Nearly Almost Somebody (16 page)

‘It’s a wee graze,’ he said. ‘You won’t be scarred for life.’

She winced as she sat up. ‘Are you okay? You’re bleeding.’

He lifted a hand to his forehead and frowned at the drop of blood left on his finger. That explained the axe ripping his skull open. ‘I’ll live.’

He held out a hand and helped her to her feet, watching as she tentatively put her right foot on the ground. She swore and he tried not to smile. Was this fortuitous? Olivia Wilde needed his help and she had his cat. One good deed...

‘Oh god, that bloody hurts.’ She closed her eyes for a second, before taking a deep breath. ‘Old injury. It’ll be okay, just needs a couple of days to recover.’

‘Think you can walk?’ He hoped not. Helping Ms Wilde would hardly be a hardship.

She frowned, peering down the track, then shook her head. ‘But it feels a bit melodramatic to ring the Mountain Rescue for a swollen ankle.’

‘Wait here.’ He scooted down to collect his mercifully still intact bike.

Her frown grew as he returned. ‘I don’t like bikes.’

‘It’s this, or walking.’

She swore several times, but perched on the crossbar and clutched the inside of the handlebar. ‘Please, be careful.’

Instead of going down, he pushed the bike back up the hill, detouring out of the woods as soon as he could onto the smoother, grassy bridleway down to the village. He couldn’t help smiling. Despite his banging head and the burning coming from his grazed arm and leg, the morning was already a hundred times better than the day before. He had a damsel-in-distress on his crossbar.

‘Okay, hold tight and… just don’t do anything stupid.’ He climbed on the bike, trying not to grin as he put his arms either side of her to take hold of the handlebars.

‘Oh God,’ she groaned, cowering into him.

A pretty damsel-in-distress who smelled of… roses. How could she smell of roses when she’d been running? As he changed gear, his face next to hers, he took a deep breath. Not just roses, roses and sweet peas, like the roses and the sweet peas his mum grew. She smelled like a god-damn flower garden, a Wilde flower garden. And this flower garden would owe him a favour.

Like giving me my cat back.

He peeked round at her, trying not to laugh. ‘Why’ve you got your eyes shut?’

‘Because this is terrifying. I haven’t ridden on a crossbar since I was about twelve.’

‘You run half-naked through the woods at seven in the morning and you think this is dangerous?’

He laughed, loving the way she leaned against him. Should he seize the opportunity of a captive audience and ask for Hyssop back? Plenty of time for that.

‘Open your eyes,’ he said, his lips brushing her ear. ‘It’ll be less scary. We’re really not going that fast.’

She opened her eyes and squeaked, cowering against him even more, her head against his shoulder. ‘Oh god, we are. I really hate bikes.’

‘Tough, I’m not carrying you back to the Green.’

He took another sneaky peek at her as they coasted down the track. Christ, she was small, skinny small, and he didn’t think legs like that existed outside of air-brushed adverts – long, trim and very toned, the body of an athlete. Okay, her tits were underwhelming, but better that than the fake things Ms Haverton had stuck to her chest. Overall, Ms Wilde was a very nice package.

‘How do you know where I live?’ she asked.

‘You’re Olivia Wilde, aren’t you? The girl who’s been misbehaving with Jack and Xander.’ He regretted his piss-taking when she straightened her back, putting an inch or two between them. ‘Sorry. I don’t really know anything. Just rumours.’

But she didn’t relax, making it a very bad time to ask about Hyssop. She might say no, just to be obtuse. He leaned forward to give his most sincere smile, to show her he wasn’t a bad guy, but she looked away, her eyes shining. Why did girls always cry?

‘Don’t worry about the paper,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows they make up half of what they print.’ Unless it was about him, then it was usually true.

She didn’t speak for the rest of the ride down, though after an unavoidable cattle grid made her shriek with pain, she did at least lean against him again.

Roses and sweet peas.

Carefully, he stopped outside her house and helped her off the bike. ‘Do you need a hand to get into the house?’

She turned, hopping on her left foot, and smiled.

And when she smiled, pretty became angelic.

Jesus.

* * *

In the woods, with his back to the light, all she knew was he looked tall, had curly hair and a slight Scottish accent. On the bike, she’d discovered he was fit. She’d ogled the thigh muscles, admired the arms, and couldn’t resist leaning back against his shoulders, but the rest was a mystery. A mystery until she turned around and he lifted his sunglasses.

Ohmigod.

A mop of black curls, hazel eyes, great cheekbones... Crikey, he even had an adorable smattering of freckles across his nose.

‘I’ll be fine, thanks,’ she said, trying not to stare.

He flashed a smile as he held out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Olivia–’

‘I only get called Olivia when I’m being fired,’ she said, shaking his hand. Rough hands, nice. ‘It’s Libby the rest of the time.’

‘Then it’s nice to meet you, Libby. I’m Patrick.’

Patrick? She glanced to the corner house next to hers. ‘You’re Patrick, the vet?’

He nodded, still smiling, but preparing to leave. ‘I’m Patrick, the vet.’

Aware she was definitely staring, but too bemused to do anything else, Libby watched him peddle away, heading for the lane between their houses.

‘Oh, and Libby?’ He paused. ‘I want my cat back.’

Bemusement vanished. ‘He’s not your cat.’

Smiling up at the sky, Patrick circled around, cycling back to her. Crikey, he had something about him and not just a fit body. The irritating thing was she knew from his easy-going smile he only wanted one thing: her cat.

‘How is Hyssop?’ he asked.

‘Healthy. Happy. At home.’

Patrick laughed. ‘I want him back.’

‘Not happening.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘As much as I’d like to debate this now, how about we discuss it tonight? Seven o’clock, the Alfred? I’ll buy you a drink to say sorry for nearly killing you.’

Libby faced up to him, with her hands on hips. ‘The Alfred’s a bit tricky. As I’m sure you know, Grace and I don’t get along.’

‘Yeah, she mentioned why.’

Libby folded her arms, desperate to flee. She had to walk away. Now.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve been telling her to dump him for years.’ Patrick leaned on his handlebars, his eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Grace won’t say anything if I’m there. Tell you what, I’ll call for you on the way then you don’t even have to walk in on your own.’

‘Wow, you’re almost making it sound like a date. Will you bring flowers? I adore peach roses.’

‘It’s not a date.’ He grinned, blatantly looking her over. ‘It’s a custody battle.’

‘Planning to ply me with booze until I say yes?’

‘Will it work?’

She shook her head.

‘Then I won’t rely on booze.’ He shot her a wink then pedalled away again. ‘Seven o’clock.’

Seven o’clock. She had a… custody battle with Patrick the vet. It wasn’t a date, but guilt swamped her as she hopped into the house. Hyssop, as ever, padded down the stairs to meet her, mewing a hello. She sat on the bottom step, stroking his head.

‘Do you want to go back to Patrick?’

He mewed again. Was that a yes or a no?

‘I mean, because, if you want to, then I’d understand. You’ve probably known him for longer, but...’
I don’t want you to go.

Hyssop rubbed his head against her chin before plodding back upstairs to curl up as he usually did, on her bed. It was as if he’d said, don’t worry, I’m staying. No way was Patrick taking him, no matter how much he fluttered his fabulous eyelashes.

She’d tell Robbie, of course. When she got to work, she’d tell him. It wasn’t a
date
after all. He wouldn’t mind.

But despite plenty of opportunities, she hadn’t told Robbie. He’d come back in the afternoon and helped her round the yard, good-naturedly telling her off for over-using her ankle. After work, he poured her a glass of wine, but when he asked if she was coming round later, she’d lied. She’d told an outright lie and said Zoë wanted to go out for a drink. He’d nodded, his disappointment clear. Why hadn’t she told him the truth?

It wasn’t a date.

Libby checked her cheek in the hall mirror. The graze wasn’t too bad and an icepack had taken the swelling down, but even copious layers of concealer couldn’t hide the bruise. Not exactly the best look for a non-date. She glanced down at her multitude of bangles and pushed them off, not wanting Patrick to think she’d made an effort. Bugger, why was she so worried?

Okay, she’d admit Patrick was good-looking. Not at Robbie’s supermodel level, but certainly an eight out of ten, maybe a nine. What was he, about thirty? Plus he was a vet and being a vet made him good with animals. To cap it all he didn’t have brown eyes. Hazel eyes couldn’t be classed as brown, could they? But was he single and was he honest with decent morals? Could he be the one she’d summoned?

‘Is it me,’ Zoë said, pausing as she painted her toenails her usual scarlet, ‘or are you a little nervous about your date with the vet?’

‘It’s not a date. It’s a custody battle.’

‘There’s no battle. He can have the flea-bag.’

Libby stroked Hyssop’s head. ‘Don’t listen to her.’

‘I’m allergic to him. I have to take Clarityn every bloody day.’

‘You get hay fever. You’d take it anyway.’ Libby checked her watch.

‘Why are you so twitchy? Worried he’ll stand you up?’

‘No. He wants Hyssop too much.’ Libby kissed the cat’s head.
But he’s not having you, mister.

‘I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Patrick McBride. I must’ve been ten when I saw him last. He was always nicking Maggie’s weed and she used to call him the
Wee Scots Beastie
. I used to fancy him, of course. God knows why. He was this gangly fifteen year-old. What’s he like now?’

‘Oh, you know… fit.’ She’d forgotten the Scottish accent. ‘And it’s not a date.’

‘Fit, as in mountain biker fit, or fit as in…’

‘You would.’

‘Miss Wilde, is that why you’re so twitchy? Wow, what if he’s the one?’ Zoë turned to her, wide-eyed. ‘The one you summoned.’

Libby shook her head. ‘He’s not.’

‘But he could be.’

‘He’s not. He’s Scottish.’ To avoid summoning Paolo, she’d added English to her list of desired traits. ‘Bugger, he’s here. You sure I don’t look too try-hard?’

Zoë frowned at her. ‘You’re wearing a denim mini-skirt and black t-shirt. You’re as bland as can be.’

Bland wasn’t good. Libby pushed several bangles back on and hopped to the door.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Christ, it’s good to see you.’

Libby blinked in surprise, but Patrick wasn’t speaking to her. He crouched down, reaching out to pick up Hyssop. After a thorough examination, accompanied by several chin rubs, Patrick set Hyssop down, then slowly straightened. He fought a smile as his gaze travelled up her legs, but when he reached Libby’s face, his eyes widened and he recoiled, laughing.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Didn’t expect–’

‘What?’ She folded her arms.

‘Aren’t you a little old to be dressing like a misunderstood teenager?’ He headed back down the garden path. ‘You coming?’

A misunderstood teenager? Libby straightened her back a little more. This wasn’t a date. It was a custody battle. Grabbing her bag, she followed Patrick, deliberately hobbling slowly. If she’d aimed not to look too try-hard, he’d outdone her. His jeans looked threadbare through use rather than some designer’s whim, and that faded t-shirt would be rejected by the homeless. But crikey, he looked good.

No.

Patrick slowed, glancing back at her. ‘Hyssop looks well.’

‘He said, begrudgingly.’

‘His eyes have been okay?’

‘I got Zoë to get the drops from Grace.’
Oh god, the Alfred. Please don’t let Grace – or worse Jack – be inside.

For the first time, Patrick gave her a smile. ‘Don’t look so worried. Yes, Grace will be in there, but honestly, she won’t dare say anything in front of me. Grab the table over by the window.’

‘Can’t we sit outside?’

‘I’d prefer to sit inside.’ He held the door open for her.

‘I might want a cigarette.’

‘Feel free to go outside for one. It’s a disgusting habit. Drink?’

‘The white Rioja,’ she said, already wishing she hadn’t agreed to the non-date.

Grace didn’t hide her displeasure at Libby’s arrival, and Jack sat at the bar, staring straight ahead. Why had she let Patrick boss her around? She didn’t want to sit inside. She didn’t want to be sitting in the same pub as Jack or Grace.

She darted to the left, taking refuge in the window seat hidden from the view of the bar. Her ankle started throbbing again. She could be getting ready to go and see Robbie. What had she been thinking? She could just leave. Walk out. Longingly, she glanced across to the cottage. Hyssop was sitting on the war memorial in the middle of the Green, watching her. Keeping an eye on her?

Her chance to flee passed as Patrick sat opposite, pushing a bath-sized glass of wine towards her.

‘Sorry for almost killing you this morning.’

‘Apology accepted.’ She took the wine, trying to force a polite smile.

‘You really don’t want to be here, do you?’

‘Nope.’ She took a mouthful of the wine. ‘So you’ve been away. Nice tan.’

‘My brother has a practice out in Spain.’

‘Practice?’

‘He’s a vet too, family thing.’ He had his head tipped slightly, studying her. ‘My dad’s a vet, my mum’s a vet, my big brother’s a vet. Why was Xander hugging you?’

‘Trying to unearth a little scandal you can use in the custody battle?’

‘Maybe. You didn’t answer me.’

‘He’s my running buddy.’

‘And he was hugging you because…’

‘He’s nice like that?’ Libby grinned. ‘He hugged me because I said I’d think about doing the fell race.’

Patrick sipped his beer, leaning further back in his seat. ‘Why’d you come here?’

‘The irresistible lure of a free drink.’

He glanced out of the window, trying not to smile. ‘To Gosthwaite, I meant.’

‘Zoë and I were sharing a flat in Manchester. She inherited the cottage and moved here to avoid capital gains. I came too.’

‘What really happened with Xander?’

‘We’re just friends.’

‘Can I have the cat back?’ he asked, looking her in the eye.

‘His name is Hyssop. And no, you can’t. He’s settled.’

‘He’s not yours.’

‘He’s not yours either.’ She kept up eye contact, fascinated by the odd mix of green and brown in his irises.

‘Maggie said that if anything happened to her, I should look after him.’

‘I’ve seen her will. Your name wasn’t mentioned.’

‘He was happy with me.’

‘What, until you buggered off and left him? He needs a home, not someone who lets him down.’

‘And you’re going to stick around forever? Grace said you and Zoë were planning to move on when the renovations are done. At least I own my house.’ He glanced up to his right.

‘Liar,’ she said, without thinking.

‘What?’

‘You don’t own that house, you’re lying.’

He frowned at her for a second, before shaking his head. He was clearly irritated, but his eyes were twinkling. ‘Okay, okay, so my parents own it. That’s not the point.’

She sipped her wine, trying not to smile. ‘Ding, ding, end of round one.’

‘Bitch.’ He gently kicked her ankle under the table.

Libby winced. ‘Ow.’

He sat up, his eyes wide. ‘Christ, sorry.’

She couldn’t stop her huge smile. ‘It’s okay. It was the other ankle.’

‘I’m really starting to dislike you.’ He threw a beer mat at her, his smile growing.

‘Careful, some might call that flirting, like pigtail pulling in the playground.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. You look like seventeen year-old trailer trash.’

‘Crikey, you know how to charm a girl out of her cat.’

He knocked back several mouthfuls of beer, never taking his eyes off her. Robbie had some serious competition for the sexiest bloke she’d ever met.

This isn’t a date. Don’t get carried away. He only wants Hyssop.

‘I hear you used to pinch Maggie’s weed,’ she said, trying to keep things a little less flirty.

‘She gave me permission to help myself when I was eighteen. Can I still?’

‘You just said smoking was a disgusting habit.’

‘Weed’s different.’

‘Hypocrite. I don’t think being a regular drug-user is going to help your custody case.’

‘And inflicting second-hand smoke on Hyssop is helping yours, is it? Ding, ding, end of round two.’

Libby pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. ‘What was she like?’

‘Maggie?’ He turned to the cottage. ‘She used to be ferocious. Christ, the amount of times she whacked me with her walking stick. She changed though, softened up in her old age. I liked her.’

He still stared at the cottage, his frown growing. Libby could feel his sadness. She wanted to comfort him, hold his hand. Hold his hand? Run her fingers through his hair, more like. She gently nudged his ankle.

He turned to her, smiling. ‘Ow.’

She smiled back, glancing up at the cut that was showing from under his curls. ‘How’s your head, by the way?’

‘Fine, but my helmet’s knackered and my bike’s scratched to hell.’

‘That was the scariest twenty minutes of my life.’

He laughed, leaning forwards, his elbows on the table. ‘You were hilarious. I can’t believe you had your eyes closed.’

Libby blushed as he smiled and his legs stretched out under the table, accidently brushing against hers. He did fancy her. A bit at least.

‘Isn’t he a bit single for you, Libby?’ Grace said as she wiped down a nearby table. ‘You want to watch yourself, Patrick. Her reputation’s worse than yours.’

Libby clutched her glass, mentally screaming at Grace’s departing back.

‘Turns out, you were wrong,’ she said, looking up at Patrick, hoping for some reassurance, willing him to reprimand Grace.

He didn’t. He stared back. ‘I’ve got to go, sorry.’

‘You are not walking out on me in front of her.’

He stood up, abandoning the last quarter of his pint. ‘I’ll try not to run you over again.’

Her cheeks burned with mortification and anger. ‘Damn right. That was a public footpath, not a bloody cycle route.’

He left.

Libby downed her wine before hobbling to the bar where Grace stood with her arms crossed, grinning.

‘You want a war?’ Libby said, keeping her voice low. ‘You’ve got one. You have no idea what I can do. I will take you on in the fell race and I’m going to win.’

Grace blew her a kiss and Libby strode off across the Green, refusing to limp. She wouldn’t give Grace or Mr McBride the satisfaction of watching her suffer.

‘Matilda, can’t you play in the bloody house?’ Libby manoeuvred the wheelbarrow around the collection of teddies having a picnic in the middle of the yard.

‘Tilly, take the bears nearer the sandpit, please.’ Robbie waited until Matilda was out of earshot. ‘And you’re in a bad mood because?’

‘None of your business.’ Libby dragged a half-full bag of shavings to Max’s box.

‘Libby?’

She stopped, looking up at him.

‘Don’t ever take your bad fucking mood out on my daughter again.’

He headed back to the house and she kicked the shavings bag, sending a bolt of agony into her ankle.

‘I went for a drink with Patrick the vet last night,’ she said, flopping onto the bench. ‘I shouldn’t have said yes. I feel bad.’

Robbie looked up at the sky for a moment before joining her on the bench. ‘Lib, if you want to go out with someone… Not that I want you to, but under the circumstances, it’s not fair to stop you.’

‘I lied. I’m sorry.’

‘You did. Why?’

She shrugged.

‘And what happened when you went out with Patrick the vet last night?

‘The utter bastard walked out on me.’ She pulled a face then braved looking up at him.
You’re ten times the person he is.

‘Sounds like you got off lightly.’ Robbie ran a hand though his hair. ‘He’s my best-friend but–’

‘What?’

‘You didn’t realise? Have I not mentioned him?’ He laughed. ‘I suppose there’s some irony there. Look, I wouldn’t trust my sister with him, if I had a sister.’

‘Why on earth are you friends with him?’

‘I’ve known him since I was nine and… he reminds me of who I used to be.’

Oh. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ He glanced across to the girls who were merrily feeding the teddies sand, before dropping a kiss on her head. ‘Just promise me, if you do meet someone else, don’t lie.’