Nearly Almost Somebody (23 page)

Jack looked up, rubbing his head. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘You don’t see anything,’ Patrick said, his voice a menacing growl. ‘Get the hell out of here.’

Jack laughed as he stood up. ‘She doesn’t hang around, does she? She hardly drew breath from fucking Xander, to me, then Robbie, and what, a couple of weeks later it’s your–’

Patrick grabbed him, shoving him up against the wall. ‘Shut your mouth. Libby and I are friends. What are you doing here?’

‘I just came to talk to her.’ Jack held out his arms, laughing, showing he had no intention of retaliating. ‘Calm it, man.’

‘He wanted to shut me up,’ Libby said.

‘About what?’ Patrick frowned back at her, still restraining Jack.

‘I spoke to Sheila this afternoon,’ Libby said. ‘You see, Jack, it’s not just me who’s asking questions. Patrick is too, and I bet Grace won’t be far behind. I’m ringing the police. And not your brother.’

Jack closed his eyes, slumping against the wall, his fight gone. ‘She didn’t kill her.’

‘But she tried to?’ Libby asked.

Jack nodded.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Patrick backed away, running his fingers through his curls. ‘She really poisoned the wine.’

‘And what’s the bets that PC Andy knows all about it,’ Libby said.

Patrick sat on the table, next to her. ‘Sheila tried to kill Maggie?’

‘No… well, yes, but half-heartedly.’ Jack stared at the ceiling, fiddling with his watch strap. ‘When Maggie hadn’t been around for a few days, Mum freaked and rang me. She thought she’d killed her. She wanted to go to the police, but then you found the body and it turned out Maggie had broken her neck. Mum hadn’t killed her.’

‘Liar,’ Libby whispered. ‘Your mum went in, she found the body, didn’t she?’

Jack paled. ‘What, no…’

‘Or did you?’ Patrick asked.

The silence grew as Jack stared at them both. Libby felt for him. He was protecting his mum, a noble aim, but he had to make things right.

‘Yes.’ Jack sighed. ‘The next morning, I came in to see if… well, to see if she was okay or not. She was dead, but the bottle was on the side.’

‘Why didn’t you tell anyone, or phone an ambulance?’ Patrick asked, his voice quiet.

‘Mum was a mess. She would’ve confessed and what good would that have done? She didn’t hurt Maggie.’

‘And your brother,’ Patrick said, ‘I’m guessing, did a half-arsed investigation so no one would find out what your mum nearly did. Brilliant.’

Jack hung his head in shame. ‘What now?’

Patrick sighed. ‘Look, I don’t want your mum to get into trouble any more than you do. I’ve had tea at her house nearly as much as my own.’

‘But the necklace is still missing,’ Libby said. ‘Someone took that.’

‘What necklace?’ Jack said. ‘Mum didn’t take anything.’

‘A green pendant,’ Patrick said, ‘Egg shaped, with some inscription engraved around it.’

‘No idea.’ Jack headed for the door.

‘Wait.’ Libby bravely approached him, laying her hand on his forehead as Grace had done in August. ‘Whatever influence I hold over thee, be at peace. I set thee free.’

Jack shook his head, giving a hollow laugh. ‘You know that’s all bullshit, right?’

‘Maybe.’ Libby shrugged. ‘Or maybe I had no idea what I was messing with. We’re over.’

Jack simply nodded and disappeared into the night. Libby turned to Patrick, wanting to thank her new superhero, but found she couldn’t speak, her head filled with the memory of Jack stroking her shoulder. What if… what would he have done? Had she created this monster with her summoning spells? She stared at Patrick.

‘You’re okay.’ He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. ‘He’s gone.’

She clung to him, never wanting to let go. With her cheek against his shoulder, she could smell the woody tang of his aftershave. This was… home. Bugger him being a distraction, why couldn’t he be her somebody, the one she’d summoned? Because he’s Scottish, and she’d wished for someone English. Arse.

‘Life’s never dull with you around,’ he said, his head resting on hers. ‘Now, what shall we discuss first, how you took Jack down like that or why you look all… Flashdance?’

She laughed, as tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Are you crying?’

She nodded. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I’m impervious to tears now. No more pay rises.’

‘How about jobs? I need one. I’d make a great cow castrating assistant.’

‘If you think cows get castrated, you don’t even make it to interview. What happened to the riding school?’

‘I got sacked today, which makes fourteen jobs in three years.’

He held her at arm’s length, his mouth gaping. ‘Fourteen jobs? You’re definitely not making it to interview.’

She pushed him away, smiling. ‘Like I’d really want to work for you. You’d be grumpier than Rob.’

Patrick’s phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘Speak of the devil.’

Libby dug out a cardigan, painfully aware how flat her chest looked in the leotard. Flashdance. God, he must think she was an utter weirdo. Was that why he couldn’t be her distraction? Or was it because she looked awful? Without asking him, she poured two glasses of the red she’d started earlier, trying not to stare at his arse as he chatted to Robbie. Why did she have a knack for fancying sexy-as-hell blokes she couldn’t have?

‘Libs?’ He handed her the phone, swapping it for a glass. ‘Christ, I need this.’

They sat on the rickety bench outside, and after Libby spent five minutes reassuring Robbie she was fine, she lit a cigarette.

‘Why did you get sacked?’ Patrick asked, wafting her smoke away.

She explained, smiling when his body shook with repressed laughter. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘Oh, it is. Fat, lazy and woefully ineffective? I’d have paid to have been there.’ He sipped his wine and stretched out his long legs. ‘What are you going to do?’

She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s a sign I should move on.’

‘Where would you go?’ He moved his glass in little circles, swirling the wine.

‘I don’t know. Sensibly, I should go to Sydney or London.’

‘Sydney Australia? Bit extreme.’

‘It’s where my parents live.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘A long story.’

He laughed. ‘And London?’

‘Paolo.’ She hoped he couldn’t see her reddening cheeks. ‘My ex. He moved there just before I moved here.’

‘Why didn’t you go with him?’

‘A long story.’

‘You are priceless.’ He elbowed her.

‘So who do you think took the necklace?’ she asked, desperate to change the subject.

‘Beats me.’

‘Sheila mentioned that Maggie had a few flings. Maybe there’s another homicidal wife out there? What about the rich guy who gave her the necklace in the first place, maybe he has a wife hell-bent on revenge?’

‘What, you think she came in, pushed Maggie down the stairs then ripped the pendant from her body, taking back what was rightfully hers?’

Libby laughed. ‘Do you watch far too much CSI, by any chance?’

‘Far, far too much.’ He nudged her, grinning back. ‘But I can’t really see Lucinda Doyle bumping anyone off. She’s more likely to have them excommunicated socially.’

‘Who’s Lucinda Doyle?’

‘Seamus Doyle’s wife.’

‘Seamus Doyle, the poet?’

‘He has a house near Windermere. He’s why Maggie moved up here in the first place.’

‘How on earth do you know that?’

‘Because I went to a black tie shindig with his daughter, Tabitha, last New Year.’

Libby laughed. ‘I can’t see you in black tie.’

‘I wear it very well, actually. Anyway, Maggie was there too. Tabitha really didn’t like seeing Seamus and Maggie together and it was so obvious they were having an affair. Did a valiant effort at ignoring each other, acting like strangers, but the second they were alone, thick as thieves.’

‘Recognise the signs from your own sordid affairs?’

‘Actually, yes.’ He smiled, chinking his glass against hers.

‘So it was still going on, even this year?’

He nodded. ‘I asked her about it when she came to get eye drops for Hyssop. She’d been shagging Seamus for over thirty years.’

‘Patrick, what does Lucinda look like?’

‘Tall, blonde–’

‘Like the ghost of Maggie? Do you think Becky next-door-but-one was telling the truth?’

He fought a smile. ‘If you do move to Sydney, do I get full custody of the cat?’

When Patrick had left, making her lock the door behind him, Libby took out the spell book, flicking through, looking for inspiration. Good luck, grounding, prosperity? A spell for Inner Power and Spiritual Guidance? Perfect. She longed to go outside and sit on the lawn, but what if Jack was still lurking? Instead, she ducked out to collect a few sprigs of thyme, then double checked the door was locked before sitting in the middle of the living room.

The purple, lavender-infused candle sitting on a ceramic dish inscribed with a pentagram would supposedly help clarify her thoughts, while the thyme she held in its flame would increase her psychic powers. Libby watched the herb smoulder.

What do I do, stay in Gosthwaite, go to London, or go to Sydney? I need a sign.

‘Divine power within, bless and guide me on the path of my destiny.’

She repeated the mantra until the thyme was nothing more than ash dotted through the molten wax.

I need a sign.

Going to his parents’ house always felt just that to Patrick –
their
house, not the family home. Kiln Howe, an ancient, sprawling farmhouse, was a great place, but aside from Christmas holidays, it held few memories for him. The family home, the place he grew up, was his house on the Green, but the McBride’s had moved out the year he went to university.

He knocked on the door but went straight in, laughing as the pack descended on him – Flynn and Jess, his parents’ flat-coat retrievers, scurried around, while Baxter, Patrick’s old sheepdog, limped along at his heel, his hips clearly no better despite the latest meds.

In the kitchen, his dad stood at the Aga, cooking bacon and eggs and his mum sat at the table, reading the papers – a Saturday morning tradition in the McBride house.

‘Morning,’ Patrick said, dropping a kiss on his mum’s cheek.

‘Morning, darling. Coffee’s fresh.’ She glanced up from the Guardian’s
Weekend
magazine, just long enough to give him a warm smile. It was always the same when she became engrossed in an article. Years of burned bacon had prompted his dad to take over Saturday morning cooking, leaving his wife to her newspaper. Patrick suspected she’d done it on purpose, just to gain a little time off.

‘You look tired,’ his dad said, wagging a spatula at him. ‘Late night?’

‘Nothing outside of the rules. I was at Rob’s for dinner.’

‘How are they?’ his mum asked. ‘Has Vanessa forgiven him?’

Patrick clenched his teeth, having promised Robbie that, for the sake of the kids, Vanessa’s little holiday would never come to light.

‘They’re fine. What are you reading?’ he asked, pouring a coffee.

‘It’s the most marvellous piece about an artist. He’s from Lochaire. It’s about an hour from where I grew up.’ She folded the pages back to the start of the article. ‘He’s about to be an international success, but what’s fascinating is that he exhibited two paintings of a ballerina. He sold the painting of her dancing for fifty thousand pounds, but turned down another fifty for the second painting,
The Broken Ballerina
. The price was upped to seventy-five, but he said he regretted showing it and he destroyed it. They’re beautiful paintings.’

She handed him the paper and Patrick almost choked on his coffee. Looking back at him, immortalised in oils, was Ms Olivia Wilde.

Or was it Libby? By seven o’clock that night, Patrick had persuaded himself he was being ridiculous. Or was he? The rough style of the artwork generalised the ballerina’s features, and certainly the girl in
The Happy Ballerina
could be anyone, but in
The Broken Ballerina
... Was that Libby? The dancer sat on the floor, tears rolling, hugging her legs, her head resting on her knees. The same position Libby had been in when they’d sat on the lawn eating cheese on toast at Maggie’s cottage and she’d told him how much she’d miss the horses at Low Wood Farm. And the artist was Paolo de Luca. Her ex, the one who buggered off to London, was called Paolo.

It had to be her.

Patrick laughed. If Libby was a ballerina, it’d explain a few things – the perfect legs, the super-skinny body.

It definitely had to be her.

But so what if it was? Why did he care? She was just some girl. She looked bloody awful most of the time, yet he’d showered, put on a half decent t-shirt, jeans that weren’t falling apart and, for Christ’s sake, he’d even combed his hair. Properly. He didn’t even fancy her, not really. Well, not the majority of the time, but when he’d walked past a florist’s earlier, the heady scent instantly reminded him of hugging Miss Olivia Wilde. How come she always smelled like a rose garden?

This was stupid. For two weeks, he’d avoided her, trying to forget he’d heard her say that he’d be a great distraction. Why the hell had he kissed her? Then Robbie begged him to check on her. Christ, when Jack went to push the strap off her shoulder… If he closed his eyes, Patrick could still picture the fear on her face. He’d never wanted to kill anyone or anything in his life, not until that moment. It terrified him.

But he’d promised to keep an eye on her and a couple of times since then they’d had coffee. A couple? Okay, four. Patrick stared at the paper again.

Sod it.

Clutching the paper, he headed round to Maggie’s cottage, walking as casually as he could to the back garden gate. She might not be in. She might have a date.

She was in.

She and Zoë were sitting at the rickety old table. As ever, Zoë looked like she ought to be gracing the fuselage of a WWII bomber, her scarlet lipstick perfectly matching her cleavage enhancing top, but it just didn’t work for him. Maybe it was because he could remember her as a kid, running around in a tutu.

Tutus, Flashdance – it all made sense. Libby had to be the Broken Ballerina.

‘Welcome to the Gin Terrace,’ Libby said with a perfectly clipped, fifties heroine accent. ‘You’ve arrived in time for cocktails. G and T, darling?’

He laughed as he crossed the lawn. ‘Why the hell not?’

Zoë stood up. ‘I’ll get it.’

As he sat at the table, he looked Libby over with a mixture of amusement and horror. In a simple black t-shirt and ripped-at-the-knee jeans, with no hooker-esque bra straps on display, she lacked her usual trailer trash styling, but made up for it with twenty black bangles on each wrist, near black polish on her nails and pink hair. Christ, it really was pink – a pale, candyfloss pink with six or so black streaks scattered through it. She’d gone even more rock chick. Why? It was all a front. He’d already discovered she preferred R&B.

‘Nice hair,’ he said examining one of Libby’s new pink locks. Sadly, the fringe still covered half her eyes.

‘It’s for my new job. Cool, hey?’

‘Not even slightly. It’s
pink.
What’s the job?’

‘Oscar’s Bar and Bistro in Haverton. Rob sorted it. I’m sure it’ll suck, but it’s a job. This might be the last Saturday night I ever have off and so we’re having a girly night in. You can be an honorary girl, if you like.’

‘An honorary girl? My weekend’s made.’ He leant on the table, still holding the paper. ‘Libs, your ex… Paolo, is he an artist?’

Libby’s frown told him enough, but when she pulled her graceful legs up onto her chair, hugging her knees, he knew it was true.

She nodded. ‘Why?’

‘And is this you?’ he asked, dropping the paper on the table, already open at page twenty-five. ‘Are you the Broken Ballerina?’

Libby stared at the paper, her hand shaking as she gulped her drink.

* * *

The words were a blur, but she stared at the photos. Two large oil paintings, one of her doing a rather good arabesque and the other showing her in tears as she told Paolo how once upon a time she used to be a ballet dancer. Oh, Paolo. Libby’s fingers brushed over the photo of him. He’d had his hair cut a little shorter. She preferred the way it was before.

‘You’re a ballerina?’ Patrick asked.

‘No, I’m a broken ballerina.’ She held the paper up to her face and screamed before taking a deep breath and facing him. ‘Sorry. Shock.’

‘What’s going on?’ Zoë asked, dashing out. Her accusatory scowl evaporated as she spied the paper and snatched it from Libby. ‘Fuck me. He finally painted you.’

Libby rested her forehead on the table. Oh god, Paolo had painted her, not just painted her, but made her famous too. Okay, he hadn’t named her, but Patrick had recognised her, what if others did? ‘How could he do this to me?’

              ‘They’re quite good.’ Zoë peered at the photos. ‘Not at all chocolate box considering they’re of a ballerina. I never realised he was actually talented.’

‘The article’s not about him being talented,’ Patrick explained. ‘He turned down seventy-five grand and then burned the painting to protect Libby.’

Which would be Paolo’s style. Libby closed her eyes. Oh Paolo. Why couldn’t she have loved Paolo?

‘I bet he regretted it,’ she said, picking up her phone, ‘because he knows I’m going to kill him.’

Paolo answered instantly.

‘Ach, I’m sorry,’ he said, his familiar voice like molten chocolate for her soul. ‘I’ve just been thinking of that time we went to Devon in Mikey’s campervan. You were so angry, but remember how I painted you? Need me to do it now?’

God, he’d promised not to sketch her for a week, but she’d found his pad and threatened to walk all the way home. She didn’t. Under a starlit sky, they’d built a fire on a deserted beach and he’d painted her. Literally. With his watercolours, he painted elegant swirls and flowers over her arms, legs and torso, until she lay naked but decorated from the neck down. They’d washed it off, shagging in the sea. It was no wonder he’d talked her back into bed so many times. He knew how to break down her defences: a knee-weakening kiss, an erotic endearment whispered into her ear, a hand brushing over her neck. It didn’t take much. Patrick watched her. She couldn’t weaken. Not this time, Paolo.

‘Sorry?’ she snapped. ‘I trusted you to keep a bloody secret, not plaster it all over page twenty-five of the bloody Guardian.’

‘It got a wee bit out of hand.’

‘A
wee bit
? You could’ve bloody warned me–’

‘I rang you last week. Twice. You didn’t answer.’

‘Well you should’ve rung a third time. Of course I’m going to ignore your calls. I’m trying to move on with my life–’

‘Me too. Painting you is part of that. I’m trying to let go.’

Libby sighed. ‘Why didn’t you sell the painting?’

‘I said I’m trying to let you go. I haven’t yet.’ His voice softened. ‘Come to London.’

‘Sofa still free?’

‘And the bed.’

Was this a sign, to tell her to move to London? She closed her eyes, refusing to look at Patrick again.
I want more.
‘I can’t.’

‘I love you.’

‘Let it go.’

She hung up, staring at the sky to banish the tears.

‘And how is our perpetually tortured artist?’ Zoë asked. ‘Still pining for you?’

‘So what if he is?’ Libby strode along the patio, trying to ignore Zoë’s amused smile and Patrick’s growing frown.

‘You should’ve told him years ago,’ Zoë said, picking up her beeping phone. ‘He might’ve made you happy.’

Maybe he would. As Zoë headed into the house, Libby began dead-heading the faded chive flowers. She ought to change the subject before Patrick started asking questions.

‘God, I could kill the Scottish fuckwit. Bloody untrustworthy men.’ Libby flashed Patrick a smile. ‘No offense meant to any Scottish non-fuckwits present. Although I expect you’re just as untrustworthy.’

‘Absolutely,’ Patrick replied. ‘But I’m not Scottish.’

Libby’s fingers hovered around a purple flower. ‘What?’

‘Technically speaking, I’m not Scottish. My mum and dad are both Scottish and I went to Edinburgh University, so the accent’s inevitable, but I was born and bred here.’

‘You’re English?’ Libby’s heart had stopped.

‘I’m English.’

Oh god. ‘I… have to… check the potatoes.’ She ran inside and slumped against the kitchen units, waiting for Zoë to finish her call. ‘It’s him.’

‘What’s him?’ Zoë asked.

‘Patrick. He’s the one I summoned. He’s twenty-nine, good-looking, single, and despite his appalling behaviour, he has decent morals. He’s a vet, for god’s sake. You can’t get better with animals than that. He’s got hazel eyes and now, it turns out, he’s bloody English.’

Zoë pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

‘Oh, you cow.’ Libby threw a tea towel at her. ‘You knew.’

‘I wanted to see what would happen when you found out.’

‘I swear you only keep me around as some kind of psychological case study.’

‘I could get a PhD out of you. You don’t really believe this Wiccan nonsense?’

But surely, this was her sign; she should stay in Gosthwaite. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘Shag him?’ Zoë suggested.

As if. Libby dug around in her bag, searching for the little red pouch containing her summoning spell. She’d stopped carrying it, doubting its effectiveness, but Patrick fit everything she’d wished for. And more.

Oh please, let him be my ‘Somebody’.

She tucked the pouch into her back pocket as Patrick came in, frowning at her. Sticking to her potatoes ruse, Libby opened the oven, poking at the dauphinoise with a knife.

‘Almost done.’ Libby closed the oven door, her face composed.

‘Change of plan,’ Zoë said, putting her barely touched drink on the table. ‘I’m going out.’

‘What about our girly night?’ Libby put her hands on her hips, her nails tapping.

Zoë glanced at Patrick. ‘Er, there’s a boy present. It’s not a girly night.’

‘Whoa, don’t blame me,’ Patrick said. ‘I’m an honorary girl. Where’re you going, booty call?’

Zoë flashed her coyest of smiles. ‘Something like that.’