Nearly Almost Somebody (41 page)

‘Aside from you, it’s the only thing I can rely on.’ Zoë dragged the back of her hand over her eyes. ‘And first thing tomorrow, I need to find a chemist that’s open. I need the morning after pill.’

Libby’s mouth gaped open. Zoë never had sex without condoms and had regularly lectured Libby for relying on the pill with Paolo. Zoë refused to take the pill, claiming it made her fat, but really she didn’t want to get pregnant and condoms put her in charge of Mother Nature.

‘Completely out of control,’ Zoë sighed, staring at the decking. ‘Have you got a spell to help with that?’

* * *

The second the clock struck seven, his shift on call over, Patrick half-filled a vast wine glass, ignoring his father’s disapproving frown. Would Libby be eating roast chicken with Zoë, or sitting with only Hyssop for company? Twice he’d almost gone round. The first time he arrived at the garden to see her halfway down the bridleway with Grace, starting what would turn out to be a two hour run. The second time, Zoë rocked up with two bottles. In the end, he’d decided if he couldn’t talk to Libby, he may as well go to his parents’ and get drunk with Sam.

‘Okay,’ his mum said, banging on an imaginary dong. ‘Dinner is served.’

He told Isla to wait in her basket and to his delight, she curled up obediently, earning herself a biscuit.

‘You’ll spoil that dog,’ Sam said, patting his back. ‘I like her ears.’

Patrick laughed, ushering his brother and Charlotte in front of him. They could all get stoned after the parents had gone to bed. That one pleasant note to his otherwise appalling day fluttered out of the window as he walked into the dining room and Ms Olivia Wilde stared down at him, her eyes filled with tears.

‘You’ve got to be fucking joking.’

‘Patrick!’ His father glared at him over his glasses.

This is your fault. You and your ridiculous ultimatum.
‘Can we take it down?’

‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ His mum pushed him towards his usual chair, the one facing Libby’s portrait. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bring her. I nearly invited her myself, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be cross or not. Where is she? She doesn’t have family around here, does she?’

‘She’s packing her bags.’ He knocked back half his wine, trying not to look over Sam’s head at the Broken Ballerina. ‘She’s going back to London so she doesn’t land me in the paper.’

The silence descended.

Finally, Patrick turned to his father. ‘She’s going and it’s your fault. What the hell did you say to her last night?’

‘Nothing.’ He frowned. ‘I barely saw the girl. Jonathan wanted to introduce us to Zoë. They were discussing you, calling you an egotist. Bloody rude, if you ask me.’

‘E... is for Egotist. E was empty on her list.’ Patrick laughed and stood up. ‘I’m out of here.’

‘Patrick, sit down,’ Charlotte snapped.

Patrick stared at her. Sam stared at her. Their parents stared at her. Charlotte didn’t do bossy. Patrick did as he was told.

‘The whole world doesn’t revolve around you,’ she went on. ‘We have news. We wanted to tell you yesterday, but then you turned up with Isla. And then this afternoon, we nearly... but you were so bloody grumpy. I’m really sorry about Libby, but I won’t let you bugger up Christmas. This should be the happiest day ever. I’m pregnant. You’re going to be an uncle and we thought you’d be pleased, but if we waited for a moment when you weren’t having some kind of drama, the baby would be born already. Sorry for making a fuss, Liz. Dinner’s getting cold.’

But his mum was too busy mopping up tears to care. His dad was the first to move, hugging Charlotte. Patrick stared at his brother across the table. Sam smiled, and they met somewhere behind their mother’s chair.

‘I’m sorry, man.’ Patrick closed his stinging eyes. What kind of selfish bastard had he become? ‘Congratulations. Christ, bit of a shock.’

Sam nodded. ‘After dinner, Charlotte will fall asleep in front of the TV. Fancy taking the dogs for a walk and getting stoned?’

More than anything in the bloody world. Letting his big brother go, Patrick took over hugging Charlotte, intermittently telling her she was amazing, he was an arse and he couldn’t wait to be an uncle.

‘All three of them are flat out,’ Sam whispered, quietly closing the patio door while trying not to drop a bottle of Jura and two glasses. ‘We can walk the dogs later.’

Patrick smiled and took out the joint he’d rolled earlier. ‘I feel about fifteen.’

‘Me too. Remember that time Juliet Knight and Sarah Barnes came round?’

Patrick laughed. ‘And you got caught with Sarah? Christ, we were wasted. I would’ve got into Juliet’s pants if you hadn’t broken that window.’

‘Ah, the days of behaving badly.’

‘Long gone for you, sunshine.’ Patrick studied his brother. Two years older, but definitely not wiser. Sam had been kicked out of two schools and got in more trouble with girls than even Patrick could comprehend. But witnessing all Sam’s mistakes had taught Patrick to be more careful. ‘I can’t believe you’re going to be a dad. You scared?’

‘Bricking it.’ Sam took the joint. ‘But don’t tell Charlotte.’

‘I think she’ll know from the sheer terror in your eye every time Mum mentions pushchairs and cots.’

‘Fuck, don’t.’ Sam shuddered. ‘What’s going on with this ballerina girl? Kicking off at dad over her, brave lad. Mum said she met her at yours this morning. Must’ve been fun.’

‘Mum cleaned the fucking house on Christmas morning, just to have a nosy.’

‘Who is she?’

Patrick handed his brother his phone, showing him a photo he’d sneakily taken at Oscar’s, of Libby braless in the silk top. Not a photo he intended to delete.

Sam grinned. ‘She doesn’t seem your type, but nice tits. I would.’

Patrick kicked his ankle, taking the joint back.

‘So why isn’t she here and why are you? Wouldn’t be the first time you ditched Christmas dinner to shag a random blonde.’

‘She’s not a random blonde.’ Patrick scowled. ‘She’s not here because when I told her about the ultimatum, she did what I thought she’d do. She ran away.’

‘She wanted a one night stand?’

‘No, but she’s got a job interview in London.’

‘So persuade her to stay.’

‘I can’t. We’d need to keep it secret and she doesn’t want that, not after Rob.’

‘Fuck, is she the one who nearly split Rob and Van up? Nice girl.’

‘Actually, she is.’ Patrick sighed. ‘But I think she wants some kind of commitment.’

Sam laughed. ‘Aha, here’s the problem. Nina mark two.’

‘Fuck off, this is different. Libby’s alright but I mean…’ Patrick took a deep breath. ‘How did you know Charlotte was… you know, a keeper?’

Sam shrugged. ‘But when I started asking questions like that, I knew she was something else. What’s so great about this Libby? Aside from her perfect tits.’

What’s so great about her? Patrick explained the last few months – Robbie, the newspaper, the fell race, her birthday, and how he’d pissed her off by backing away once too often.

‘It’s dad’s fault. If he’d just be reasonable–’

‘Have to stop you there, little bro. This is your fault. You’re the one who fucked the beauty queen in the park.’

‘What the... You’re supposed to be on my side.’

‘I am, you wee fuckwit.’

Patrick sank the rest of his whisky. ‘What the hell am I going to do?’

‘It’s easy. Man up and confess your undying love to her.’

Patrick shook his head.

‘Well then, let her go to London, and pray your fucking balls off that she comes back in six months.’

Letting the weed numb his body, Patrick sat back, remembering the perfect few hours he’d had with her. Would she be in bed now? Maybe he could go round. No, this was his hedonistic side coming out. But still, he could go round and persuade her that they could go out in secret. They could go for dinner in some other town. Hell, they could go away for the weekend.

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Would a city break work as an overblown romantic gesture? He hated Paris and Rome, most cities in fact. Maybe a weekend skiing? Did she ski? Yes, she and Zoë were supposed to go, but their passports had been stolen and Zoë couldn’t find her birth certificate in time. Surely a weekend away would count for something.

He’d talk to her tomorrow.

For Patrick, tomorrow arrived, not with an internet search for mini-breaks to Courchevel, but helping rescue a pony stuck in a bog. Four hours later he’d barely had chance to shower off the smell of rotting peat, when Becky from across the road called – Snuffles, her guinea pig had broken its leg.

Resigned to a day of appalling coffee and inane drivel, Patrick rang Hannah. She answered immediately, but sounded cagey when he asked her to come in. Maybe she wouldn’t show and he could get Sam to assist. Every cloud. He’d prepped the room and had his sleeves rolled up, when Grace came in, carrying the guinea pig.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Hannah can’t make it,’ she said, pulling her hair into a bun. ‘And we need to talk.’

‘About what?’ He frowned at the unfortunate guinea pig. ‘How the hell do you break a guinea pig’s leg on Boxing Day anyway?’

‘Becky said Snuffles was running around the living room and her mum opened the door on it. Anyway, as practice manager, I’m making some changes. You hate Hannah working here and she leaves every night in tears. She’s emailed me, detailing the many, many occasions where you’ve displayed tribunal-worthy behaviour. She wants to go back to Haverton. I want to come back here.’

‘And how’s that–’

‘The office crap, which it turns out I rather like, I can do at Haverton on Monday afternoons.’

‘Out of hours?’

‘It’s fine.’ She pulled on her blue scrubs. ‘At least I’ll know the in-patients are taken care of.’

‘Ah, you don’t trust me.’ He tried not to smile. He’d get Grace back. ‘And what about…’
The minor inconvenience of you being in love with me.

‘I can work with you, if you can work with me.’

‘It won’t be weird?’

‘Has it been for the last year?’ Grace glanced out of the window, across at Libby’s house. ‘Have fun last night?’

‘Did you talk to her yesterday? I saw you went running together.’

‘She barely said a word. What’s going on?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘No, it’s not. The minute I saw her, I knew you’d like her.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s your type.’

‘My type?’ He had one?

Grace laughed. ‘I’ve listened to you bang on about women for two years. Miss Haverton’s slutty underwear, Tabitha Doyle’s bitchy attitude, Daisy’s innocent looks. I know what you want. You want a nice girl and if you take away her make-up and clothes, that’s exactly what Libby is. Plus, you’re right. She is like me. That’s why you get on so well.’

‘It’s still complicated.’ He bent down to the little brown and white guinea pig, frowning as it scooted along the table, refusing to put its hind leg down. Cute little thing. ‘What about you and Jack? Why are you going back there again?’

‘I love him. And he puts up with me.’

‘He can’t keep it in his pants.’

‘Jack’s insecure and me working with you didn’t help. I think we’ll be okay now.’

‘He knew?’

‘I think everyone except you did.’

‘Seriously, is this going to be okay?’

‘Yep.’ Grace peered at Snuffles. ‘X-ray and pin job?’

Patrick nodded and let out a frustrated sigh. He wouldn’t be talking to Libby anytime soon.

* * *

Libby sat on the edge of Zoë’s bed. There was nothing more effective at distracting her from her own misery than the misery of others. On Christmas Day, she and Zoë had got utterly hammered, eventually pulling on little black dresses and heading to the Alfred. Libby had played Christmas classics on the piano, encouraging half the pub to sing along, while Zoë’s flirting levels ensured they hadn’t needed to buy a single drink all night. Inevitably, Libby ended up wailing on Zoë’s shoulder, drunkenly vowing to talk to Patrick the minute he got home – thank god, Zoë had confiscated her phone.

A raging headache thumped in Libby’s brain and she promised her lungs she’d never, ever smoke again, but no matter how bad she felt, she’d climbed out of bed. Crikey, she’d dragged her backside into the shower and even managed breakfast, but Zoë hadn’t moved. Zoë had been Libby’s rock the day before, but now, she lay staring at the wall with tears pouring down her cheeks.

‘Zo?’ Libby stroked her friend’s hair. ‘Zo, you can’t just shut down. So you fucked up. If you want to fix it, you have to pull yourself together. And to start, you have to eat.’

Zoë flinched.

‘Look,’ Libby said, ‘we both know you don’t want to eat because you think control comes from not eating. And we both know why. We’ve been through this too many times, Zo, and you know I love you, but I’m not prepared for the cucumber, celery and black tea stage. You’re a bitch when you go through that bit.’

There was a half laugh.

‘So if you want control, take it. Control isn’t not eating, or only eating foods with less than one percent fat. Real control is eating just enough. I have real control. Now, sit up.’ Libby closed her eyes, praying she wasn’t making things worse. ‘Now, Zoë.’

Zoë did as she was told. ‘I don’t–’

‘Control.’ Libby held up a bowl. The strands of tagliatelle dripped with butter, lemon and chicken jus. ‘Real control would be to eat half of this. Not a third, not three quarters, but half. Half, I’ve calculated, would be a perfectly healthy portion. And by healthy, I mean just a bit less than necessary.’

Zoë hadn’t taken her eyes off the dish, but her chin had raised. ‘Half?’

Please, Zoë, fight.
‘Exactly half.’

Zoë took the bowl.

Libby left, trying not to smile and trying not to be too hopeful. This was Maggie’s fault, and for a brief moment, Libby wished could bump off the old witch herself.

Downstairs, she curled up on the sofa, once again succumbing to tears. How desperately did she want to say to Patrick
okay, let’s do the secret fling
? She could do it. She’d take what she could have. But then she’d remember how easily a simple hug from Xander could be made to look like a kiss. She wouldn’t cost Patrick his job and the respect of his parents.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone and called Paolo. ‘It’s me.’

‘Hey, me. What happened to moving on?’

‘Are we still friends?’

‘Always.’

‘Where are you, can you talk?’

‘I’m in my Shoreditch apartment watching Dorothy skip down the Yellow Brick Road.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a cultural phenomenon I’ve never seen. What’s up?’

Libby skipped through the TV channels until she landed on Dorothy and the Tin Man. It was like she and Paolo were together again. ‘I have a job interview on Thursday, with the ballet. I could do with a place to stay.’

The sofa creaked and he took a deep breath. ‘Are you going to stay-stay, or just stay?’

‘I’m in love with Patrick.’

‘Just stay then.’

‘If I had any sense, I’d stay-stay. Sorry.’

He laughed. ‘You can still share my bed.’

Libby closed her eyes, picturing him as she’d last seen him. His dark hair, slightly curling at the ends, falling to his chin, a little longer at the back. She’d cut it for him once, but the next day he’d shaved it all off, proclaiming her the worst hairdresser in the world.

‘Why do you put up with me?’ she asked.

‘Because I still love you.’

‘I’ll go to a hotel.’

‘No, you won’t.’ He paused. ‘But return favour? I need a date on Wednesday, for a friend’s exhibition. Come with me?’

‘Of course.’ Libby paused for a moment. ‘Paolo, do you know Seamus Doyle?’

‘The poet? Not personally.’

‘I want to meet him. Can you get him invited to the exhibition?’

‘Don’t see why not. His wife’s a massive patron of undiscovered artists. Why do you want to meet him though?’

‘I think he might’ve been the last person to see Maggie alive.’
And I want to know if he murdered her.
Or at least if she died happy.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Paolo paused. ‘I ought to warn you though. The papers are still looking for you.’

‘What?’

‘The Daily Mail, the Sun… They want to know who the Broken Ballerina is. They might guess when they see you. Sorry.’

And if she were famous, then she wouldn’t be able to return to Gosthwaite, to Patrick, for six months. No ifs or buts. What would Michael Wray do if he found out if his
Libertine
was the Broken Ballerina? So this was it, her choice: Patrick or ballet.

* * *

As Dorothy found her way back to Kansas, the old Zoë put the half-empty, half-full bowl of pasta on the coffee table. For weeks she’d been wearing conservative dresses, prim skirts and fifties cardigans, anything to fit in at the golf club and not look like a gold-digging whore. But not anymore. In skinny jeans, a slinky red top and the metal-studded Louboutins, she sat on the window sill and applied her trademark scarlet lipstick.

‘Why the scarf?’ Libby asked, trying not grin.

‘Hide the bloody love bite.’

‘I take it from the shoes, you’re choosing Jonathan.’

Zoë flicked back her immaculately straightened hair. ‘Yes. I’m not giving up everything just because I fancy Ed.’

‘Fancy Ed?’ Libby frowned. ‘I thought it was more than that. A physical and emotional bond, you said.’

‘It’s irrelevant. Real control?’ Zoë nodded to the bowl of pasta. ‘Real control is walking in that house and never fucking Ed again. Real control is marrying Jonathan and getting everything I ever wanted.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Look, I know you’d give up everything for love. But it’s not what’s most important to me.’

‘I suppose this way,’ Libby said, flashing the fakest smile, Zoë had ever seen, ‘you only have to bump off the old man to get the money. If you chose the son, you’d have to bump off them both off.’

Oh Libby, if only you knew how close to the bone you are
. Tears rolled down Zoë’s cheeks as she returned the smile. ‘It’d be worse than that. If I chose the son, I’d have to bump off the dad, the son, the brother, his wife and their two grubby children. Shagging Jonathan requires much less effort.’

Libby enveloped her in a bear hug. ‘I’m proud of you. You didn’t give in to food.’

‘Thank you,’ Zoë whispered. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Go to London and avoid getting me or Patrick in the bloody newspaper. I’ll come back in six months.’

‘That’s a crappy plan.’

‘It’s all I have.’ Libby wiped her eyes. ‘On the upside, I have a date on Wednesday. Paolo’s taking me to some fancy-schmancy art exhibition. Though it will mean the papers finding out I’m the Broken Ballerina.’

‘Is that a bad thing?’ Zoë asked, tapping her phone against her thigh. ‘I mean, why hide if you’re going back to the company? Why not let the bloody world know you’re the Broken Ballerina? Because let’s say if the Guardian ran with an exclusive, would it hurt your chances of getting the odd role? That’s what you really want, isn’t it?’

Libby stared at her.

A slow smile spread over Zoë’s face. ‘Lib, real control isn’t avoiding the press. It’s using them to get what you want.’

Twenty minutes later, Zoë arrived at Jonathan’s. He’d stood leaning in the doorway as she parked, but strolled over to open her door. Ever the gent, he helped her out, a gentle hand lifting her chin to kiss her. A warmth filled her insides and it wasn’t down to some base desire to tie him to the bed. This was the life she wanted; a life of power – power, not uncontrollable lust. A less gentle hand brushed over her breast squeezing it just a little. And Jesus, she did love shagging Jonathan.

‘I missed you,’ he said, his hands roving over her arse. ‘How’s Libby?’

‘Devastated. She’s horrendously in love with Patrick, but she’s moving back to London.’ Zoë smiled up at him, raking her fingers through his hair. ‘Did you have a nice day?’

‘We did. Ed finally got into the spirit of Christmas and Paula knocked dinner together.’ He leant in, whispering in her ear. ‘They’re going out for lunch, but I want to make love to you, to worship you for hours.’

Zoë nodded, her insides liquefying. ‘Just what I need.’

‘You still need to open your present.’

‘But I already did.’ She glanced down at her Cartier watch. ‘I adore it.’

‘You have another.’ Smiling, he held a hand over her eyes and led her around the side of the house.

Inside the open garage doors sat a brand new BMW Z4 – shiny, black and wrapped in a big red bow. Tears filled her eyes as she turned to him.

‘Jonathan, I really do love you.’ She held his face. ‘And not because you buy me cars and watches.’

For several minutes, she kissed him, whispering how much she adored him and the things she’d do to him when they were alone later.

‘Ooh, Granny Zoë, can we go for a drive in your new car?’ little Harriet asked.