Nearly Almost Somebody (18 page)

As if he’d read his thoughts, Robbie turned to him. ‘Seriously, you don’t know Libby.’

No, but it’s time I got to know her.

As Scott and Clara prepared to leave, Patrick followed Robbie into the yard. Libby was sitting on an upturned bucket, clutching a mug and smoking a cigarette. Her mini-skirt and wellies combination elicited a brief pang of jealousy from Patrick.
Off limits.

‘You have to head off?’ Robbie asked.

Patrick shrugged, glancing to Libby. ‘I don’t fancy playing gooseberry.’

Robbie laughed. ‘It’s fine. Tallulah will be back soon. Stay. I have to ring Van so she can speak to Tilly. Please make friends with Lib. You can start by saying sorry.’

Reluctantly, Patrick agreed and while Robbie rounded up his daughters, walked towards Libby, not missing the wary frown that flashed over her face. Did she think he’d give her a hard time? Would he?

‘How’s Hyssop?’ he asked, a half-hearted effort at peace-making.

‘Go away. I hate you.’

Sod peace-making. ‘You’re trashing my friends’ marriage. You’re not exactly at the top of my Christmas card list either, princess.’

‘Have you any idea how humiliating it was to be dumped in the pub?’

‘It’s probably up there with how Rob felt when you told him you’d gone out with someone else.’

She stubbed out her cigarette, becoming fascinated by her boots. ‘It’s not like it was a date.’

He shifted uneasily as her cheeks turned pink. It had been a date and they both knew it.

‘Look, Rob’s my best mate, so... how about a truce?’

‘You run me down on a footpath you shouldn’t have been on, make me look like an idiot in front of Grace and play dirty to get Hyssop back. Not a chance.’

Fine. If she wanted an apology, she’d get one.

When Patrick was thirteen, infatuated with Melody Lawson, Robbie had let him in on a secret he’d discovered reading chick lit. An overblown romantic gesture never failed to win a girl over. It’d surely work in non-romantic situations too. Patrick plucked a nasturtium from the nearest hanging basket and dropped to his knees before her.

‘Libby, I am very sorry for walking out of the pub. I had my reasons, but you’re right, it was bloody rude. And I’m sorry for going to Zoë about Hyssop. Please,
please
forgive me.’

She had the makings of a smile as she took the flower.

‘Think of the cat,’ Patrick said. ‘He hates to see us fighting. Friends?’

The angelic smile grew and she shook his hand. ‘Friends.’

He sat back on the bench, surprisingly relieved. ‘He’s been coming to visit me, by the way.’

‘Hyssop?’

‘A few nights last week, he’s turned up about eight, knocking at the window–’

‘Oh God, I love how he does that, tapping his paw against the glass ’til you let him in. He’s so clever.’

‘Then at about eleven, he’d sit up, listening for something. Let me guess, you coming home.’

‘Thursday is Pilates.’

‘And the other days?’

She blushed. ‘Tallulah spends most evenings at Chloe’s.’

‘Handy.’

‘It’s wrong, I know.’ Guilt flooded her face for a second before she looked up at him. ‘Did you know Tallulah’s convinced Maggie was murdered?’

‘Really? Why?’

Patrick leaned forwards, amused, as she explained how Becky from next-door-but-one had sworn on her iPhone that she heard Maggie scream and saw someone walk out of the house. No one had mentioned this before. The police hadn’t thought anything remotely suspicious had occurred.

‘You found her, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘I think that’s what Sheila said.’

He nodded. ‘Hyssop came round the next day, meowing. I didn’t think much of it. If Maggie went away for a few days, Sheila would feed him. But after a couple of days…’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘He just kept hanging around, driving me mad. In the end, I went to Maggie’s. She didn’t answer and she never locked the door, so I went in to make sure he had food.’

And there Maggie was, cold and grey, her head facing the wrong way.

‘That must’ve been horrid.’ Libby lit another cigarette. ‘It gives me the creeps just looking at the bottom of the stairs. There’s a cracked tile....’

Patrick looked up as Tallulah came into the yard. ‘Lulu, why didn’t Becky tell the police about seeing someone coming out of Maggie’s?’

She looked up from her phone. ‘She did, but like they believed her. Jack said his mum didn’t hear any screaming so basically they all ignored Becks.’

‘Patrick…’ Libby paused, her brow creasing. ‘Was Maggie wearing her pendant?’

He shrugged. ‘But she wore it every day. Why?’

‘It’s missing,’ Libby replied. ‘Zoë doesn’t have it, or her mum.’

‘Murdered,’ Tallulah said, still texting.

Libby’s frown deepened. ‘Did the house look like it’d been burgled?’

‘Maggie had so much junk it’d be hard to tell.’ Patrick laughed. ‘Why are you so interested in Maggie anyway? You didn’t even know her.’

‘I want to make sure that whatever happened to her doesn’t happen to me.’ Libby flicked her hair off her shoulder, smiling as Robbie came out.

‘Does anyone fancy a margarita?’ he called.

Tallulah’s face lit up. ‘Me.’

‘In your dreams,’ Robbie said, his post-Vanessa scowl easing as he tickled her.

Hours later, after several margaritas, more burgers, and a surprisingly good time with Robbie, Libby and Tallulah, Patrick waited in the yard while Robbie and Libby said their goodbyes. Understandably, they both looked very uncomfortable. It was so wrong. Patrick did all he could to look busy, checking his phone. Eventually, she jogged over and Robbie waved, clearly happy to see them all friends again. Still wrong.

Patrick pushed his bike as they headed down the bridleway, determined not to ask her the question screaming in his head. Why was she shagging Robbie? Vanessa would come back and Libby would be out on her ear. Why would she do that to herself?

‘I could give you a lift.’ He nodded to his bike.

‘Not a chance, mister.’ She looked up at the black sky, dotted with stars. ‘It’s a nice night. I like the walk.’

‘So you run most mornings, Pilates on a Thursday, walk to work and back, ride twice a day… do you ever sit still?’

She smiled, shaking her head. ‘Rob’s glad you’re back. Did you and Scott talk to him?’

Patrick nodded, hoping she didn’t ask what was said.

‘He only confided in me to begin with because he didn’t have anyone else to talk to. This might not have happened if you’d been here.’

No, it bloody wouldn’t, because I’d have got in there first. Rob wouldn’t be messing around with you. I would be.

‘Rubbish excuse. He could’ve talked to Scott.’ He glanced at her, unable to stop himself. ‘You know you’ll end up with nothing, no job?’

‘Yes.’ She focussed on the ground and tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘He loves her and they have three daughters who need them to be together. I’m just something for now, to make him feel better. It’s not ideal, but worth it for the distraction.’

‘The distraction?’

She flashed a brilliant smile. ‘I have my reasons.’

He shook his head, laughing. ‘Which are?’

‘What are yours?’

‘I asked first.’

‘None of your business. You don’t have to escort me home, you know. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’

‘With a potential murderer on the loose?’

She laughed. ‘A good point, well presented.’

‘Actually, you have got me thinking.’

‘Careful. Don’t hurt yourself.’

He faux-punched her arm. ‘I was thinking if the place looked burgled.’

‘And?’

‘While I was waiting for the police, I went into the kitchen to feed Hyssop. There was a card and gift-wrapped box on the side, unopened. If you were robbing the place, wouldn’t you open it?’

‘I wouldn’t bother. It was a couple of scented candles and a bottle of wine from Sheila.’

‘But a burglar would’ve at least opened it.’ He shook his head. ‘So, no. I don’t think the place had been burgled.’

‘But where has the pendant gone?’

‘Maybe Maggie lost it at the Ostara festival. I’ll ask Grace on Tuesday.’

‘Why would Grace know?’

‘Because she went with Maggie to the Ostara festival.’

‘Are you telling me–’

‘Grace plays witch too.’ He smiled down at her, loving her bemused expression. ‘Nuts, isn’t it? Grown adults believing in
magic
.’

‘You don’t think there’s anything in it?’

‘Of course not. I mean, okay, some of the herbal remedies Grace knocks up are pretty effective, but spells and amulets? Whatever.’

‘What about fate and luck?’

‘I prefer to control my own life.’ He studied her, watching as she nibbled her thumbnail. ‘What, do you believe in all that crap?’

‘Maybe.’ She shrugged and he’d bet his life that if the light were better, he’d be able to see her blushing. ‘Just sometimes it’s like everything happens for a reason.’

‘Bullshit. That’s just what people say to excuse their own crappy behaviour.’

She stopped, her face looking up at him, unsmiling. ‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

Bollocks. He hadn’t meant that. Then again… ‘Is your affair with a married man for a reason?’

‘No.’ She set off again, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘And I hate myself for it.’

Oh, so everything happens for a reason, does it? And what possible reason could fate have for making Libby hate herself?

Why the hell did the weather have to finally break on her lunch hour? Mercifully, Zoë’s heels had a centimetre platform that shielded her toes from the puddles. Jess had offered to pop to the bakery down the road for ham and egg rolls, but Zoë would rather stick pins in her own eyes than sit in the office with them all as they flicked through
Heat
and
Grazia
, wittering on about the latest celebrity reality show. Instead, she claimed the need for fresh air and a trip to Boots, but then headed the opposite way, to the coffee-slash-bookshop.

It was ridiculous. It wasn’t like she owed him anything. He’d stood her up first. Yet she scurried under the awning, shaking out her umbrella. This was Libby’s fault. Or Patrick’s – the way he’d looked at Libby... The windows were steamed up but the door was open, and from the buzz of voices inside, it was clearly busy. Would Mr Coffee Shop be there? Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He wasn’t there.

Fuck.

A table at the back was free. She could sit and read at least. After shedding her mac and taking out her book, Zoë folded herself onto an oak chair and sank back against a purple velvet scatter cushion. All credit to Mr Coffee Shop, the place was a little oasis of boho class. Zoë smiled at the three blackboards hanging side by side on the wall: Eat, Listen, Ponder. Under the first were the day’s specials, under the second was a playlist of the eclectic music they’d be playing, and under the latter a quote:

We accept the love we think we deserve

– Stephen Chobsky

‘What can I get– oh, hi.’ The waitress held up a finger, as if Zoë were about to dash off. ‘I have something for you.’

She returned from the counter with an envelope. The one Mr Coffee Shop had left two months ago no doubt.

‘I’m sure you’ve seen him since then,’ the waitress said, ‘but it’s still here. What can I get you?’

‘Coffee, American, black and...’ Zoë glanced up from the envelope to the specials board. ‘The morello cherry and chocolate fondant, please. With vanilla ice cream.’

The envelope was thick, quality and he’d written her name in blue ink. It’d smudged under what looked like coffee.

I have Jonathan. I don’t need this guy.

But then there he was, coming in from the side door marked
Staff Only
. He didn’t say a word, but sat down at her table, looking her in the eye. What was it with him? And why after six weeks of walking the long way round to get to work, had she suddenly decided to go and see him? Okay, she itched to rake her fingers through his hair, to push it out of his stupidly blue eyes and drag him to bed, but he was a waiter in a bloody coffee shop-come-bookstore. He wasn’t her type. She liked corporate men in suits; he had a silver chain holding a bow and arrow hung around his neck, and three leather thongs on his wrist.

And why did he look so familiar? Someone famous, an actor maybe? Whoever it was, it wasn’t
the man of her dreams
as Libby suggested. Zoë didn’t buy into that true love bullshit.

Yet here she was about to utter the one word she aimed never to say. ‘Sorry.’

His eyes twinkled as he stretched out his legs. ‘What was it, payback?

‘No. Something came up at work that I couldn’t say no to.’

‘Cocktails with Jess and Nikki?’

‘Friends of yours?’ And which had he shagged?

‘Nikki,’ he replied, answering her mental question. ‘A long time ago.’

Zoë’s coffee was placed on the table and Mr Coffee Shop ordered a double espresso, but the whole time, they never dropped eye contact with one another. Obviously he wasn’t too pissed off with being stood up. Eventually, he smiled and glanced away.

‘Virginia Woolf?’ he asked, nodding to her copy of
Orlando
on the table. ‘You’re a lipstick feminist?’

Refusing to rise to his mocking tone, Zoë smiled back. ‘Not particularly. It’s a waste of time in this world.’ She turned the book in her hands. ‘But it’s good to see the world through other people’s eyes.’

‘I’m Ed.’

‘Zoë.’ As they shook hands her heart rate increased. How good would it feel to have those hands undoing her blouse, slipping her bra straps off her shoulders? ‘So,
Ed
... you work here?’

He shook his head, his eye contact again unwavering. ‘But I help out since I’m here all the time.’

‘Why are you here all the time? Don’t you have a job to go to?’

‘I’m a writer.’

Penniless, no doubt. ‘What do you write?’

He shrugged. ‘Whatever needs writing. Exposés of oil companies leaving wildlife to die on a beach, a novella about date rape, a four hundred page sci-fi tome decrying heartless capitalism.’

‘Ah, you’re a do-gooder journalist.’

‘And you’re a soulless estate agent.’

‘The most heartless of capitalist occupations.’ She tipped her head, unable to hide her grin.

‘Good job I’m a ghost writer then. I write whatever I’m paid to. I’m as soulless as you. We’ve still got a chance, beautiful.’

Zoë blushed.
Blushed
. When had that last happened?

For forty minutes, over coffee and a side order of palpable sexual tension, they discussed her move from Manchester, his desire to move to Paris, her penchant for chocolate puddings, his disgust over Amazon deforestation.

‘Ah, so you
are
a do-gooder.’

He grinned. ‘You got me.’

‘Do I?’ She leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the table, mirroring his pose so there faces were merely inches apart. She could smell his aftershave, the coffee he’d drunk, the cigarette he’d had earlier.

‘You do.’ He brushed a strand of her hair off her face. ‘Hooked.’

Her chest rose and fell with each increasingly unsteady breath.
I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone in my life
. Surely, if he looked down, he’d be able to see her heart hammering in her chest. If he looked down? The whole time they’d been talking, he never so much as glanced at her tits.

Five past two? Shit. She’d totally lost track of time.

‘I have to go,’ she said. What would she give to stay? ‘Walk me out?’
And
kiss me goodbye?

Laughing, he stood up and grabbed a paperback from the shelf behind the counter. ‘Here. So you can see the world through my eyes.’

She took the book, unable to see the title, or the cover image. All she could see were the two words proclaiming his name:
Ed Carr
. Bile rose to her mouth, her stomach contracting. This couldn’t be happening. She needed to dissolve into a shrieking puddle like the wicked witch of the west.

‘You’re... Jonathan’s son.’

‘I’m Jonathan’s son.’

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘But–’

‘Bye.’ She dropped a twenty on the counter and fled into the rain.

How could he be Jonathan’s son? How? How could she look him in the eye ever again when the previous night she’d tied his father to a bed and sucked his dick, tormenting him but never letting him come?

‘Zoë?’

She struggled to put her umbrella up, the rain now torrential. Stupid, bloody–

‘How long have you been fucking him?’ Ed stood before her, his white shirt already turning transparent.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t give me that bullshit. I knew it. I knew it the minute I saw you. You look just like that bitch.’

Zoë abandoned the umbrella, blinking away the water coating her eyelashes. ‘I look like who?’

‘Why else would he give you the job?’

‘Because I’m good at selling houses?’

Ed laughed, but any of his early eye twinkling was long gone. ‘If Dad believed that, he’d have you in the Kendal branch with his real sales team. Face it, he employed you to be his latest whore.’

Her hand struck his cheek before she even knew she wanted to hit him.

Twenty minutes later, Zoë’s hands were still shaking with barely restrained rage as she pushed open the door of Carr & Young’s Kendal office. Somehow, after leaving Ed standing in the rain, his cheek red, she’d got into her car, letting out a scream of frustration before she’d calmly pulled her hair into a neat bun and repainted her lips the most Chanel of red.

The
real sales team
?

What the fuck was she? Okay, it was weird the Haverton branch only employed women, mostly ineffective ones at that, and the Kendal branch appeared
manned
by the go-getting boys. But she merely assumed the boy branch would be as lazy-assed as the girl branch. Although, when she met a few of them on that night out with Nikki, they did seem to be pretty on top of their game. And her tits.

Was Ed right?

The second she’d seen the glass and steel front of the Kendal office, the cutting edge monitors on the sleek wooden desks, Zoë knew he was. She’d been sectioned in some façade of a Head Office, shuffling paper, sweet-talking the tricky high-end customers and letting the Kendal staff handle the bulk of sales, earn the real commission.

‘Can I help you?’ the girl on reception asked.

‘It’s Casey, isn’t it? I’m Zoë Horton, from the Haverton office. I’m here to see Mr Carr.’

‘Oh, okay, but he said–’

‘He’s expecting me,’ Zoë lied.

‘Oh, I guess you should go on back. Last door on the left.’

Stupid girl.

Zoë stalked to the back of the office, smiling pleasantly at the
real sales team
. Jonathan’s door was open and he sat on his desk chatting to Adam, the one who’d copped a feel of her tits. Without asking.

‘Mr Carr?’ she said, smiling for Adam’s benefit.

‘Excuse us, Adam.’

The second Adam did as he was told, Zoë kicked the door shut with her heel, glaring at Jonathan.

‘Maybe I should have explained this a little clearer, Miss Horton. There’s a time and a place for you to–’

‘My name is Zoë and this is the time
and
the place to discuss my
job
. I want to know why I’m rotting with those dimwits in Haverton, using past-it PCs while your little boy’s club here has touch screen monitors and bloody iPads?’

‘What is it you want?’

‘To work here. To be treated as an equal. To be a
genuine
member of the sales team, not just your god-damned mistress.’

‘Are you my god-damned mistress?’

‘That depends on how the rest of this conversation goes.’

Jonathan nodded. ‘It’d be a longer drive to work.’

‘I’ll set my alarm clock that little bit earlier.’

‘The sales quotas will be higher.’

‘I’ll deliver them.’

‘I still want you to do the searches for customers.’

‘Happy to.’

‘Then it’s a deal. Martin is leaving at the end of the month. You can take his desk.’

Two weeks. Survivable. Slowly, she walked towards him. ‘And you’d better re-evaluate my pay. If I discover any of the misogynistic arseholes out there earn a penny more than me, I will take you to the cleaners.’

‘You really are absolutely magnificent,’ he gently held her chin before he kissed her.

Jesus, she loved this whole dom/sub thing. The control it gave her. The power. It radiated from her skin.

‘I know.’ She gently bit his bottom lip, just how he liked it. ‘Now, why don’t you introduce me to my new colleagues?’