Nearly Almost Somebody (8 page)

‘Is Clara here?’ Daisy asked.

‘At the table down by the willow tree. She’s brought the thug with her. Seriously, flip flops, Daze?’ Shaking his head, he led them to the bar where Daisy ordered wine and dragged Libby to look at the photos on the walls.

‘Look, this is me, enormously pregnant at the grand opening.’ Daisy stabbed a finger at a photo of herself with a neat bump hiding under her black mini-dress. ‘The Golding brothers, how hot? Xander’s better looking in a conventional way but Robbie…’ Daisy glanced back to him before lowering her voice. ‘Clara calls him the sexiest man in town.’

Libby, unable to resist, turned to peek at him. As he gathered up a bottle of white and two glasses, he still watched her. He even smiled. Working at his yard could be the best distraction from ballet in the world.

‘And this is his family.’ Daisy pointed to a photo of a model-like woman with a glossy dark bob, and three understandably pretty girls. ‘His wife, Vanessa, and their daughters, Tallulah, Matilda and Pandora.’

Libby stifled her despairing sigh. Just another bloke who forgot he had a wife when she wasn’t in the room. What would he be like when his wife was on tour with a string quartet? Desperate not to risk another eye meet with Mr Golding before her interview, she turned her attention to the
before and after
shots of the Mill.

Someone very clever had taken a three hundred year-old barn, modernised it with cutting edge architecture then stolen the soft furnishings from an interior designer’s home. The effect was as über-crisp as it was cosy. Exposed beams and bare stone-work, clean-lined chunky oak tables and simple glass vases – she’d seen those in many restaurants, but in addition to the hundreds of family photos, random pastels of unnaturally coloured sheep hung on the walls along with, in one corner, a framed series of children’s finger paintings. Hardly the décor she’d expected for a restaurant inching towards its first Michelin star, but crikey it worked.

‘Awesome place,’ she murmured.

‘Thank you.’ Daisy curtsied. ‘Xander might get all the plaudits for knocking together the divine food, but I take full credit for making the venue look fabulous.’

‘And neither of them care that it’s me who makes sure it turns a profit.’ Robbie tipped his head. ‘Come on, outside before any of the paying guests see you.’

They headed into the garden where rustic oak tables dotted the lawn. Daisy waved to a blonde woman pushing a buggy at the other end of the garden.

‘I hear you’re working for Kim,’ Robbie said, smiling down at Libby.

‘Silly old cow,’ Daisy mumbled.

Libby nodded, trying not to giggle or pay too much attention to Robbie’s spicy aftershave. ‘It’s quite alarming how much everyone seems to know about me.’

‘It’s a village.’ He held out her chair. ‘Everyone knows everything.’

‘And what they don’t know,’ Daisy added, sinking into her own chair, ‘as you’ve found out, the
Haverton Gazette
makes up.’

‘Why does it do that?’ Libby asked, truly baffled. ‘It’s not like we’re famous, or even Z-list celebrities.’

‘It sells papers,’ Robbie said simply.

‘But why me?’

‘You’re new.’ Daisy sat back, shielding her eyes with a vast pair of sunglasses. ‘Have you always worked with horses?’

Libby shook her head. ‘But I’ve ridden since I was a kid.’

‘I have a yard, show-jumpers mostly,’ Robbie said, handing them menus. ‘If you ever want to go riding with Daze, there’s usually something handy.’

Libby forced a grateful smile. He didn’t know she had an interview. How did he not know? Olivia. She’d told Andrea her given name, not Libby. But then who the hell was Andrea?

He poured the wine, flashing Libby another blush-inducing smile. ‘Lucy will be out to take your order.’

Libby sipped her wine, determined not to watch his very nice arse walk away. ‘Is he always like that?’

‘There are two things you should know about Robbie,’ Daisy said, smiling. ‘One, as you’ve already noticed, he’s a dreadful flirt, but two, he’s utterly faithful to Van. I adore him for it. It gives me hope that Xander will be too. Oh, and three, he’ll steal your cigarettes without shame. He used to pinch about ten a day off me when we were doing this place.’

Although a single, or at least divorced dad of one would’ve been a more appealing distraction, Libby cheered at the prospect of a little, harmless stable yard flirting.

‘And four,’ said the blonde woman, parking the buggy in the shade of the tree, ‘he’s the sexiest man in town. Officially. Christ, I love it when he looks you over like he’s about to bend you over the sofa whether you like it or not.’

Daisy laughed. ‘Clara’s chair of the Robbie Fan Club, but she wouldn’t. She’s married to Scott, one of Robbie’s oldest friends. Libby, this is Clara, aka Miss Knightmare, teacher at Gosthwaite Primary School. Sleepyhead over there is Will. Appreciate the peace now, because when he’s awake there won’t be any. Clara, this is Libby.’

Libby smiled warily at the toddler, grateful he was fast asleep, before turning to Clara. Crikey, standing next to Daisy was intimidating enough. She certainly didn’t look like someone who’d had a baby six months ago – skinny in all the right places but with decent, real boobs and a tiny waist that flared to a perfect bum, all in a dinky, five foot two package. And Clara? Libby couldn’t help but glance down at her own non-existent cleavage. If only.

‘I’m sure you must hear this all the time...’ she said apologetically to Clara, ‘but you look–’

‘Scarlett Johansson?’ Clara nodded. ‘Not a bad lookey-likey to have. What did you do before you came here?’

‘I worked for a wedding planner.’

‘Interesting career choice,’ Daisy said.

‘Well, I have a Performing Arts degree and believe me, you need bloody good acting skills to reassure some brides they’re doing the right thing.’

‘Performing Arts?’ Clara asked.

‘Singing and dancing mostly. I do a mean Lady Gaga impression.’

‘Clara did a summer as a pole dancer at Pacha, Ibiza.’

‘Podium not pole.’ Clara threw an olive at Daisy. ‘Best pulling season ever. Did you ever perform professionally?’

‘A couple of pop videos.’

‘Ooh, which ones?’ Daisy asked, leaning her elbows on the table.

‘None you’d have heard of,’ Libby said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘So, Xander said you’d been married before, Daisy?’

Daisy smiled as Lucy arrived to take their orders, but tapped her foot, impatient to tell her tale. Libby had yet to meet anyone who wasn’t.

‘Did he tell you
who
I was married to?’

Libby glanced down, letting her cheeks flush. The actor had graced her own bedroom wall, one of the few males who weren’t dancers. ‘To Finn Rousseau.’

‘Wanker,’ Clara spat.

Daisy grinned. ‘We don’t talk about my bastard ex-husband much, but after I left Finn, Xander came along and we just clicked. You know?’

Libby lit a cigarette, wishing she could answer with a nod. She’d almost had that with Paolo. ‘What about you, Clara? Love at first sight too?’

Daisy laughed and Clara raised her hand in defeat.

‘No, I was the queen of the deluded idiots. Took me five years to realise Scott was the one for me. We’d been on-off since I was twenty, but I wouldn’t let it be anything more than that. My dad was a complete bastard, knocked hell out of my mum and I refused to let anyone boss me around. But Scott… he’s like this big, clever, teddy bear. He’d kill me for saying that. Rob might have the looks and Scott’s got a broken nose and carries thirty pounds too many, but…’ Clara laughed. ‘He’s a superhero. He sorts everything out for everybody.’

‘What does he do?’ Libby rested her hand on her chin, loving how misty-eyed Clara had become.

‘Immoral corporate lawyer. He earns the big bucks.’ Clara’s smile grew. ‘But you know what? He gave up the really big bucks and left London because this is where I was. Superhero, see?’

I need a superhero.

‘Did you leave a hot boyfriend behind in Manchester?’ Clara asked.

Libby shook her head, toying with her lighter.

‘Why not? You’re too pretty not to have one.’ Clara’s eyebrows raised, her eyes glinting. ‘OMG, you’re not a lesbian are you?’

‘No.’ Libby fought a smile, unable to resist a little teasing of her own. ‘But Tallulah told me you two were when you moved here.’

‘I deserved that,’ Clara said, gracious in defeat.

Libby laughed, adoring how different her life had become over the last two days: job interview, running buddy and now, new friends.

‘Did either of you know Maggie?’ Libby asked.

Daisy nodded furiously. ‘She used to make the most amazeballs lip balm out of weird herbs.’

‘And my mum bought her dance studio about ten years ago,’ Clara said. ‘They’d been friends since–’

‘Excuse me?’ Libby shook her head, certain she’d misheard Clara. ‘Her
dance studio
?’

‘Yes, the ballet studio in Haverton.’

‘Maggie taught ballet?’ Why hadn’t Zoë mentioned this tiny detail?

‘Actually, Zoë and I used to go to class together. Didn’t she go to the Royal Ballet School? I hated it, ballet. Street dancing was my thing, which Maggie ridiculed. She always looked down her nose, muttering about in her day at the Royal Ballet–’

‘Maggie taught at the Royal Ballet?’ Libby asked, her voice wavering.

Clara shook her head. ‘No, Maggie was a ballerina, a regular Darcey Bussell until the car crash. It can’t be nice to smash your pelvis, but you’d think that woman’s life had ended the way she talked. She used to say Gosthwaite’s where ballerinas come to die. My mum says...’

Clara twittered on, but Libby stared at the table, only hearing white noise. Maggie had been a ballerina, a broken ballerina.
Gosthwaite’s where ballerinas come to die
. Libby stared at her glass, her heart racing.

Don’t cry.

‘Libby?’ Daisy asked, touching her hand. ‘Libby, are you okay?’

No, but years of stage performing didn’t go to waste and she flashed a practised smile. ‘Did you know Maggie was a witch?’

Daisy nodded, frowning. ‘But are you–’

‘And Tallulah reckons she was murdered.’

‘What?’ Daisy’s frown vanished as she rested her elbow on the table, her chin in hand.

Clara followed suit. ‘Why?’

‘How?’ Daisy asked, her eyes glinting.

Libby sipped her wine, fully in control once more, and explained what Tallulah had told her. ‘So whodunit?’

Daisy, giggling, topped up their glasses. ‘Surely the favourite has to be the one who inherits.’

‘Ah, but Zoë didn’t know she was first in line to the throne until after Maggie died.’

‘Her parents?’ Clara suggested.

Libby shook her head. ‘I can’t see it. As suburban as they come. What about a jealous love interest? I know about Stan. Do you know him?’

‘Of course,’ Clara said, ‘but he wasn’t the only one.’

As Clara sat back, it was Libby’s turn to lean forwards, eager for the nugget of gossip. ‘Who else was there?’

‘Maggie had an affair with Peter, Sheila’s husband–’

‘But Sheila said he ran off with the woman from the butchers.’

‘Maggie screwed Peter before that, about six years ago.’ Clara’s eyes lit up, eager to pass on her knowledge. ‘Not that Sheila knows of course.’

‘How on earth do you–’

‘Primary school kids hear everything and are gloriously indiscreet,’ Daisy explained, ‘and Clara’s the worst gossip, second only to her mum.’

‘And Grace,’ Clara added. ‘What if Sheila found out and bumped Maggie off?’

Libby laughed. ‘No way. They were friends.’

‘With friends like that...’ Clara grinned. ‘What did you do after university?’

Libby, startled at the sudden topic change, knocked her napkin off the table. ‘The usual, I suppose. Going for everything and settling for any role I could get.’ She ducked down to retrieve her napkin and composure. ‘Hey, I inherited something from Maggie. Her spell book.’

Clara dropped her frustrated pout. ‘OMG, is it full of love potions and curses?’

While they dined on crab and langoustine ravioli, but only after swearing Daisy and Clara to secrecy, Libby regaled them with a glossed over account of the spell she’d performed and the others she’d like to try.

It wasn’t something she’d planned to share, but at least it stopped Clara asking questions and the last thing Libby wanted to do was spoil a perfectly lovely afternoon by discussing her own ruined life.

Gosthwaite’s where ballerinas come to die.

Libby perched on the herb garden wall, waiting for Robbie. All that stood between her and a job at Low Wood Farm was a quick riding test. Usually a formality, Andrea had said. She turned out to be Robbie and Xander’s mother, but crikey, she wasn’t like them at all. The woman had a disdainful glare that could wither roses, but after thirty minutes grilling Libby, she’d almost defrosted, and even managed a reluctant smile before she went to fetch Robbie.

Libby had never wanted a job so badly. Low Wood Farm was a dream with its whitewashed farmhouse, cobbled yard and tidy stables. Horses and Herdwick sheep grazed in the fields while chickens pecked at fallen pony nuts and an ancient Labrador lay in the sunshine. Maybe one day, she’d have a place just like it.

The kitchen door opened and Libby fought a smile. Had Robbie worked out it was her already? He came out, studying her CV, but when he looked up, he stopped. Okay, obviously he hadn’t realised she was Olivia Wilde. For a moment, he simply stared at her, but then his eyes narrowed and he leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded.

‘No,’ he said.

What the hell? She stood up, placing her hands on her hips. ‘I think there are laws about saying yes or no based on what someone looks like.’

He looked her over, giving a derisory laugh. What was wrong with her? She wore a sensible pink t-shirt with black jodhpurs, her hair in a neat plait. She looked pretty and professional. He hadn’t minded her hair or make-up the day before when he kept topping up her glass and pinching her cigarettes. Why did it matter today?

‘You want more reasons?’ He held up her CV. ‘
Olivia
Wilde.’

‘Libby’s an accepted abbreviation.’

‘St Mary Magdalene’s in Wiltshire? Even Google’s never heard of it.’

Bugger. ‘It’s a tiny independent school. I’m not surprised.’

‘You’ve had five different jobs in the three years since you went to some unnamed university in London, and not one of them had anything to do with your BA in Performing Arts.’ He shook his head, but his eyes glinted. ‘Even if you didn’t have a suspiciously vague CV, you’re tiny, too small.’

‘I’m five-five, above average height for a girl in the UK.’ She rapped her nails against her hips and raised her chin. Was he taking the piss?

‘You couldn’t handle the horses. Can you even carry a bucket of water?’ He waved a hand, dismissing her, but... his mouth was twitching at the corners. He
was
taking the piss.

‘I’ve been carrying water buckets since I was six and I can handle any horse.’ Her cheeks reddened as she folded her arms, steeling herself. If he wanted to play that game... ‘But maybe not working for an arrogant bastard like you.’

He laughed and looked up to the sky. ‘Do you really have BHS Stage Three?’

‘I did an intensive course at the Lancashire Equestrian Centre. Give Bridget a call. But I’ve owned ponies for most of my life and I used to compete at local shows.’

‘I suppose you’re light enough to ride Lulu’s horses.’ He simply looked her in the eye for a moment. ‘Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?’

Because you were flirting and I liked it
. ‘Felt inappropriate.’

He nodded.

‘I didn’t mean to lie,’ she added quickly, ‘about my name. I’d assumed you would’ve worked it out from the newspaper.’

‘Hadn’t read it.’

‘Oh.’

‘Shakespeare’s the bay in the end box. The tack room has everything labelled. I’ll meet you in the ménage in ten minutes.’

‘And sorry. For calling you an arrogant bastard.’

Shrugging, he walked away. ‘I doubt it’ll be the last time.’

Grateful he couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, Libby crossed the yard. Why had she called him an arrogant bastard, even if he had been toying with her? He was a prospective employer – she ought to act accordingly. Relieved at her chance to ride, she crouched down to hug the old dog.

‘Thank God I didn’t bugger that up, mister. Do you think my run of good luck can last another day? If it isn’t over, then maybe there’s hope for Zoë and me.’

The night before, Libby had returned from the Mill, tipsy and stewing in Clara’s revelation that Maggie had been a ballerina. The second Zoë walked through the door Libby demanded to know why she hadn’t told her.

‘How could you be so insensitive? You must’ve known I’d find out.’

‘Let it go, Libby. Either join a dance class, or forget it.’

‘I can’t forget it, and I can’t go back to class.’

‘You need to move on, or you’ll end up just like her, miserable and bitter with just a cat for company.’

‘Should I just throw myself down the stairs now?’

‘It’s better than living half a life.’

It had been the worst argument they’d had since Zoë lost Libby’s sparkly black leg warmers in Year Nine, but back then, they’d made up before supper. This time they’d gone to bed, slamming doors, still not speaking, and even Hyssop’s purring hadn’t lulled Libby to sleep. But she knew why Zoë had omitted a key fact about Maggie. There’s no way Libby would have moved to a Home for Retired Ballet Dancers.

‘You need a nanny, not her,’ she heard Andrea snap, but couldn’t make out Robbie’s reply.

Hating herself for eavesdropping, Libby tiptoed nearer.

‘My wife’s leaving in two days and I’m not letting some clueless kid look after the girls. Or some battleaxe who thinks she can boss them, and me, around all the time. I need someone bloody good to look after the horses. The others weren’t a day over nineteen and only the stupidest of the lot could actually drive.’

‘Robert, be careful,’ Andrea went on, ‘because she might be twenty-five, well-educated and polite, she might have a full, clean driving license and an actual bloody car, but... she–’

‘She what?’

‘She looks like she charges by the hour.’

Robbie merely laughed.

Charges by the hour? Thank God it wasn’t Andrea who was employing her.

Fleeing to the tack room, Libby ran her hand over Shakespeare’s saddle, the heady mix of leather, saddle soap and linseed oil reminding her of own childhood stable in Wiltshire. At eleven years old, she’d stood in her empty tack room, ready to leave for ballet school, certain she’d made the right decision. But now? What if horses could’ve been her life instead? Would she be happy?

What ifs? She shook her head, laughing at herself. Her parents hadn’t brought her up to dwell on what ifs; she’d been taught to Just Bloody Do It. And don’t bugger it up.

With Shakespeare gleaming after a quick brush over, she slipped on his tack, her fingers fumbling to fasten the buckles. She hadn’t been this nervous during her BHS exams. Shakespeare rubbed his head against her shoulder, almost knocking her over as he sniffed against her pocket. She laughed and obliged, sneaking him a Polo mint.

‘Please look after me, mister,’ she said, kissing his nose.

He stood like granite in the yard, never fidgeting while she adjusted her stirrups, and as he walked on, into the ménage, she relaxed. Thank god, Robbie wasn’t waiting already. She’d been twelve minutes by her watch.

Taking it easy, she walked Shakespeare once around the school, before nudging him into a trot. They glided through twenty metre circles. She needed the slightest leg action, the lightest of hands to control him, but his muscles twitched, ready to explode beneath her. Tallulah had made him look like a school hack, but that eleven year-old girl had to be one hell of a rider.

Robbie and Tallulah arrived, perching on the high railed fence, but Libby refused to let their scrutiny faze her. She nudged Shakespeare into a canter and took him through two flawless figure-eights before Robbie whistled her over. Libby listened carefully as he explained the simple five jump course. Nothing was over a metre with the first a tiny warm-up cross pole. She stifled a yawn.

‘Late night?’ Robbie asked, his face betraying no emotions.

Libby shook her head. ‘Didn’t sleep well.’

Unwilling to discuss the matter, she squeezed Shakespeare on. Instantly, he moved into a bouncy trot, looking towards the first jump with his ears pricked. They sailed over the jumps, wiping away Libby’s fatigue and leaving her itching to do the course again, but with the poles raised another twenty centimetres.

I love this horse.

Slowing to a trot, she patted Shakespeare’s neck, grinning like a village idiot, but Robbie didn’t appear remotely pleased with her efforts.

‘Lulu, get Dolomite,’ he said.

Tallulah jumped off the fence, but not before Libby clocked her wide-eyed moment of hesitation. Taking slow, steady breaths, Libby walked Shakespeare on a long rein, utterly aware Robbie still watched her. Minutes ticked by and Libby’s apprehension grew until Tallulah led in a beautiful dapple-grey gelding with a near black mane and tail.

Libby spent a minute saying hello, but Dolomite side-stepped, eyeing her with mistrust from under his forelock as she prepared to mount.

‘He’s strong,’ Tallulah said, as she held the offside stirrup. ‘Really strong and he falls out on the left–’

‘Lulu,’ Robbie snapped.

Okay, this was a test. Libby smiled down at her little friend and winked. ‘Thanks.’

Ten minutes later, Libby’s arms burned and she needed every core muscle she’d ever developed as she fought to keep the bloody grey steam train at a steady trot through ridiculously wonky circles. This wasn’t a riding test. It was riding torture.

‘Same course as before,’ Robbie shouted, his eyes squinting against the sun.

Libby relaxed her hands a touch, letting the gelding move into a canter, but instantly regretted it. He wasn’t on the bit and she wasn’t in control. They careered toward the first jump, a tiny fifty centimetre warm up, but Dolomite ducked out, shying as if she’d set him up for Beecher’s Brook.

Libby landed on his neck, losing her stirrups and her last shreds of control. Somehow, as Dolomite bolted to the far corner of the school, she stayed on, but more though luck than anything remotely resembling ability. She swore. Okay, so he didn’t have Shakespeare’s natural affinity with jumping. No wonder Tallulah looked so hesitant.

‘Okay, baby. You’re okay.’ She placed a gentle hand on his neck but he flinched as if she’d shocked him with two thousand volts. ‘And, God, do I know how that feels. They’re just silly jumps. We can do this.’

After a little more soothing, he calmed and she walked him on, remembering the nervy eventer she’d ridden under Bridget’s instruction:
Don’t fight him. Work with him. You’re a team.
Dolomite settled into a trot, and Libby kept up her gentle words, reassuring him while her unrelenting legs and hands kept him going forward.

‘You are going over this, mister.’

Come on Good Luck spell, don’t fail me now
.

Dolomite pulled to the right, trying to duck out again, but she held him. It might’ve been as ungainly as her first lesson
en pointe
, but he lurched over.

‘Three feet. Easy-peasy,’ she said, setting him up for the second.

Despite tensing up, he flew over and popped over the third with his ears pricked. Robbie whistled, waving her back, and Libby fought her smile, not wanting to put pride before a spectacular descent into the sand.

Robbie turned to a beaming Tallulah. ‘Told you he could do it.’

‘What?’ Libby frowned but Robbie was already walking away. God, he was hard work.

Tallulah threw her arms around Dolomite’s lathered neck. ‘That’s the first time Dol’s gone over anything higher than a trotting pole.’

‘You’re joking.’ Libby dismounted.

She shook her head. ‘Dad sold him as a yearling but we heard he was being mistreated, so we got him back. He’s getting better but he’s still a nutcase. Dad must think you’re brilliant to let you ride Dol.’

‘Really? He doesn’t seem too pleased.’

‘He never does.’ Tallulah shrugged.

With her legs still shaking, Libby led Dolomite back to his stable, unsure if she should get her hopes up. Exhausted from the sleepless night, a stressful interview and fifty minutes of schooling hell, she untacked Dolomite and leaned against his shoulder, still holding the saddle in her weary arms.

Robbie appeared with two steaming mugs. ‘Tea? Lulu’s going to walk him around.’

Grateful, Libby deposited the tack and collapsed onto a wooden bench.

‘You have the sketchiest CV I’ve ever seen,’ Robbie said sitting next to her, ‘but despite that, and my appalling interviewing skills, how do you fancy a job?’

She laughed, resting her head against the wall behind her. ‘Really?’

‘Got any fags?’

‘You are priceless.’ But dutifully she took out a pack and a lighter.

‘I’d rather smoking was kept nearer the house where everything’s less flammable, but never in front of Tilly or Dora. Lulu’s seen everything. Come on, I’ll show you around.’

He led the way to the far end of the L-shaped stable block, where Shakespeare stood with his head over the door. A little brass plaque declared his name and birth date.