Nearly Almost Somebody (43 page)

Swigging from a bottle of Glenfiddich, Patrick walked up to the penalty spot on the village playing field. Robbie’s turn in goal and he was good, but Patrick was the master. For the first time in three days, the first time since the snowball war, he found himself laughing. Thank Christ for friends. Not that it would last. Scott’s team-building exercises were always followed by a harsh truth session and meticulous action plans.

Patrick hammered the ball into the left corner of the tattered net while Robbie was falling to the right. Goal! Three pints and way too much Glenfiddich prevented any modesty on Patrick’s part. He ran to the side of the pitch, sinking to his knees and raising his arms to an imaginary, screaming crowd. He’d scored the winning penalty for England – or against them for Scotland. Come the World Cup, his allegiance always wavered.

Scott sat next to him, taking the bottle. ‘So you can kick a football, but David Beckham you ain’t, my son.’

Patrick smiled, faux punching his friend, but Robbie was on his way over, his jaw twitching with repressed animosity.

‘What happened?’ Scott asked, quietly.

‘She ran away like Rob said she would. I had to tell her on Christmas morning–’

‘After you shagged her?’ Scott’s eyebrows shot up and he thumped Patrick’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t you listen to Rob’s master classes?’

Quite frankly, no. Robbie gained all his knowledge from Cosmopolitan and chick lit books. His aim was a good one – to understand what girls wanted, but Patrick had much less noble aims. Once he’d learned about overblown romantic gestures being the way in to a girl’s pants – a playlist of nauseating tracks had Melody Lawson eager to give up her virginity and relieve him of his – he’d never looked back.

‘I could fucking kill you,’ Robbie said.

‘You’ll never let her go, will you?’ Patrick asked.

‘Don’t you dare.’ Robbie shook his head. ‘Don’t you fucking dare. I love that girl and I’ve had to watch–’

‘You
love
her?’ Patrick’s head reeled.

Robbie swore at the starlit sky.

‘Then why did you get Vanessa back?’

‘Because Libby doesn’t want a second-hand life.’ Robbie sat down. ‘Maybe if she’d wanted... I wouldn’t have gone to Grassington, but it was the right thing. I love Van more and let’s face it, Libby’s always chosen you. She chose you when she went out for a drink. She chose you when she told you about the ballet.’

Had she?

‘But this isn’t just about me,’ Patrick said, pushing his hair back. ‘Because of the painting, she’s got a chance to be a ballerina again.’

Robbie groaned. ‘Of course it’s about you. She doesn’t want to go back to that life. Tell her to come back. It’s what she wants. Tell her to hell with the ultimatum and then you bloody well put her first on your list.’

Patrick shook his head. ‘But I can’t put Libby first, there’s my job–’

‘Don’t tell me you can’t risk your job for her,’ Robbie said, his voice rising. ‘She’ll never let you down, or fuck around. She’s perfect and you know it.’

Patrick dug his toe into the still semi-frozen turf. She was, but it still terrified the hell out of him. ‘I know, but it still doesn’t get around the fact that she won’t let me lose my job.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Scott agreed.

Patrick looked to his friend, hoping for a miracle. ‘Ideas?’

‘Cut the apron strings and open your own practice,’ Scott suggested. ‘It’s not as if your clients wouldn’t go with you, and you have the savings, don’t you?’

Patrick nodded. ‘But it’d be in competition with my parents.’ And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt them more.

‘Then we need to get Wray off your back.’ Scott’s brow furrowed in thought. ‘We’re going to need some leverage. When’s Libby coming back?’

Patrick shrugged. What if she didn’t come back? But flanked by his brothers in arms, he had hope on his side.

Back at the Alfred an hour later, while Scott and Robbie played pool, Patrick took out his phone, staring at it for five minutes before he had the nerve to ring her. Sadly, she didn’t answer any of his three attempts. In the end, he opted for a message.

- How’s London? You hate it, don’t you?

- What do you want?

- Did you tell anyone you’re the BB?

- No. Why?

- Leverage. Don’t tell anyone anything. And come home.

- Why?

- U know why.

- Hot. Cold.

- What you doing?

- Paolo’s drawing me. Nude.

- Liar. But thanks for the mental image.

- Bite me.

- Happily. What are you wearing?

- OMG, have you been drinking?

Patrick sent her a photo of the table in the Alfred strewn with empty pint glasses and the near empty bottle of Glenfiddich.

- Boys night out with Scott and Robbie. They’re fixing everything. Promise you won’t fuck Paolo?

- Lay off the whisky, you idiot.

- Promise?

- Promise. What would happen if there was no ultimatum?

- You’d be here

- Would we go out properly?

- Define properly

- Holding hands in public, meeting your parents, going out for dinner, walks

- Sounds tolerable

- Tolerable?

- Libs, I think you’re amazing. Pretty. Funny. I want to be with you all the time. Sorry about the other day. You freaked me out.

- I freaked you out? You’re the one who snuck into my house and put me to bed

- :) come back and I’ll put you to bed every night.

- Hot. Cold.

- I miss you.

- You’re drunk. You’re letting your self-indulgent, hedonistic side come out. Then tomorrow, you’ll back off again. Hot. Cold. Leave me alone.

Sod it, he rang her again, his heart hammering. Maybe he should do what Robbie would do and tell her he loved her. The call went straight to voicemail.

Fuck.

* * *

Walking into the Dorchester wearing faux-leather jeans and ludicrously high heels on a Saturday morning wasn’t weird. Telling the Maitre d’ she was meeting Seamus Doyle, even that wasn’t weird. And sauntering down the Dorchester’s famed Promenade and slipping off her coat to reveal Paolo’s
Artists Do It In Oils
t-shirt, that wasn’t remotely weird.

What was weird was the amount of people gawping at her. Libby’s heart rate rose, her eyes widening in panic as a woman whipped out her phone, blatantly snapping her. It was worse than when she was in the paper as a prostitute. Who knew the Broken Ballerina would be so popular? Three journalists had already set up camp outside Paolo’s flat.

‘Mr Doyle?’ The Maitre d’ smiled. ‘Perhaps you and Miss Wilde would be more comfortable in a private dining area.’

‘Jesus man, then they’d really talk.’ Seamus laughed. ‘Libby, sit yourself down. Now then, I imagine you’re not a big eater, but they do a damned fine breakfast here.’

She sat down, relaxing. ‘Actually, I didn’t eat much yesterday. I’m starving. Do they do bacon sandwiches?’

‘It’s the goddamn Dorchester. They do what the feck you like. Tea?’

She nodded, glancing around at the sumptuous hall as Seamus poured the tea. ‘Beautiful place.’

‘Writing here is an indulgence of mine. I plan to tell the world I’m writing a poem about you. As you know, I admire a dancer’s grace. You can be my muse.’

Libby laughed. ‘Me?’

‘You’re Paolo de Luca’s, aren’t you?’

Flattered by the concept, Libby struggled to focus on the matter at hand. ‘Is that why you asked me here, to be your muse?’

‘I want to apologise for being rude at the gallery. My wife knows about Maggie, but years ago, we agreed I’d never leave and Lucinda would never hear of it again.’ He tipped his head to the side, studying her. ‘Did you never meet Maggie?’

Libby shook her head. ‘Was it hard, enduring a secret relationship like that?’

‘Hard? The only thing hard was that bloody siren of a woman. Ah Jesus, I worshipped her, but Maggie was too rich for my soul, too intoxicating, too demanding. I couldn’t live with her, but I couldn’t live without her.’

Seamus plucked a photograph from his wallet. It showed him with Maggie at a black tie event. She wore a long red gown, her dark eyes gazing up at him with undisguised adoration. They both looked to be in their thirties.

‘When was this?’ she asked.

‘Twenty-five years ago. For a year or so, I left Lucinda. Maggie and I lived in a cottage by Grasmere. We tried so hard to make it work, for the sake of...’

Libby frowned at the photo, at the twinkling below Maggie’s ear. ‘For the sake of...’

‘Our daughter.’

Libby’s head shot up. ‘Maggie had a daughter?’

He nodded.

‘But why didn’t she inherit the house?’

Seamus glanced away. ‘She did.’

‘Zoë?’ Libby’s hands shook. ‘Zoë’s Maggie’s daughter?’

‘And mine. I haven’t seen her since she was one. Maggie had her adopted. The day Maggie died, she wanted me to meet her. I refused. We fought...’

Push her down the stairs kind of fought?
Libby watched for any tells, but Seamus’ eyes filled with tears.

‘The last time I ever saw her and I didn’t tell her I loved her.’

Maggie wanted him to meet Zoë? Did that mean Zoë knew Maggie was her mother? Surely if she did, she’d have told... Libby closed her eyes, remembering Zoë lying comatose the previous winter. What were the bets it wasn’t caused by the burglary, or because they needed to replace their stolen passports and Zoë couldn’t find her birth certificate? What were the bets Zoë
had
found her birth certificate, and with it discovered that the woman she hated was her mother?

‘But you went back to your wife?’

Seamus nodded. ‘Maggie said she couldn’t bear to look at Zoë – she’d just turned one – because she reminded her of me. So she spoke to her niece. Her and her husband desperately wanted a child. It seemed the perfect solution.’

‘It might’ve been if Maggie hadn’t made her come to Gosthwaite each summer.’

‘The girl could dance. Maggie wanted her to be a star.’

But, Zoë never had the inner strength to be a star. Libby couldn’t stop staring at the strand of diamonds twinkling under Maggie’s earlobe.

‘Seamus, Maggie’s earrings in this photo–’

‘A gift from me, on the day Zoë was born. I said they’d be an heirloom, to be passed from mother to daughter.’

Libby grabbed her coat and the photo, sprinting down the Promenade, ignoring Seamus calling after her. The earrings were the same ones Libby had worn the day Zoë learned Maggie had died. The earrings Zoë said had been a birthday present from Rich.

What have you done, Zoë?

With her shopping bags abandoned in the hallway, Zoë checked her lipstick and removed a smudge of eyeliner before she headed to the drawing room in search of Jonathan. His god-awful family ought to have left already, but just in case, she’d left the paint and wallpaper samples in her beautiful new car. It seemed fairly likely they’d be a tiny bit resistant to her eradicating the previous Mrs Carr from Stonerigg House.

Ed was still there.

Ed was still there, and he was sitting in an armchair, staring at the floor. Why? Zoë wanted to drag her hair off her face, but her hands were shaking too much. Why was Ed still here and why the fuck was Jonathan standing in the great bay window, looking out into the garden?

‘Hello,’ she said, heading over to Jonathan, purposefully ignoring Ed. ‘How was golf?’

Jonathan glanced down, frowning at the hand she’d rested on his shoulder. ‘Ed, could you give us a minute?’

Zoë’s heart rate increased as Ed obediently left the room. No, no, no. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Ed told me.’

Zoë kept her smile despite the bile rising in her throat. ‘Told you what?’

Jonathan reached out, stroking her hair, his eyes scanning her face as if memorising every millimetre. ‘You were like a dream. I couldn’t understand why I deserved you. People said it was for the money, but I never really believed that. It wasn’t that, was it?’

‘No–’

‘He told me what happened on Christmas Day.’

Oh god, no. Zoë sucked in a lungful of air as her world shifted underneath her.

‘You have to forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll never happen again.’

Jonathan kissed her forehead. ‘You have to leave.’

Please, please, no
. She held his face. ‘But you fucked Maggie and I forgave you.’

Jonathan gently held her wrists, his thumbs stroking them. ‘He loves you, Zoë. I can’t ruin my own son’s chance of happiness.’

‘He doesn’t have a chance of happiness with me. I chose you, not him.’

‘And you have no idea what that means to me.’ For a moment, Jonathan let her kiss him, her mouth clinging to his. ‘But I can’t do this to him.’

‘Please, no,’ Zoë begged, unable to stop the tears trickling down her cheeks. This was her chance to be happy, really happy. ‘I love you.’

‘He’s my son, Zoë. I choose him, not you.’

Jonathan didn’t love her. He couldn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t turn her away like this, wilfully making her unhappy. Did he really think she’d just say okay and bugger off with Ed? Was that what Jonathan thought of her? Zoë raised her chin and with her last ounces of self-control she took out the keys to the Z4, dangling them in front of him.

‘Keep it,’ Jonathan said, resuming his vigil on the garden.

She pushed the keys into his hand. ‘I’ve had all the
cars
I need from this family.’

Tears loomed, but she walked upstairs, refusing to run. Yes, the money was good, the toys, the shiny trinkets, but more than that, Jonathan gave her power and respect. Now, it’d all gone – ripped from her, destroyed by Ed.

With every item she threw in a case, she prayed Jonathan would come in, telling her he’d changed his mind, but he didn’t. In the end, the shadow that came over the room was Ed’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

Zoë gave a small laugh before striding over and slapping him, making his head jerk and her palm burn. ‘You’ve ruined everything.’

‘I had to.’

‘No.’

‘Zoë, you can’t marry him. We have something–’

‘I don’t give a shit what we have.’

‘Yes you do.’ He held her face, walking her backwards to the wall. ‘I want you to come with me. To London, Paris, wherever the fuck you want.’

‘What, so we can work in some boho cafe, being poor and in love?’ Her body arched towards him, aching to give in. ‘Screw that.’

He glanced up to the ceiling, his jaw twitching. ‘Fine. I wanted you to want me for me, but I’m not a penniless writer. Those books I ghost-write? They sold over four million copies last year.’

‘You have gold to dig?’

He looked in her eye, his hands on the wall, either side of her head. ‘I have gold to dig.’

Tears rolled down her cheeks. How much did she want to nod, to kiss him, to grab a bag and run to Paris? But how could she?

‘Do you really think all I want is a good shag with money?’ she said, desperate not to touch him. ‘I want more than that. I want power and control. You take all of that away from me.’

‘Power?’ Ed let out a hollow laugh. ‘You think that’s what he gives you? Tying someone to a four-poster bed and fucking them while their wife’s downstairs is not power.’

Zoë shrank back against the wall, too mortified to even blush. ‘I–’

‘You think you have power over him?’ Ed shook his head. ‘He knows what makes you tick and he gives you just enough of what you want so you’ll do
everything
he wants. He’s a manipulative bastard with women. Ask Nikki. Or Max. Or any of the other women in that office.’

Jonathan had screwed all of them?

‘You need me.’ With a gentle hand, Ed wiped away her tears then kissed her, his hands caressing her neck. ‘And I need you.’

But I don’t deserve a guy like you.

The realisation sent a chill surging over her skin.

And you really don’t deserve a girl like me.

‘Ed...’ Zoë held his face in her hands, her lips hovering by his. ‘I held your mother’s hand the night she died. Your dad was a little tied up so I went to check on her. I held her hand and she talked to me. She thought I was God.’

Ed’s eyes sparkled as he smiled.

‘But I was the one who sold her the Ketamine and when she stopped breathing,’ Zoë whispered, ‘I did nothing to help.’

Predictably, his eyes lost their sparkle.

‘Is that what you
need
?’ she kissed him, her lips unlikely to make it all better.

When she strode away, he still stood there, staring at her, not saying a word. How long would she have, the five minute drive to the cottage? Would Ed ring the police himself, or spend an hour plucking up the courage to tell his father? And what would Jonathan do, ring the police or stall while he pondered how this was ALL HIS FUCKING FAULT?

* * *

The taxi pulled into the Green and Libby’s heart sank at the sight of lights on in the cottage. Zoë was home? Arse. Why wasn’t she at Jonathan’s? Libby needed just a little more time to get her head together. More time? She’d had two hours and forty minutes on the train from Euston and twenty minutes in a taxi from Oxenholme to get her head together, but all she’d managed to do was ask herself the same two questions, over and over. Were they the same earrings? And if so, how did Zoë get them?

As the driver processed her debit card, Libby stared up at the light on in Zoë’s room and dialled Patrick. Sadly, like the other nine times she’d tried already, it went straight to voicemail. The night before he practically said he loved her. Hot, cold, hot, cold – but what was she always left with? Cold.

Libby stepped into the house, kicking off her heels. A suitcase sat in the hallway. Zoë appeared from the kitchen, dressed but with a towel wrapped around her head.

‘You’re back.’ Zoë sounded pleased, but her tell, the nervous blinking, had never been more obvious. ‘I can’t believe you get to dance again. Happy?’

Libby nodded. ‘I need a wee. Put the kettle on?’

Okay, one step at a time. Were they the same earrings? Libby ran upstairs and tiptoed into Zoë’s room, checking in the jewellery box. Empty. Completely empty. Okay, Zoë had pretty much moved into Jonathan’s, but she’d only taken her bare essentials, and Rich’s birthday present earrings hadn’t been one of them. But now, they’d gone. Arse.

Libby went to the bathroom and flushed the loo, keeping up her lie before heading downstairs for the confrontation from hell.

‘How come you’re back?’ Libby said, back in the kitchen.

‘Just grabbing some more stuff.’ Zoë held up a jug, pouring a second glass of the orange-coloured drink. ‘We should celebrate your return to the ballet world. We’ve got no fizz left, so it’s orange and wine. When are you moving to London? Will you live with Paolo or get your own place?’

‘I don’t know.’ Libby took the glass, taking in Zoë’s red eyes and letting concern override her suspicions. ‘What’s wrong, Zo?’

Zoë’s lip wobbled, but she took a massive gulp of her drink. ‘Ed spilled the beans and Jonathan kicked me out. I’m getting away for a bit.’

Oh god, no. Libby pushed the photo into her back pocket. This wasn’t the time to ask about Maggie. ‘Where are you going?’

‘My mum and dad’s.’ Zoë wiped her eyes. ‘I could do with being looked after for a while.’

‘And your mum’s chicken soup?’ Libby sipped her drink, grateful for the booze to calm her nerves. She had to ask about the earrings, but poor Zoë looked ready to crack.

‘I’ll be back in a week or so.’ Zoë sat in front of a mirror, facing the window as she applied her foundation. ‘How was London?’

‘Not as good as here.’

‘And Patrick?’

‘He texted me last night, being nice. Hot. Back to cold today.’

‘Tell me all about it. Misery loves company.’

Libby knocked back her drink, explaining about being back at the ballet, being out with Paolo, all the while watching Zoë apply her usual, immaculate make-up – subtle brown eye shadow, a thin line of liquid liner on her top lashes, a hint of peach blusher. The mascara was going on. The job would be finished and Zoë would leave. Libby’s heart raced.

‘Zo, I need to talk to you about something.’

‘Is it important, or can you ring me later? I have a taxi coming in about ten minutes and I still need to do my hair.’

‘Yes, it’s important,’ Libby said, helping herself to a second glass of the buck’s
flat
. Her mouth was like sandpaper from nerves. ‘The earrings...’

Libby stared at her hand, fascinated by the colour of her lilac nails. So much prettier than usual.

Zoë paused, her mascara wand hovering. ‘What earrings?’

‘The diamond ones you wouldn’t let me wear on Christmas Eve. Where did you get them?’

‘Oh, those.’ Zoë went back to her mascara. ‘Rich. You know that.’

‘It’s just, I’ve seen a photo...’ Libby’s hand left tracing patterns in the air. This wasn’t right. This was wrong. Her breath came in quick, short bursts.

Zoë put her make-up away. ‘Are you feeling okay? You look woozy. Have you eaten today?’

‘No...’ Libby fanned herself. ‘...was meant to have brunch with your dad, but... had to leave when...’

‘My dad?’

Libby slumped against the wall, sliding down it. Why could she see red snakes hiding under the towel wrapped around Zoë’s head? Libby blinked, trying to focus, but Zoë’s head split into a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours. ‘Don’t feel very good.’

Zoë crouched beside her. ‘You were having brunch with my dad, why?’

‘He wanted to know how you were.’ Libby closed her eyes, shutting out the bright lights.

‘Libby…’

‘Lib? Libby?’

A dull ached throbbed against her brain, but Libby opened her eyes, flinching at the bright light in the room.

‘Libby, drink this. It’s water.’ A strange girl with scarlet hair pushed a glass nearer to Libby’s lips. A thick fringe and glasses obscured the girl’s eyes, but what Libby could see seemed familiar.

‘Zoë?’

‘You’re okay. Scared me a bit, but you’re okay.’

‘What did you give me?’

‘Sheila’s special edition elderflower wine.’

‘You poisoned me?’

‘Sedated you. There’s a difference.’ The new Zoë helped her sip more water. ‘Now, I haven’t got long. I reckon Ed will have told his dad by now, and Jonathan might be tempted to ring the police.’

‘Ed knows you stole the earrings?’

‘Of course not, but how do you know about the earrings, Libby?’

‘The photo.’ Libby summoned enough energy to take the photo from her pocket. ‘Maggie’s wearing them. You stole them from her, didn’t you? I mean if she’d given them to you, you wouldn’t have said Rich gave them to you. Why didn’t you tell me about her?’

‘About who?’

‘Maggie. Why didn’t you tell me she’s your mother?’

Zoë took the photo. ‘Who’s she with?’

‘Did you steal the earrings?’

‘Who is he?’

‘I asked first.’

Zoë sighed, scowling with frustration. ‘Yes. My parents finally gave me my birth certificate and there it was, in black and white. Mother, Margaret Keeley. Father, unknown. The fucking whore didn’t even know his name. I came up here, to see her, to know why she gave me away. The stupid cow actually cried, saying she’d wanted to tell me for years. She showed me the earrings, telling me that my father gave them to her the day I was born and that they’d be mine one day.