Nearly Almost Somebody (46 page)

Hyssop meowed, rubbing his head against Libby’s hand, but his affection set Libby off sobbing again.

‘Oh, what are we going to do, Hyss? It’s just me and you.’

Enough. Patrick pulled her to her feet, taking a moment to hug her, to let her cry and to summon the courage he needed for what he was about to say.

‘We’ll find her, Libs. We’ll make sure she’s okay.’ He rested his head on hers. ‘And it’s not… It’s not just you and the cat. You have me too.’

She shook her head. ‘No. I have half of you, the indulgent, hedonistic half.’

This was it, his chance to show she was his first priority. After a deep breath, he took her hand and led her outside, to the bandstand in the middle of the Green.

‘What are you doing?’ she whispered, gazing up at him.

Christ, when she looked at him like that, with her perfume filling his head, Patrick couldn’t breathe and his desire to flee kicked in. It was too much. But he stayed where he was and rested his forehead against hers, trying not to close his eyes. Why was this so hard?

‘Not half of me,’ he said. ‘All of me.’

‘But...’

‘I’m shit-scared, Libs, but… I love you.’

Her eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘I love you.’ He laughed. Actually, it wasn’t so hard. ‘While you were in London, Hyssop made himself right at home. He sits in the armchair by the fire and stares at Isla with utter disdain. Why don’t you make yourself at home too?’

For what felt like five minutes she didn’t smile, or react, she just stared at him. Oh Christ, what if she said no? Gosthwaite, London… did it matter where they were? She just had to say yes.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know you need to go back to London and I wouldn’t want to do it forever, but I know it’s important to you, so… well... I hear they have cows in Surrey.’

‘But I don’t want to go to London,’ she said, her eyes still staring.

‘Don’t lie. I’ve seen Paolo’s new painting. Ballet makes you happier than anything else. I get it.’

‘What painting?’

He took out his phone, showing her the photo of the Fixed Ballerina. At first she frowned, as though confused, but then her cheeks slowly turned pink.

‘I’m not happy in that painting because of ballet. Paolo made me talk about the thing I loved the most.’

Patrick’s heart officially stopped as she stood on tiptoe and held his face with both her hands.

‘He made me talk about you,’ she whispered. ‘I love you. More than ballet.’

In the middle of the Green, they kissed and he hoped to God someone was watching. This was the love of his life and he wanted the world to know.

‘How do you always smell like a rose garden?’ he murmured between kisses.

She dropped her head back, laughing. ‘I’ve spent the night in hospital and I really need a shower. The last thing I smell like is a rose garden.’

‘It’s mental, I know, but you definitely smell of roses and sweet peas.’

‘Roses and sweet peas, really?’ Glancing sheepishly to the sky, she plucked a little red pouch from her jeans pocket. ‘This might sound… but I did this spell in July, to summon my true love.’

He struggled not to laugh. ‘We hadn’t even met.’

‘I summoned someone…’ She took a deep breath, turning adorably pink. ‘Twenty-five to thirty-five, good-looking, non-brown eyes…’

‘That’s half the male population.’

‘Honest, decent morals, good with animals–’

‘Most people are.’

‘And English.’

‘You’re in England. What are the chances?’ But he laughed, remembering the Broken Ballerina evening. ‘So that’s why you freaked out when I said I wasn’t Scottish.’

‘That’s when I knew you were the one I’d summoned.’

‘Weirdo. But what’s with the roses and sweet peas.’

‘They’re the flower petals I burned as part of the spell.’ She opened the ties on the little pouch and emptied the contents, the ash drifting off on the breeze.

‘If you believe in that nonsense, why are you throwing it away?’

‘I didn’t throw it away. I gave it to the wind. It seals the spell.’ She grinned. ‘You’re mine forever now.’

‘Define forever.’ He pulled her to him, trying not to grin.

‘Oh, you know... marriage, kids, dog, cat, crumbling farmhouse.’

To his surprise, his smile grew. ‘Sounds tolerable.’

‘Tolerable?’

He nodded to the house where Isla and Hyssop sat, obediently waiting for them. ‘Well, we’ve got the dog and the cat already.’

‘He’s not your cat.’

‘No, he’s
our
cat. I told you I wouldn’t rely on plying you with booze.’

As the monsoon eased, Zoë opened up her laptop and sipped her rum and soda. Bajan rum, was there anything better?

On Facebook, she logged in as
Angelique Balletfreak
and scanned through Ed’s latest messages. He was still in Barcelona. He’d found her within a week on Facebook and nearly caught up with her within a month in real life, but for over six months she’d stayed one step ahead. Funny, she didn’t need to – she wasn’t on the run. Neither Libby nor Ed had gone to the police, it seemed, but keeping Ed at arm’s length gave Zoë that all-important element of control.

Libby had uploaded a batch of new photos. The house-warming. Jesus, the farmhouse she and Patrick had bought needed about fifty grand throwing at it, but she could see the potential. Their perfect family home.

The photos showed Robbie, Vanessa, Scott, Clara, Xander and Daisy, the usual faces, even Libby’s parents, all smiling and holding glasses of wine in the July sunshine. Zoë paused at a photo of Libby and Patrick. He had his arms around her and his head on her shoulder as they faced the camera. Libby still had the fringe and black eye make-up, but her feet were noticeably bare. Patrick had fixed Olivia Wilde’s neurosis. Another photo showed them crouching beside a spaniel while they cooed over that bloody cat. Zoë smiled, tapping his nose via the screen.

Hello, Hyssop. Considering you hated me, you did me so many favours.

‘Ms Wilde?’ The hotel manager walked up. ‘Your guests have arrived.’

Zoë offered a courteous smile to the manager and a hand to the woman who’d agreed to an interview. ‘Mrs Doyle, I’m Verity. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.’

Like anyone, even a do-gooding, charitable heiress like Lucinda Doyle wouldn’t turn down afternoon tea at Barbados’ most fabulous hotel.

After shaking Zoë’s hand, Lucinda reached up, gently touching one of Zoë’s earrings. ‘Beautiful diamonds.’

Zoë gave a suitably appreciative response, but her eyes were fixed on Seamus Doyle. He seemed awfully pale for someone who’d spent the last month in paradise.

Hello, Daddy. It’s payback time.

‘This way, please,’ the manager said leading them down to the Lower Terrace. ‘Ms Wilde, your photographer is already setting up.’

Photographer? Zoë’s stomach contracted, but she smoothed her hands over her white linen shift. She didn’t have a bloody photographer, which meant either
OK
magazine had twigged she’d set up an interview in their name, or he… but he wouldn’t just turn up, would he?

Her heels rapped on the pristine marble floor and the
photographer
looked up from the light meter he held, his blue eyes twinkling.

‘Nice freckles, beautiful.’

The End

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When my husband opened the first print copy of
#Forfeit
, he smiled when he saw I’d dedicated it to him. My daughter opened the second print copy, scowled and said, ‘But this one’s for daddy too.’

Without question, this book’s for Lissie. :) My writing partner in training. Love you. (And Daddy too).

I’d like to thank my fab street team for all their Beta Reading, pimping and generally being awesome cheerleaders. Special thanks go out to Amber, Nikki, Lucy, Kirsty and Alyssa for their nit-picky proofreading – ridiculously tight deadlines on a hefty-assed book? Nailed it. You guys rock.

Tay (Chicks That Read), Amber (Cosying Up With Books), Jo and Rachel (Orchard Book Club) – your brilliant book review blogs/pages have been fabulously supportive of me and my books. I’ll be forever in your debt.

Laura K – Yeah, so you hit hard with reality, I procrastinate for six months then you pick up the job again and set me straight. Heart you. x

Pezza – If I turned you gay, then my work here is done. ;)

Nat, Janny, Jo – the never-ending writing support crew. Now, if I could just get you all at the same signing at the same time...

And finally, Wattpad’s Eva Lau and Caitlin O’Hanlon. If Caitlin hadn’t stumbled across Distraction and Eva hadn’t given such unwavering support, none of this might’ve happened.

Thank you all so, so much

Caroline

x

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