Nearly Almost Somebody (5 page)

‘Did Lauren tell you that, or not?’

‘Yeah, but Becky also said Gary Barlow had moved in down the road.’ Chloe made a W sign with her fingers.

‘So, what you’re telling me,’ Libby asked, trying not to laugh, ‘is that Maggie was a witch and she was murdered?’

Chloe crossed her arms, shooting Tallulah a smug smile. ‘See?’

‘Thing is,’ Tallulah said as she tightened Shakespeare’s girth. ‘Maggie was a witch. She made real love potions and chanted to weird goddesses. And she danced around the garden when there was a full moon.’

Libby shivered, remembering the shock from the light switch. ‘Seriously?’

Tallulah flashed an enormous smile. ‘Aunt Daisy says you should always try to keep an open mind. And Becky swore on her iPhone that she saw someone leave the house. She was having a fag out of her bedroom window. Did you know we’re looking for a groom?’

Libby blinked, thrown by the change of topic. ‘Who’s we?’

‘My dad. Mum’s going on tour with the band she’s in–’

‘Oh whatever. It’s a string quartet,’ Chloe said.

‘Bite me.’ Tallulah ripped a Pony Club flyer from the tack room door and scrawled a name and number on the back. ‘Kim’s a complete cow, but you seem cool. Give Dad a ring. He’s busy at the restaurant ’cause they reckon it’s getting a star or something, so he needs a hand on the yard.’

Utterly perplexed, Libby took the flyer. ‘What restaurant?’

‘The Bobbin Mill. It’s just outside the village,’ Tallulah replied. ‘It’s supposed to be ace, but I’d rather go to Pizza Express.’

‘I so want a job at the Mill.’ Chloe’s face went pink again. ‘Tal’s uncle Xander is officially the fittest bloke ever.’

‘You’re so lame.’ Tallulah shook her head as she pulled down her stirrup. ‘Honestly, ring my dad. I’ll tell him you’re ace.’

‘I’ve just got a job. I don’t need another one.’

‘But our place is better.’

‘Why?’

‘You get to ride my horses.’

Libby stared as Tallulah and Shakespeare trotted out of the yard. Maggie was a witch, a murdered witch and there was another job on the horizon? She shook her head, banishing crazy thoughts. She couldn’t switch jobs already, no matter how crappy the current one seemed.

Chloe sat down on an upturned bucket, her thumb blurring as it moved over the buttons on her phone. ‘She does have the best horses. Her dad breeds show-jumpers. He’s really fit too, but don’t tell her I said that.’

Libby stuffed the flyer into her pocket.

Murdered witches, livery yard owners shagging feed merchants, fit men breeding show-jumpers... weren’t things supposed to be tranquil in the countryside?

Armed with the local paper and a bottle of champagne, Libby skipped up the garden path, ready to celebrate her new move and get down to some serious unpacking.

‘Hey,’ she called out as she pushed open the front door. ‘So I just made friends with a couple of eleven year-olds.’

‘Well, aren’t you just living the idyllic rural dream?’ Zoë leaned against the kitchen door frame, a mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

‘You’re smoking in the house?’

‘Electrics fused twice.’ Zoë glanced at the cupboard beside her. ‘I needed to calm my nerves.’

Libby took the mug. ‘With nicotine and shiraz?

‘Needs must. Who are your new friends?’

‘Chloe and Tallulah. They said Maggie was murdered.’

‘What the fuck–’

‘Witnessed and everything. Oh, and we’re lesbians. Cheers.’

‘For god’s sake, that’s all I need.’

‘No, you also need an electrician.’ Libby ducked into the cupboard and flicked the fuses again. ‘God, it’s dusty under here. Did Maggie have a dog?’

‘No. A cat.’

‘It’s just there are scratch marks on the back of the door. Look.’

‘Actually, Lib.’ Zoë stood up. ‘Fuck unpacking for a bit. I’m starving and the cooker’s electric. Pub for lunch?’

‘God, yes. It’s time to meet the locals.’ Libby unfastened her plait and shook out her hair. ‘And let them know we aren’t lesbians. I’ll never find the love of my life if they think I’m batting for the other side.’

The King Alfred, on the opposite side of the Green to Maggie’s house, was one of the few double-fronted Georgian buildings. Boxes stuffed with pansies sat in front of every window and hanging baskets overflowed with fuchsias. The Gosthwaite in Bloom winner’s plaque was proudly displayed for everyone to see.

Libby pulled open the heavy glass-panelled door as a roar filled the pub. Inside a group of men, all in work boots, stood around the bar, bellowing support as one of the party downed a pint of Guinness.

‘Oh god, wrong pub,’ Libby whispered, hoping they could back out before they were noticed.

Zoë nudged her forwards. ‘No, this is the Alfred. It’s okay.’

The first of the men looked round, grinning before elbowing the man next to him, who elbowed the next. The cheering fizzled out until all fifteen men grinned down at them.

‘Come and sit yourself over here, love.’

‘What you drinking? Bri, you’re in the chair, get these lasses a pint.’

The guy who sank the Guinness was the last to turn, his eyes pointing in two different directions as he took in Zoë and Libby. ‘Strippers!’

Libby shrank back in horror.

‘Get over yourself, Sparks,’ said a dark haired girl as she appeared behind the bar. ‘As if this lot would pay for a stripper.’ She flashed a welcoming smile. ‘Come on in. Ignore this bunch of muppets. It’s Sparky’s twenty-first. What can I get you?’

‘Wine, dry white, please,’ Libby said, grateful to be rescued. Several of the men still watched them with silly grins, but most had gone back to their pints.

‘What size? Pointless, sensible or take a bath in?’

‘Bath,’ Zoë replied.

At least half of the men watched as the comely barmaid bent down to take the wine from the bottom of the fridge. Libby felt like an ironing board in comparison.

‘So, you two must be the girls moving into Maggie’s old place. I’m Grace, by the way.’ Her chunky black fringe fell just below her eyebrows, shadowing her blue eyes as she half-filled two enormous glasses with a white Rioja and glanced over Libby’s jodhpurs. ‘I take it you’re the one who’s got the misfortune of working for Kim. Hideous old cow. Which means you,’ she paused to hand Zoë the first glass, ‘must be the estate agent, Maggie’s niece.’

Zoë nodded. ‘She was my great-aunt, but yes. I’m Zoë, this is Libby.’

Libby, overcome with fringe envy, took two huge mouthfuls of the surprisingly good wine, and glanced around. Most of the men looked old enough to be her dad, but at the end of the bar sat a cute guy with light brown hair and a cheeky smile. Was he smiling at her? Libby’s cheeks burned and she glanced down at her drink. The countryside rocked.

‘She were a fine woman,’ slurred a deep voice behind her.

‘Oh give over, Stan.’ Grace smiled apologetically to Zoë. ‘He had a thing for Mags.’

‘A fine, fine woman,’ Stan lamented.

‘I thought you said she was a hideous old witch,’ Libby whispered to Zoë.

‘She was,’ Zoë muttered back, frowning at the ancient old soak now swaying beside them.

‘She were a siren,’ he fixed his watery gaze on Zoë.

‘Leave it, Stan,’ Grace warned.

‘You two want to watch yourselves,’ Stan went on, undeterred. ‘Maggie put a spell on that place.’

‘A spell?’ Libby asked.

‘It’s a load of nonsense.’ Grace leaned on the bar. ‘Something Mags and Sheila dreamt up over too much sloe gin. They put a love spell on the house and any girl who slept there would become irresistible to the man she desired.’

‘Awesome.’ Libby laughed. Seriously, how much fun was the countryside?

‘But,’ Stan said, bending closer, ‘what happens when the siren doesn’t desire the man? Lures us in and casts us aside. What then?’

A frown furrowed his already age-creased face as he gazed at nothing, recalling memories. Of what, Libby longed to ask.

‘Okay, Stan. Let’s not scare the nice girls on their first day.’ The cute guy from the end of the bar flashed Libby another smile as he put his arm around Stan’s shoulders. ‘I’m Jack.’

‘Libby, and this is–’

‘Zoë Horton?’ Jack nodded, shaking Zoë’s hand. ‘It must be fifteen years ago, but I can still remember you hanging round the village in a tutu.’

Grace leaned on the bar. ‘Oh my God, I remember.’

‘Fag?’ Zoë muttered before she walked out, not waiting for a reply.

Libby watched her friend leave. What on earth? Tutu obsession was something they’d both laughed about in the past. Libby had lived and slept in hers from the age of four to fourteen. Picking up her wine, she smiled at Grace, Jack and Stan. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’

Jack shot her a wink. ‘You too.’

The door banged shut behind her, but Libby didn’t miss his lazy grin through the glass-panelled door. Day one and she’d met a nice guy. The countryside definitely rocked.

Outside, Zoë sat on one of the wooden benches, scowling across at Maggie’s cottage.

Libby lit a cigarette and tossed the pack to Zoë. ‘And?’

‘I’d rather not remember running around the village like an idiot in a tutu.’

‘And it’s why I hope never to set foot in Brize Norton again.’ Libby sipped her wine, settling back in the afternoon sunshine. ‘Was Maggie really a witch?’

Zoë still stared at the cottage. ‘To me she was.’

That night in the mint-toothpaste spare bedroom, Libby slept badly, her head filled with alcohol-fuelled dreams. A black cat scratched at a coffin, releasing an un-dead Maggie who then waltzed around the Green, swapping partners after every twirl – her suitors the workmen from the pub.

‘Libby…’ she called, reaching out a hand. ‘Libby…’

Libby woke, her heart hammering in her chest as she stared at the ceiling. A floorboard creaked. What the hell? She stopped breathing, trying not to make a sound. A second creak. Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes widening when she saw the woman from her dream, her long grey hair, dark against her white gown.

Maggie.

Libby screamed.

‘Fucking hell, Lib,’ yelled the apparition.

The room flooded with light and Zoë slumped against the wall.

‘Ohmigod, I thought you were her.’ Libby sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘What’s up?’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Bad dream?’

‘No. Allergies.’ Zoë sneezed. ‘The bloody cat’s turned up.’

The next morning, Libby woke in Maggie’s old bedroom with sunshine filtering through the curtains and a loud purring in her ear. Reluctantly, she’d switched rooms with Zoë and huddled under the duvet in the dead woman’s bed more than a little freaked out. She’d expected to lie awake, fighting off nightmares, but the large ginger tabby cat had padded into the room and jumped up onto the bed, curling up by her feet. Libby, appreciating the company, had quickly fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Yawning, she rolled over to see the cat sitting by her pillow, staring at her. Libby checked her watch. Six o’clock. After the interrupted night’s sleep and wine she’d knocked back with Zoë whilst unpacking, she’d expected to wake late.

‘You, mister, are one hell of an alarm clock. I’ve got time for a run.’ She turned the silver disc on his collar. ‘Hyssop? Nice to meet you, Hyssop. But aren’t witches’ cats supposed to be black?’

He pushed his head against her hand.

‘I’m afraid Zoë isn’t going to be your biggest fan. She’s allergic to cats.’ She kissed his head, smiling when his purr grew louder. ‘I wonder if I can keep you.’

He meowed, rubbing his head against her chin.

‘Today is going to be a good day, Hyssop. Today, I’m starting my idyllic rural life.’

‘Today’s a bloody disaster and it’s not even half-seven.’ Libby leaned against the bathroom door, pulling her socks off. ‘Are you going to be long? I’m going to be late for work’

Zoë opened the door, dripping from the shower, her hair still coated in conditioner. ‘Heaven forbid I’d be the one to get you sacked. What happened?’

‘I got lost.’ How, still mystified her.

At the end of the back garden, the little wooden gate opened onto a bridleway, meaning Libby only had to run for fifteen minutes, following the track wherever it took her, turn around, and head back – the sensible plan for her first day in the area and her first day at work.

Instead, the luxury of running on grass rather than concrete seduced her into running for a little longer, a little further. After twenty minutes, she stopped to size up the valley around her, the wine-blurred memory of the OS map she’d studied the night before giving her false confidence. Surely, she’d thought, if she carried on the same track, it’d take her back to the village.

After twenty-five minutes, she’d realised the track was heading up to Lum Crag, not to Gosthwaite. Her only option was to double back. But that was okay. Until the track started to bear little resemblance to the lane she’d headed out on. Where had she gone wrong? There were no turns, no alternatives, no options. Eventually, she’d clambered a few gates and scampered home across the fields, anything just to get home.

After a hasty shower, Libby pulled on the cream jodhpurs and black polo shirt she’d worn the previous afternoon, before pulling her still wet hair into a scruffy bun and applying three layers of mascara. Ideally she would’ve had time to put on some eyeliner and dragged a brush through her hair, but she couldn’t be late. Not on Day One.

She checked her watch. Quarter to. If she left now, she’d even be a few minutes early. A cigarette on the way and all would be fine with her world. Hyssop sat by the door, watching her like a mother sending her child off to school as she grabbed her jacket, pulled on her boots and threw her cigarettes in her bag.

She stopped to kiss his head. ‘This is still going to be a good day.’

He meowed as the doorbell rang.

‘Zoë? I’ll be late.’

‘Naked. Deal with them.’

Libby swore but opened the door, grinning when she saw who was on the other side. Grace. Sadly, she didn’t appear remotely pleased to see Libby. Tapping her foot, she stood in an over-sized t-shirt, jersey shorts and Ugg boots, pulling off just-climbed-out-of-bed sexy-chic with aplomb. Libby maintained a pleasant smile.

‘I see Hyssop came home,’ Grace said, glancing behind Libby.

‘Oh, is he your cat now?’ Libby stroked him, disappointment coursing through her. ‘He came in about midnight. Scared the life out us.’

Unsmiling, Grace thrust the box forwards. ‘His stuff. He’s only been with me for a few days because Patrick’s gone away.’ She nodded to the house on the corner next to them. ‘But he’ll have him back when he gets home. It’s just a couple of months.’

Libby took the box, trying not to grin. ‘That’s fine. I think he’s fabulous.’

‘Everyone does.’ Grace crouched down to stroke a purring Hyssop as he rubbed his head against her knee. ‘See you round, Hyssy. He’ll be back soon.’ She glanced up at Libby. ‘Seriously, please look after him and if you need anything, I work at the vets.’ Again, Libby nodded. ‘And stay away from my boyfriend.’

‘
Boyfriend
?’ Libby paled. At the pub, she and Zoë had eaten their goat cheese salads outside, avoiding the drunken men, but twice Jack had come out, blatantly flirting. She’s done nothing to encourage a guy she’d just met, but from Grace’s wasp-chewing scowl, Libby might as well have hopped on his knee and snogged him.

‘Jack and I have been together for ten years. I don’t need a peroxided bag of bones–’

‘Grace, I’d never–’

‘But he would.’

As Grace marched across the Green, Libby picked up Hyssop, turning him to face her.

‘That didn’t go well. I can’t believe she thinks I’m a home-wrecking tramp. At least I get to keep you. Is that okay?’ Why was she asking a cat? She checked her watch. Ten to. Bugger. She kissed Hyssop. ‘I’m late and Grace hates me. But Hyssop, it’s still going to be a great day.’

* * *

The cat sat on the little table in the hallway, turning his attention from the door that Libby had just closed to the stairs Zoë was trotting down. His eyes narrowed. If Zoë didn’t know better, she’d swear the mangy fleabag was challenging her, saying
it’s just you and me now.

‘And?’ Zoë put her hands on her hips. ‘This is
my
house and
you’re
not welcome.’

Hyssop’s tail flicked from side to side, but his condescending air didn’t waver.

‘You’re a bloody...’ But Zoë’s nose was already tingling. Crap. How the hell was she supposed to outstare a cat when she was about to sneeze?

Three came out in a row, making her eyes water. Round one to the fleabag.

Letting out a frustrated growl, Zoë hit the nearest light switch, but after a heart-stopping crack, the bulb dimmed. Zoë stared up at it, her heart hammering. The stupid electrics. How could they be so appalling? What if Libby was right, what if Maggie was haunting them? Zoë almost laughed. Haunted houses? Really? She shook her head and checked her watch. Shit. It was already eight o’clock and she still had to dry her hair. There was no getting around it, she’d have to reset the fuse box herself.

The door under the stairs was covered with the same revolting peony wallpaper that graced the rest of the wall. Only a ceramic knob hinted at its presence. Zoë tugged it open and tentatively peered inside. In the dank, dark space stood the vacuum cleaner, old wellington boots, several boxes of books and at the far end, the fuse box.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside, her heart-racing again. The musty air enveloped her and it still held a lingering spicy trace of Opium, Maggie’s perfume of choice. It caught the back of Zoë’s throat.

It’s so dark.

Cobwebs hung all around. A spider the size of a fifty pence piece watched her, but Zoë couldn’t move, her eyes fixed on inside of the door, on the gouges in the wood that looked as if some wild animal had tried to claw its way out. A floorboard creaked upstairs. What the fuck? She glanced up, but something dropped onto her shoulder and Zoë screamed, backing hastily out of the cupboard. The spider fell to the floor and scuttled towards her foot and instinctively, Zoë stomped on it. A sob escaped her mouth as she felt it squish beneath her bare foot.

I hate this fucking house. Hate, hate, hate it.

Tears loomed, but she clenched her fists and glared up at the ceiling. ‘Okay, you hideous old cow. When I get back from work tonight, I’m evicting your evil, dead ass. This house is mine and you’re not wanted any more than your stupid cat.’

Hyssop’s smug attitude faded and after another flick of his tail he slipped through the cat flap.

Ha. Round two to me, fleabag.

Feeling absurdly pleased with herself for standing up to non-existent ghost and a fat old cat, Zoë trotted back upstairs. With the house under her control, it was time to conquer the Carr and Young Estate Agency.

Forty-five minutes later, Zoë strode through Haverton, her bravado replaced by a knot of nerves in her stomach. First days unnerved her. Working out how to use an unfamiliar photocopier was the easy part. Understanding the other women and how best to manage them was the tricky bit. It took time to understand who needed sucking up to, who wanted reassuring, who craved a BFF.

Mercifully, the men were simpler. They just wanted to shag her. In her last agency, one odious creep actually got caught wanking over her staff photo. Her skin had crawled for a week, but it’d crawled for another two when she’d discovered the incompetent arse was paid twenty percent more than her.

Everyday sexism, baby.

The bright red paintwork around the Carr and Young window framed a multitude of adverts – the cheapest property on display requested offers in the region of four hundred grand. Zoë’s smile returned. The commission she could earn working at the North-West’s most prestigious estate agency made a mockery of what she’d maxed in Manchester. It’d be worth the sucking up.

She seized the door handle, but staggered backwards as the door was thrust open.

‘Like he’d give a–’ A guy stared at her from the open doorway.

A fit-as guy.

What was he, thirty? White shirt, ironed. No tie. Some kind of office job, but not too stuffy. Not a solicitor or accountant. She couldn’t tear her eyes away to check out his shoes. His eyes were blue. Full on blue, but he had almost black hair. How unusual. And he was still staring.

She smiled.

He smiled back.

‘You going in?’ he asked, holding the door open.

‘I’m going in.’

‘You look...’ He laughed, shaking his head a little. ‘Have a very good day, beautiful.’

‘I will.’ She stepped inside but paused to glance back. ‘Thank–.’

He’d gone.

Fit as, and he’d called her beautiful. He’d called her beautiful and hadn’t even glanced at her cleavage. How utterly bloody refreshing.

‘You must be Zoë.’ A perky blonde dashed over.

And you’d be the one who wants a new BFF.
Zoë nodded, smiling. ‘I’m Zoë.’

‘Come in, come in. Welcome to Carr and Young.’

Within ten minutes, the perky blonde had introduced herself as Jess and twittered without pausing for breath as she made them both mugs of instant coffee. Through the glass panel in the door, Zoë spied on the other employees. Two older women and a girl her own age with glossy long dark hair sat at desks in the open plan office. The two other doors – one marked
Meeting Room
, the other
Mr Carr
– were closed. Mr Carr.

Three phone calls and he’d offered her a job, increasing her salary by twenty-five percent, but she’d yet to meet the guy – and she was dying to. His photo on the company website made him look pretty hot, like Paul Newman in his heyday.

‘So where is everyone?’ Zoë asked as they left the kitchen, heading to the nearest of the older women.

Jess’s brow furrowed. ‘Everyone?’

The older woman stood up, holding out her hand. ‘This is it. We’re a tight knit group at Carr and Young. I’m Barbara.’

Zoë nearly spilled her coffee.
This was it?
Two sixty year-olds, a ditzy blonde and a predatory brunette. Where were the men?

‘And this is Nikki,’ Jess added.

‘Two ks and an i.’ Nikki sat on the edge of her desk, undisguised animosity seeping from her pores as she flicked her long dark hair over one shoulder. ‘Did Jonathan really give you a job just like that, without him or Maxine ever meeting you?’

Zoë’s back stiffened, but she flashed an amenable smile. So this was the office bitch. There was always one. Who the hell was Maxine? ‘Is he here?’

‘Who?’ Jess asked blankly.

‘The boss. Mr Carr.’

The remaining older woman hung up her phone, and strode across the room, her black spike heels looking ready to snap under the weight of her cankles. ‘Zoë, lovely to meet you, finally. I’m Max, the office manager. Jonathan comes in on Thursdays and believe me, his diary is all about meeting you, but until then, it’s just us girls.’

Just us girls?
Zoë’s stomach dropped. Where were the men she could wrap around her finger from day one? This job was going to be hell on bloody earth.

* * *

‘I’ve had the worst day,’ Libby called as she slammed the front door. ‘I hate, absolutely hate, hate,
hate
Kim.’