Nearly Almost Somebody (20 page)

‘Because he’s a god-damned silver fox.’ Zoë took a long slow drag on her cigarette. ‘And he’s totally loaded.’

‘He won’t be if his wife divorces him and takes him for everything he has. What’s wrong with having a normal boyfriend?’

‘Oh, like you’ve got?’

‘Why not choose the son?’

‘The penniless writer?’

‘You fancy him. Is Jonathan’s money really that important?’

‘Of course not. But if there are two equally hot guys, one rich, one poor, which would you do?’

‘The one I liked the most.’

‘Or the one who could give you control of your own life?’

Control? Why did it always come down to control?

‘You’re insane. Going out with Ed, who’s
single,
is sensible. It could be a long term thing. That’s what you should be doing.’

‘Really?’ Zoë asked. ‘If that’s what you really think, why are you shagging your
married
boss when you could be doing the sensible thing with the hot vet?’

Libby lay down and closed her eyes. ‘There’s nothing sensible about that vet.’

‘I rest my bloody case.’

The gentle English afternoon of Pimm’s had given way to a beer tent filled with flashing lights and Lady Gaga booming from speakers. Laughter came from every corner, but Libby sat outside, curled up on a bench. This had to be in her Top Ten of situations she never wanted to find herself in. Ever. Zoë currently had some farmer friend of Scott’s wrapped around her finger and Robbie still hadn’t come back from taking the kids home. Clara and Scott were laughing at the bar, but Grace and Jack’s close proximity meant Libby couldn’t join them. At least the smoking gave her a valid excuse not to be in the marquee.

She lit her second off her first. She could just go home. Robbie would come over and they could spend the evening together, not just the night. That idea had a lot going for it, but it didn’t give Robbie the chance to get drunk and hang out with his friends. And he needed that.

Distracted by the strobe lights, Libby didn’t notice the shadow fall over her, but the aroma of the barbeque gave way to the more enticing smell of fresh sweat on a fit guy.

‘The white Rioja,’ Patrick said, handing her a glass as he sat down.

‘Thank you,’ she said, sure she’d never been so grateful for a drink or a goodwill gesture in her life.

‘Enjoy the match?’

‘I’m guessing you did, Mister Hat Trick.’

Patrick had been named Man of the Match after Gosthwaite cruised home three-one, thanks to his goals.

His grin was like a child’s at Christmas, unashamedly happy. ‘I don’t know if you heard about last year–’

‘Clara couldn’t resist.’

‘She never can.’ He gazed across the deserted pitch, still smiling. ‘Christ, I feel like...’

Libby’s mood lifted – his happiness infecting her. ‘What?’

He shook his head. ‘Anyway, I’ve made up for it.’

‘And when their back took you out, you didn’t hit him.’

He laughed softly. ‘I nearly did.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘I didn’t.’ He turned to her. ‘Are you hiding?’

She nodded.

‘Come inside. Scott’s just bought a bottle of tequila.’

Libby shook her head.

‘Why?’

‘Grace.’

‘She won’t bother you, not really.’

‘You’ve said that before and she did.’

‘She was just mouthing off. Sticks and stones.’ Patrick wafted her smoke away.

‘Sorry.’

‘Since you’re not putting it out, you’re not forgiven. Look, you can’t avoid her forever.’

‘I can try.’

‘She’s behind the bar, but I promise if she even looks at–’

‘You didn’t last time.’

‘I told you. I had my reasons.’

Trying not to notice how his sweaty, post-football body felt so close to hers, Libby shifted on the bench, trying to distance herself from him, but as she crossed her legs, her knee touched his, the skin-to-skin contact making her flinch. He stared down at their knees.

‘How’s Hyss–’

‘Did you–’

Libby tucked her hair behind her ears, aware she was blushing. ‘Did you ask Grace about Maggie’s pendant?’

‘Yeah, on Monday, but she got all... so I didn’t push it.’

‘She got all what?’

‘Well, she and Maggie were friends and she got all upset. I hate it when girls cry.’

‘Ohmigod, you soft touch.’ She elbowed him, laughing, and they both relaxed. ‘Go ask her.’

‘Tell you what. I’ll man up and ask Grace, if you man up and come inside.’ He stood up, taking her glass. ‘Come on.’

Reluctantly, she followed him into the marquee, but he led her to the furthest end of the bar, beckoning Scott and Clara to join them.

‘Why are you being nice?’ she asked.

‘It’s my job to look after you when Rob’s not here.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’ve got his back. It’s a Musketear thing.’

‘A what?’

He looked away, grinning. ‘Can’t say anymore.’

‘I’ll cry...’ She smiled up at him, fluttering her eyelashes.

‘God help me.’ He leaned on the bar, his elbow resting against hers. ‘Scott, Rob and I went to school together. They used to call us the Musketears, tears spelt the boo-hoo way. We broke a lot of hearts apparently. And I say they, I think Scott started it.’

Libby laughed. ‘I’m guessing he’s Athos?’

‘He’s your traditional sporting hero, academic, alpha-male, captain of all the teams.’

‘And from what Clara told me, you’d fit the wine, women and song role of Porthos.’

‘Christ, what did she tell you?’

Libby mimed locking her lips.

‘It’ll all be true.’

‘You sure? Even sleeping with your best friend’s girlfriend?’

His grin faltered. ‘Yeah.’

‘But you and Scott are still friends?’

‘We are now. Took about a year.’

Libby had her chin on her hand, intrigued. How could someone have so few moral values that they’d do something like that? ‘Why did you do it?’

He sipped his pint, turning to where Clara and Scott were chatting. ‘I don’t trust her, never have. We get on, she’s fun, but she screwed Scott around and I don’t like that.’

‘You’ve got his back?’

‘Absolutely. It was a stupid idea, but I was wasted and I wanted to show him that she didn’t really care about him. Christ, after we’d, you know, she sent him a picture. Nice, hey?’ He shook his head. ‘But he forgave her and one day, she just asked him to marry her. And now look at them.’

Libby turned, watching Clara and Scott gazing at each other. ‘So is Rob Aramis, the romantic hero?’

Patrick nodded. ‘He’s going to kill me for telling you this, but he spent most of his time pulling anything in a skirt and he was bloody good at it.’

Libby sipped her wine, trying not to show her shock.

‘He’d have a girlfriend, one on the side, and another waiting in the wings.’

‘I thought he was Mister Faithful.’

‘Back then, he wasn’t.’

‘What happened?’

‘Vanessa. I take it you’ve never met her?’

She shook her head.

‘If you had, you wouldn’t be shagging him, because she’s the nicest person in world.’

‘Don’t make me feel any worse.’ Libby sighed. ‘So he changed, just like that?’

‘Scott and I came back for Christmas and Rob was shacked up with her. We couldn’t believe the change. He said he knew the day he met her that she was the love of his life.’

‘She still is.’

‘Why are you messing around with a married man who blatantly loves his wife? Habit of yours?’

‘No. I have huge issues with infidelity. This is different.’ Libby nodded to Grace, who’d left the bar to collect glasses. ‘Ask her now.’

‘But–’

Libby pushed him away. Cursing her, and not under his breath, Patrick went over to Grace. The sound system pounding out the Weather Girls prevented Libby from hearing anything they said, but at least she had an unobstructed view. As Grace spoke, she glanced over at Libby, loathing in her eyes, and Patrick’s body language changed. He had his back to Libby, but he folded his arms, his shoulders stiffening. This wasn’t chit chat about Maggie. More interesting was how Grace glanced down, her nod full of contrition. Unless Libby was very mistaken, Patrick had just given Grace a telling off, and she’d taken it. That girl hero-worshipped him.

The next time Patrick spoke, Grace’s bottom lip wobbled, and his shoulders sagged. He really was a sucker for tears. Man up. Was he still speaking or was Grace struggling to compose her answer? Hard to tell, but when Grace did speak, she twiddled her hair, looking down at her feet, anywhere but at Patrick. And in response to his last question Grace’s right hand hovered over her mouth. Ashamed of her words. What on earth was she lying about?

Libby leant on the bar, eager for the news as Patrick joined her back at the bar. His frown intriguing her. ‘And?’

‘Maggie was wearing the necklace at the Ostara festival. And she left early because of a migraine.’

Libby’s eyes widened. ‘So where did the necklace go?’

‘No idea, but Grace said she thought it was odd that the elderflower wine you were poisoned with was in the gift bag.’ He leant on the bar, his frown worsening. ‘You were poisoned? How?’

Libby stared at him, shock and shame bouncing around her head. ‘I thought she told you what happened with Jack?’

‘She just said you messed around with him. Jack
poisoned
you?’

‘No. I mean, yes, but not intentionally.’ With mortification seeping out with every word, she gave him a glossed over account of the horrific night four weeks ago.

Patrick leant back, open mouthed. ‘Jesus Christ, that’s practically date rape, Libby.’

‘No. It wasn’t his fault.’ She forced a smile. ‘How often does she use the waterworks on you?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Grace?’

‘I think she’s playing you, putting on the tears to avoid the situation. You really don’t react well to girls crying. Soft touch.’

‘How the hell do you...’ Patrick glanced across to Grace, who now laughed with Clara at the bar. ‘Really?’

Libby nodded. ‘And… she was lying.’

‘What about?’

‘I don’t know. You were talking to her. All I could hear was
It’s Raining Men
.’

‘How do you know she was lying?’

‘Body language.’

‘But that’s–’

‘An art form I happen to be bloody good at.’

‘How?’

‘If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.’

‘Get over yourself.’

‘My dad used to be an expert for the MOD. Interrogations, diplomacy, but seriously, I’m not allowed to say anymore.’

‘Rob said he thought you were a compulsive liar. I think he might be right.’

‘Can you read me, tell if I’m lying? I doubt it.’ She smiled as Robbie headed over, swiping Scott’s bottle of tequila along the way.

‘She’s really been playing me?’

Libby elbowed him. ‘If it makes you feel any better, she’s very good.’

‘What doesn’t make me feel any better, is that I’ve given her a bloody pay rise every time she’s cried.’

‘What was the last thing you asked her about?’

He thought for a moment. ‘I asked why someone might want to steal the necklace.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said, she hadn’t the foggiest.’

Libby watched as Grace moved back behind the bar. ‘But she was lying.’

If Sheila knew the emerald was worth a fortune, surely Grace would too. So why lie about it?

* * *

On the doorstep of No.4, Libby stood in her running gear, the skimpiest vest and shorts, with her arms around the neck of Robbie Golding. His hands were on her arse and in one shot, she almost looked naked. Together with the snaps of them knocking back tequila after the football, this was pure gold.

‘It’s me. You’re going to love this.’

‘Libby Wilde?’ Michael Wray asked, the pitch of his voice rising with repressed excitement.

‘And Robbie Golding.’

‘You beauty. Send them to me.’

She hung up and kissed her phone.

Pure bloody gold.

On Wednesday, Libby almost skipped into the yard, planning to make a cup of tea before she fed the horses. What she hadn’t planned on was World War III breaking out. Tallulah’s screaming quietened to a low sobbing, but Libby approached the house with caution. Had Robbie denied Tallulah another pony, or was this about getting her ears pierced again?

In the kitchen, when Tallulah turned, her hands clenching and unclenching, Libby knew the tears and shouting weren’t another petulant pre-teen demand.

‘You were supposed to be my friend, you fucking whore.’

‘Lulu!’ Robbie snapped.

‘Fuck off,’ she spat back at him. ‘You and Mum were special. Now, you’re just like everyone else, a fucking divorce statistic.’

Libby stared at Tallulah, unable to defend herself, or her actions. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I fucking hate both of you.’ Tallulah ran out, slamming the door behind her.

Robbie stared at the door, his face emotionless. ‘I think it’s fair to say she’s mastered the use of the word
fucking
.’

Libby slumped against the table. ‘I hadn’t thought about Tallulah. How it’d affect her, what she’d think. Who told her?’

‘You haven’t seen it?’ Robbie looked up to the ceiling, before pointing to the newspaper on the table. ‘Christ, I’m sorry, Lib. It’s worse than that.’

She picked up the paper, already open to page three.
Lock Up Your Husbands
. Two photos, side-by-side dominated the page. The first was of her and Robbie, kissing on the doorstep, the second a blurry snap of Libby and Robbie arriving at the football with the kids, looking every bit the happy family. They’d even dragged out the photos of her with Jack and Xander. She didn’t read the words.

How had everything gone so wrong with her life? Once, she had everything. Now, even her morals were unravelling. Thank God her parents wouldn’t find out.

‘It’s about now that people generally say,
Olivia Wilde, you’re fired
.’ She wrapped her arms around herself, her stomach churning. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘What for? It’s not your fault.’ He sighed and after a glance towards the living room where Matilda and Dora were still engrossed in cBeebies, he pulled Libby to him, hugging her. ‘I’m the married one.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on them, if you want to go after Tallulah.’

‘Why, so my eleven year-old daughter can tell me to fuck off again? I really ought to curb her language, but she got it all from me in the first place.’ His arms tightened as he kissed her head. ‘I’ll give her ten minutes to calm down.’

‘Should I go and never come back?’

‘No,’ he said, taking her face in his hands. ‘Maybe this is for the best.’

‘How?’

‘If it’s out in the open, it can be… real. What if my marriage is over?’

Libby closed her eyes for a second, to compose her thoughts. She knew what he was getting at, what he’d hinted at several times. He wanted to know what would happen if Vanessa didn’t come back.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, a lot of the time, I daydream about what it’d be like if you were single and… didn’t have kids.’

His face clouded over.

‘Sorry,’ she said, knowing the mere suggestion would horrify him. ‘I love your life, the house, the yard, the horses, but it feels borrowed and I’m not sure if it’d ever feel like mine. You have three kids. She’s their mother and... I’m not.’

His already dubious expression grew darker. She knew she was denting his ego, effectively rejecting him.

‘Don’t look like that,’ she said, gently kissing him. ‘If things were different, I’d fight like a wildcat to keep you. When you’re not being a grumpy arse, you make me laugh more than anyone and you’re... we’re friends, right?’

He nodded.

‘The thing is, you’ve raised my expectations, Mister Golding.’ She blinked away her looming tears. ‘I’d have loved you to be my Somebody.’

‘You really did listen.’

‘Of course I did. But you love her. She’s your Somebody and you know it.’ Libby sighed. ‘And maybe I want more. Maybe I want to live in the whitewashed farmhouse and have kids of my own.’

‘Would that be the ultimate distraction?’

‘Maybe.’

He held her tighter ‘I’m sorry for everything.’

She forced a smile for him. ‘I’ll do the horses and carry on as though I’ve not been outed as a home-wrecking tramp.’

‘Stay away from Harmony’s box. It’s where she always goes when she’s upset.’ He kissed her head again. ‘I don’t regret a thing.’

I do
. Libby closed her eyes, sheltering in his arms. ‘You need to speak to Vanessa. Find out what she wants. We can’t… You can’t move on until you know.’

This was it, the end. Vanessa would find out, come to her senses and Libby would lose the only real distraction she’d ever had. For the first time, Libby hoped Vanessa had fallen in love with the French viola player.

* * *

Vanessa. Patrick read the name of the caller and swore. Why was Vanessa ringing him? He flipped over the paper, sighing at the photos of Robbie and Libby. Had Vanessa found out?

‘Hello, stranger,’ he said, trying to sound as though her husband hadn’t been caught shagging the staff.

Vanessa sniffed. ‘Please, tell me it’s not true. Tell me you’re the one who’s shagging her and he was just giving her a hug.’

A hug? In one photo Robbie had his hand on Libby’s arse. Did she think Robbie regularly copped a feel of Patrick’s girlfriends? ‘Van…’

‘Is it true?’

‘Come home.’

‘I can’t.’ She broke into fresh sobbing. ‘Does he love her?’

‘No, he loves you.’

‘Then why’s he shagging her?’

Because you’re shagging the French bloke.
‘Come home.’

‘What if he doesn’t want me back?’

‘He does. Do you want to come back?’

Silence sat on the line.

‘Van?’

‘I don’t know,’ she croaked. ‘I mean all the things that were wrong aren’t suddenly fixed by him shagging Livvy.’

Patrick couldn’t help himself. ‘What, you thought shagging that French wanker
would
fix things? And her name is
Libby
.’

She hung up.

Bollocks.             

Time to call in the cavalry.

Scott, the undisputed leader of the Musketears arrived at six, still suited and booted from the office, and Patrick started the Land Rover, filling him in on Vanessa’s call. At Low Wood Farm, everything was quiet, but Robbie met them in the yard with a six pack in hand, his forehead furrowed.

‘Where is everyone?’ Scott asked, loosening his tie.

‘If you mean Libby, she’s gone home,’ Rob replied and handed them beers. ‘I take it you’ve seen the paper. Tallulah’s being a little... vicious.’

‘Do you blame her?’ Scott asked

Robbie lit a cigarette and shook his head.

‘How is Libby?’ Patrick asked, refusing the proffered beer.

‘Devastated.’ Robbie frowned. ‘Are you ill or something?’

‘No, driving,’ Patrick said, dismissively. ‘Look, Vanessa rang me earlier.’

Robbie stared at the sky, swearing under his breath. ‘She knows?’

Patrick nodded. ‘She was upset, crying, asking if it were true.’

‘She hasn’t come home though, has she?’

What the hell could Patrick say? He sat back, leaving the cavalry to come up with something.

Scott sighed. ‘This has to end. Mate, Libby’s not for you.’

‘Why?’ Robbie asked.

‘Is she ready to play the wicked step-mother?’

Robbie took a long drag on his cigarette.

‘I’ll take your silence as a no,’ Scott said. ‘You need to get Vanessa back before it’s too late.’

‘What if it already is?’ Rob stared at the table.

Scott smiled. ‘When I thought all was lost with Clara, what did you tell me?’

Why did they have to bring his fuck-up with Clara into this? Patrick held his breath, unsure what his friends had discussed behind his back.

‘It’s never too late if it’s the love of your life.’ Robbie drained his beer.

‘So how are you going to get Vanessa back?’

‘For fuck’s sake, she walked out, Scott.’

For a few minutes, they sat in silence. Robbie chain-smoked, Patrick tapped his fingers, wishing he could drink but finally, Scott sat up.

‘She did. She left. The question is, why?’ Scott sucked in a deep breath. ‘Van’s not the sort to suddenly have her head turned by some French viola player. Why did she really leave?’

‘She said...’ Robbie leaned forwards. ‘Originally, she wanted to go away to be her, Vanessa Jones, not Vanessa Golding. She was sick of being my wife. She hated that all she’d ever done was get her face on Marie Claire and have three children. That everything she’s done was for me, but I take her for granted and she’s fourth on my list. Girls, Horses, Restaurant, Wife. It’s like the last thirteen years have been a waste.’

‘Have they?’ Scott asked, quietly.

Robbie shook his head. ‘And she’s not fourth on my list.’

‘But that’s how she feels,’ Scott said, opening their second bottles. ‘Now, what the hell are you going to do about it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Robbie stared up at the sky. ‘It’s not just that. She said we had nothing in common. She’s right. She loves music. I don’t get it. She wants to talk about Mozart and I want to talk about breed lines. And she wants a life in music. She can’t have that around here.’

‘Yes, she can.’ Patrick frowned. ‘Haverton has an orchestra. It might be small, but it’s an orchestra. My mum loves going to see them. Or Van could play in Lancaster, and Manchester’s only an hour away. Or if it matters that much, move.’

‘Move?’

‘What matters more, her or here?’ Patrick asked.

Robbie sat back. ‘Her.’

‘Then why the fuck are we having this conversation? Go see her.’ Scott laughed.

‘But she’s right. We don’t have anything in common. Libby and I do.’

‘
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
,’ Scott said, holding his hands in the air as if he’d scored a goal.

‘The film?’ Patrick asked.

‘The song. Clara loves it. You say we’ve got nothing in common, no common ground to start from, and we’re falling apart. She says it reminds her why she puts up with me when I’m watching cricket, or buggering off to Twickenham.’ He smiled at Robbie, knowing he had the answer. ‘So you’re overly obsessed with horses and couldn’t give a damn about Beethoven, that doesn’t mean you don’t have anything in common. Think about all the other stuff. You’ve been together for thirteen years. Something worked.’

‘
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
? That’s your motivational talk? You’re slipping, mate.’ Robbie laughed a little, before picking at his beer label.

‘Think about it,’ Scott said, still looking pretty smug.

‘I suppose...’ The despair had gone from Robbie’s face, instead he sipped his beer, his forehead furrowed in thought. ‘It’s a bit... but we both liked it, the film. Actually, we generally like the same films. We always said we’d rather watch a Disney DVD with the girls than anything with subtitles.’

‘Well, that’s her and Frenchie screwed.’ Patrick grinned.

Scott patted Robbie’s back. ‘I think it’s time for an overblown romantic gesture.’

‘I don’t think a bunch of flowers will cut it.’ Robbie shook his head. ‘Besides, I can’t drive to Grassington. I’d be over the limit.’

‘I’ll take you,’ Patrick offered.

Scott smiled. ‘Excellent. I’ll babysit. Cricket’s on.’

‘What if Van won’t come back?’ Worry etched Robbie’s face again.

‘She will,’ Scott said, ‘but you’d better make it a bloody good gesture so she knows the last thirteen years weren’t a waste of time.’

Robbie nodded, his face set. ‘I’m going to need a bucket, a clean one.’

A bucket. Patrick pulled into the car park at Grassington Town Hall and frowned at the silver pail on the back seat. The seventy minute journey had been mostly silent with Robbie staring out of the window, tapping his foot.

‘What’s the bucket for?’ Patrick asked as he turned off the engine.

Robbie’s frown worsened. ‘The day I met Van, I asked her what she’d like to drink. She said a vodka and tonic, but that she’d need a bucket of the stuff because I made her so nervous. I never understood how someone so confident in front of a camera could be so shy.’

Patrick smiled, picturing Vanessa shifting from foot to foot when she had to chat to someone who intimidated her.

‘She finally agreed to meet me that night and when I met her in the bar, I had a bucket. I’d put a glass of vodka and tonic inside. Months later, she admitted that’s when she knew she’d love me forever.’ Robbie hung his head back. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’