in-common
talk, you love your wife and you want her back.’

He went to argue back, but Libby held a finger over his lips.

‘She’ll be back,’ Libby said.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, she’s married to you. You’re easy on the eye, occasionally bloody good fun and the rest of the time you’re a massively grumpy pain in the arse. What’s not to love? Oh hang on, now we can add a good shag to the list.’

He fought a smile. ‘You’re one hell of an ego boost.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Sorry for dragging you into this.’

‘It’s okay, but I hope you don’t think you can rock up every day and expect a roll in the clichéd, not to mention itchy, hay.’

‘Hey, I didn’t rock up expecting a roll in the hay, clichéd or otherwise.’

‘Oh, really? You were rather well prepared for someone not expecting any rolling.’

‘Boy scout. Always prepared.’

‘Scouts and Pony Club? Liar.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘If I told you, then you’d stop doing it–’

‘Doing what?’

‘And then I wouldn’t know if you were lying.’

‘Thought I’d better be prepared. Knowing how hard to get you like to play.’

Laughing, she tried to hit him, but he flipped her onto her back.

‘You know,’ she said, her cheeks heating up, ‘I don’t normally... I really am hard to get.’

‘I know.’ Slowly, he kissed her. ‘A ballerina, hey?’

‘Officially, I was a ballet dancer not a ballerina. That title’s reserved for the best of the best.’

‘You don’t look much like a ballerina.’

‘I’ve spent most of my life wearing baby pink with my hair scraped into a neat bun. When I want to, I can look perfectly angelic, but the rest of the time, I work hard to look like a tramp.’

They grinned at each other.

‘But why keep it a secret? I’d started to think you’d spent the last ten years in prison for murdering your family. Where are they?’

‘Australia. Rose Bay, Sydney if you need specifics.’

‘And why the sketchy CV, the secrecy?’

She took several deep breaths. ‘Last time I told anyone about the ballet, I cried. It always makes me cry. It was everything I knew. You can’t begin to understand how... and then it was over. I need to obliterate it from my life, move on, but if I put it on my CV, people ask about it. Do you really dance on the ends of your toes? Are you all anorexic? So I took it off my CV and stretched out the jobs.’ She wiped at the tear trailing down her cheek. ‘Look, can we leave it? And promise not to tell anyone?’

He nodded. ‘What other secrets are you hiding, Lib?’

‘Full disclosure? I’ve had eleven jobs in the last three years. Twelve if you include Kim’s.’

‘Twelve? But–’

‘Kim’s was the first I wasn’t sacked from, hence the sketchy CV.’

‘You were sacked from eleven jobs?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Afraid so.’

‘I think I’d prefer you to be a reformed serial killer. Sacked for what?’

‘Mostly being too honest. My last job as a wedding planner’s assistant wasn’t bad. I was ace at planning events. I have thought about setting up business here.’

‘Really? It’s Matilda’s birthday in a few weeks. Fancy organising a party for me?’

Her eyes widened. ‘What’s the budget?’

‘It’s for Tilly. There isn’t one.’

‘You’re such a pushover. Face paints and a bouncy castle, or is competitive parenting at large round here?’

‘I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks, just make sure it’s amazing so it...’ He rested his forehead against hers. ‘So it makes up for her mother not being here.’

Libby kissed him. ‘You know we have something in common other than horses. Neither of us can stand listening to classical bloody music anymore.’

The week before, he’d thrown the iPod across the yard, cursing the French viola player, after a Tchaikovsky piece Vanessa used to play came on.

‘Had you been crying on Saturday?’ he asked. ‘Was that why?’

She nodded, taking a moment to build her courage. ‘How did you know about... me not playing hard to get?’

‘It’s on the blog.’

‘The blog?’

He took out his phone, opening a website called
Haverton Eye
. Under a heading of
Saturday Night, Sunday Morning
, were photos of several couples in amorous embraces, and a list of who got up to what and with who. She and Jack were listed at the top.

‘Basically, they put online what the
Gazette
daren’t print. They email it every Monday morning.’

Local gossip. She was local gossip. She goes running with a friend and it’s turned into a torrid affair that half the county can read about. She has drug-induced sex with another guy and feasibly her mother could hear about it in Australia. Libby, dumbstruck, simply stared at Robbie, hoping for... she had no idea what.

‘What happened with Jack?’ he asked.

She turned her head, avoiding facing him as she explained what had happened after he’d snapped at her on Saturday afternoon. Poisoned, hallucinating, dealing with Grace’s help and hatred, but she glossed over Jack’s more dubious actions.

‘I’m so sorry, Lib. If I hadn’t yelled at you…’

‘It’s not your fault.’ She smiled up at him, stroking his hair. ‘I really am making a shambles of my life here. It’s seems I am trying to find the most inappropriate blokes possible.’

‘At least I’m trustworthy.’

‘I’d better get dressed and do some work. I have this grumpy arse boss who might sack me if I don’t finish his list.’

He gave the expected laugh, but as she nudged him up, trying to escape, he rolled over, pulling her with him. ‘Your grumpy arse boss says the list can wait.’

As he unbuttoned the shirt and his lips trailed down towards an already pebble-hard nipple, she relaxed. Mr Golding was the best distraction in the world.

Libby perched on Zoë’s bed. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Zoë glanced at her through the mirror, but continued applying her eye shadow.

‘I had…’ Her cheeks burned, as she mimed locking her lips. Zoë nodded. ‘I… shagged Robbie this afternoon.’

Zoë abandoned her make-up. ‘What the hell… how?’

‘We sort of kissed last Wednesday, but–’

‘And you didn’t tell me because...’

‘Because it’s wrong and I wasn’t exactly proud of it.’

‘So what happened?’

Libby explained, flopping down on Zoë’s bed, burying her head in the duvet. ‘And we’ve literally spent three hours shagging this afternoon.’

‘What’s going to happen now?’

‘God knows, but he kissed me goodbye, said he’d see me tomorrow.’

At the time, she’d agreed, kissing him back, glad the desolation had gone from his face, but with each step she took down the bridleway, guilt trickled in. He was married. She was having an affair with a married man who had three kids. And it made her feel sick to her stomach.

‘So how’s his fuck-me rating now?’ Zoë turned back to her mirror. ‘Fuck me now and keep going forever more?’

And destroy his marriage? ‘No. For now. I… think he needs me. He’s devastated over Vanessa cheating.’

‘So you’re doing a good deed? And that’s it?’ Zoë laughed. ‘Whatever. You shagged him because you fancy the pants off him. You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? You’re going fall for him. Hard. He’s your new love.’

‘No. It’s not him.’ It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be the person who split up a family.

Zoë raised her eyebrows, her implication clear. Never say never.

* * *

The full moon hung in a starry sky, but the temperature remained in the twenties. Patrick sat on the balcony, his bare feet on the table, appreciating the breeze.

He’d had a great day off, biking in the Sierra Bermeja mountains, but it left him with a niggle he couldn’t shake. For six weeks he’d immersed himself in his brother Sam’s ex-pat, Costa del Sol lifestyle – working at the practice in Estepona, hiking, biking, helping with the renovations on the villa, but now? Even the scent of the roses reminded him of his mother’s garden.

‘The wind’s changed.’ Sam handed him a beer as he sat down. ‘It’s coming from the North.’

From home. ‘It’s better, cooler.’

‘You seem restless.’

Patrick stared at the mountains. Like him, they were brown from the incessant sunshine and lack of rain. ‘It’s time to go back.’

Three fields away from the farmhouse, shielded from the world by dense oak woods, Libby sat by the river, adoring the warmth of the August sunshine. She ought to put her vest and shorts back on, just in case, but the glorious decadence of being naked in the open was too good an opportunity to miss. She smiled as Robbie, still shirtless, poured glasses of Prosecco. A lazy picnic by the river, what better way to spend their day off?

‘A girl could get used to this,’ she said, closing her eyes.

Robbie dropped a kiss on her shoulder. ‘So could a guy.’

And that was the problem: it was all too easy to get used to.

For the past two weeks Libby’s life had bordered on the idyllic rural dream. The sun shimmered in a cloudless sky, Jack was nowhere to be seen, Dolomite’s ears pricked when he saw a jump, and she had a thing with Robbie Golding.

A
thing
. A total blissful thing, but a
thing
nonetheless. She didn’t know what else to call it.

An affair
, Zoë had suggested.

But it was more than that. Or less.

Certainly, there was a lot of sex. Often he’d surprise her by turning up after lunch and they’d end up rolling in the clichéd hay until he had to pick his kids up. If she were honest with herself, she preferred the evenings. With Tallulah at Pony Club Camp, Libby would pop back to Low Wood Farm after Robbie had tucked Dora and Matilda into bed. He’d cook dinner and they’d sit in front of the fire, talking for hours.

All too, too easy.

But they’d never spend the night together or hold hands walking down the street, all she’d get would be snatched moments until his wife came back. But those evenings did something for Libby – she got it now. You were either
Somebody
or a distraction, and now she knew enough to make the distinction. Robbie taught her to expect more.

‘Food all set for the party?’ he asked.

‘Burgers, chicken drumsticks, pasta salads.’ Reluctantly returning to reality, Libby lifted a hand, shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘Xander has it all in hand.’

‘And you reminded him that two of Matilda’s friends can’t eat dairy?’

‘Pinky-promised me the cheese will be a million miles from the meat and rolls.’

‘What about the cake?’

‘Your pastry chef has designed a fairy princess palace with glitter, sugar work and Smarties.’ Libby studied him. Despite the setting, the beautiful day, the spine-melting sex, his usual morning-frown had made a return. ‘What’s wrong?’

He stared down at his glass. ‘I want to tell Xander.’

‘You want to tell him what?’ But Libby’s stomach was already freefalling.

‘About us. I don’t like lying to my brother.’

‘No.’ Libby pulled on her vest, guilt washing over her.

‘Why?’

He’ll hate me.
‘Because if people find out, it’ll destroy your marriage.’

‘Does it matter?’

Libby stared at him. Did it matter? Of course it mattered. ‘How did you meet her?’

‘Libby, this isn’t the time. We’ve just–’

‘How did you meet her?’ She buttoned up her shorts, and sat staring at the river, hugging her knees.

For a moment, Robbie merely frowned at her. ‘We... we were doing a photo shoot at Oscar’s, the wine bar in Haverton? My parents own it and I used to work there. She was the model they’d booked.’

‘Did she look beautiful?’

He nodded. ‘She has the greenest eyes, like Tilly’s, and she was all legs in a little black dress. This is weird, Lib.’

‘What happened?’

He lay on his back and lit one of her cigarettes. ‘While I was still working out how to get her in bed, she came over. She thought I was the model she’d be working with and just stood there, twittering about the last shoot she did and how she hated waiting around because it made her nervous. All I did was stare at her, listening to her talk. Her accent’s adorable.’

Libby tried to ignore the jealousy burning inside her. ‘Did you ask her out?’

‘I... to begin with I just wanted to get her into bed.’

‘You arrogant bastard.’

‘In my defence, I was eighteen.’ He smiled. ‘But when she said she was nervous, I asked if a drink would help and went behind the bar. She realised I wasn’t the model and she blushed.’ He laughed, gently. ‘Christ, when she blushed… that’s when I knew.’

‘She was your Somebody.’

Slowly, he nodded, his eyes filled with pain and Libby stroked his hair.

‘She’ll come back, Rob.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Oh, I do, because the more time I spend with you the less I understand why she went in the first place. Shagging you is better than dancing at Covent Garden. How’s your ego?’

‘Boosted.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Do you want to stop this? Us, I mean.’

‘No.’ She didn’t think she could if she tried. ‘I need the distraction.’

‘From ballet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me about it.’

She shook her head, flashing a brave smile. ‘Maybe one day, but not today.’

* * *

Patrick’s return to Gosthwaite got off to a less than auspicious start. He’d got up early, planning a ride out, but his parents had turned up and subjected him to an hour-long meeting on
The Rules
:

- Practice Hours are 9-5. Monday to Friday.

- Monday afternoons are at the Haverton surgery,
pro bono
.

- On call Monday-Thursday, rotating weekends with Fergus and Sarah.

- No newspaper articles

- No scandal

- No hard drugs

- No alcohol if working the next day

- Must consent to random drug testing

He wished he could tell them he understood, that he’d changed, but even though his mother had hugged him, telling him it was lovely to have him back, she wouldn’t look him the eye.

I really am very ashamed to call you my son.

To make matters worse, once he’d finished with The Rules, he’d gone into the surgery, barely having time to put the kettle on before the phone rang. It was Lynda from the Post office – Boadicea, her Weimaraner had been hit by a car. Leisurely start back into working life? No.

He’d prepped the surgery and had his sleeves rolled up by the time Grace arrived. He hadn’t done that in a while – been there before her. At least she’d been happy to see him – throwing her arms around his neck and making him laugh.

Then she cuffed him around the head. ‘And don’t ever leave me stuck with Fergus again.’

Grinning, Patrick nodded. ‘Promise. How’s Hyssop?’

‘Fine,’ Grace said, but quickly turned away to unnecessarily straighten the dressings box.

‘Grace… what’s wrong with him?’

‘Nothing. It’s just… her next door is looking after him.’

‘I left him with you, not some stranger.’

‘What could I do? He moved back in to Maggie’s and she wanted to keep him.’

‘And since Jack’s allergic to cats, you didn’t put up much of a fight.’ He tried to stay calm, determined not to yell as he would have in the past, but Grace had let him down. Badly. ‘Who the hell’s her next door, anyway?’

‘Don’t you get the
Haverton Eye
emails in Spain?’

He shook his head. Grace knew he hadn’t paid any attention to that trash since they’d posted the pictures of him and the Cumbrian Businessman of the Year’s wife, but when she dug a copy of the
Gazette
out of the recycling box and showed him page five, he had to smile. Xander was messing around with some blonde that wasn’t Daisy?

‘I’m guessing from the quote,’ he said, ‘there’s no love lost between you two.’

‘Payback.’ Sighing, she showed him a photo from the blog on her phone.

Jack had been shagging around again – what a shocker. Patrick peered at the image, focussing on Olivia Wilde, who was wearing a tiny red dress. Nice arse.

‘Who is she?’ he asked.

‘Zoë, Maggie’s niece, the one who inherited the house? It’s her mate. Six weeks ago she was in the paper getting up close and personal with Xander, next minute she’s all over Jack.’ She tried to sound as though she didn’t care, but her eyes filled with tears.

‘Gracey, you’ve always been too good for Jack.’ He held her face and kissed her forehead. ‘You need to move on.’

Blushing, no doubt at persevering with Jack for so long, Grace nodded. ‘Lynda’s pulled up outside.’

In a blur of activity, Grace comforted a sobbing Lynda, while Patrick opened the back door. Boadicea lay whimpering, blood seeping from a gash across her side, her two front legs clearly broken and her face an unrecognisable mush. Shit. With Grace’s help, he carried the dog into the surgery, gently laying her on the table.

‘Hey, Boadicea,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re supposed to chase cats, not cars.’

‘It’s not like her,’ Lynda said, ‘but she just ran out into the road. Brenda from Inglenook couldn’t stop in time.’

Once he’d sedated Boadicea, Patrick did a gentle but thorough examination. It wasn’t good news and he frowned at Grace, an unspoken communication she’d understand: the dog needed to be put down.

‘Will she be okay?’ Lynda asked.

He hated this part of his job. ‘I’m afraid she has two broken legs and from the sounds of her chest, a punctured lung.’

‘But you can operate?’

Patrick gripped the table. ‘Yes, but–’

‘Then do it. Please, just make her better.’

‘Lynda, she’s sustained a nasty head injury. I’m not sure there’s anything–’

‘Please?’

Grace put her arm around Lynda. ‘You’re talking about expensive–’

‘She’s my baby. I don’t care about the money.’

‘…and invasive surgery,’ Grace went on. ‘You have to think what’s best for Boadicea.’

‘I’m not sure it’s in her best interests, Lynda.’

Lynda looked up at him, her eyes pleading, tears tumbling down her cheeks. ‘She’s all I have, Patrick. I can’t lose her.’

Jesus Christ. When did he become a soft-touch? ‘I’ll treat her, see what we can do, but by six o’clock, if I think we’re prolonging her suffering... I won’t have her in pain if it’s not going to make her better.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Lynda,’ he said, his voice grave. ‘I’m serious. At six o’clock, I will make that call.’

Grace led her away. ‘Why don’t you go home, have a cuppa, Lynda? There’s nothing you can do here. I’ll ring you when we know more.’

With a sobbing Lynda gone, Patrick set to work. ‘Grace, make some coffee and get me the cat back.’

The green track beneath his wheels improved Patrick’s mood with each passing minute. Biking in Spain had been challenging, but the brown, dusty trails weren’t a patch on his familiar route across the common and down through woods. It had to be the only good thing about coming home.

Get the cat back.

It wasn’t a lot to ask, but at six o’clock after he’d informed Lynda that Boadicea was moderately stable, Grace reluctantly admitted that Olivia Wilde wouldn’t answer her calls. Irritated, he kept an eye on Maggie’s cottage, planning to ask for Hyssop back himself, but he saw no sign of Zoë or her friend. In the end, he’d gone home to an empty house. And it sucked.

Patrick stood up on his pedals, punishing himself up the hill towards the woods, but already smiling in anticipation of the next descent – the best downhill for miles around. Pedalling hard, he turned into the woods, his knees soaking up every bump in the track. He flew over a bank, turning hard right to avoid a vast Douglas Fir. He still had it. The first time he’d taken the jump, he’d ploughed straight into the trunk, dislocating his shoulder, but never again.

Trees flew past. He ducked to avoid a low branch, but kept his eye on the track, lining up the next bend, spotting the apex, mentally preparing for a brief burst of effort before a huge rolling left–

Shit.

Someone was on the track.

He yelled as he swerved, but his back wheel clipped the runner and Patrick slammed into a branch. The bike fell away and he slid down the hill, dirt and stones dragging against his bare arms and legs.

Jesus Christ.

Winded, he sat up, the skin on his arms and legs stinging, but looked for the runner. She was lying under a tree, holding her right leg in the air. He ignored the stabbing pain in his knee as he jogged up the hill, hoping she wasn’t badly hurt.

‘Are you okay?’ He crouched next to her, waiting for his sunglasses to react to the dim light in the shade of the tree.

‘I think I’ve twisted my ankle, nothing serious.’ Not a local girl. She sounded posh, not upper-class posh, but well-spoken. She touched her face, flinching.

Finally, his sunglasses adjusted and he turned her chin, examining the graze on her cheek. Was this Olivia Wilde? Pretty. And her skimpy, skin-tight running gear covered little, but showed off how toned she was. No wonder Jack had been tempted.