Nearly Almost Somebody (21 page)

Patrick’s smile grew. Robbie was the king of romantic gestures.

The Town Hall was filled to capacity, but the lady on the door had said since it was half-nine and the concert would finish soon, it’d be okay for them to sneak in if they stood at the back of the hall.

Vanessa was on stage, in a long black dress, her hair swaying as she played, her face down, eyes closed, immersed in the music. Robbie slumped against the wall, staring with blatant pride at the talented, beautiful woman on stage.

‘I should’ve gone to more of her performances,’ he whispered, still watching her. ‘I haven’t seen her play for well over a year. She’s right. I have taken her for granted. What the fuck was I thinking, agreeing to the free pass?’

‘Because you wanted one too?’

Finally, Robbie turned his head. ‘Yeah. I wanted to see if the grass is greener.’

‘Is it?’

Robbie turned back, frowning. ‘I’d say it’s just as green, but this is Van.’

The applause was rapturous, but always uncomfortable with too much praise, Vanessa dashed through the audience, clinging to her cello case for support. They waited, watching her until eventually she saw Robbie. Aside from stopping mid-conversation and abandoning the woman she was speaking with, Vanessa didn’t show any emotion, but she at least headed their way. Sadly, Jason Benoît wasn’t far behind.

‘She’s seen the paper,’ Jason said.

‘
Oh, allez te faire foutre, tu branleur français
,’ Robbie said.

Patrick suppressed a smile, his French rusty, but the bad language he’d learned as a teenager didn’t fail him.

‘
Je t’emmerde
,’ Jason replied.

‘Stop it. You know I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’ Vanessa crossed her arms, frowning at Robbie, but she’d not even glanced in Jason’s direction.

‘
Tu ne la mérite pas
,’ Jason said.

‘Undoubtedly,’ Robbie replied. ‘Now piss off.’

Once Jason had flounced off, Patrick stepped away, but leaned against a pillar, hoping to eavesdrop.

‘Why are you here?’ Vanessa asked.

‘To remind you.’ Robbie shoved his hands in his pockets, still leaning against the wall. ‘How are your fingers?’

‘Bloody sore. Remind me of what?’

‘Green olives, unpitted, are far superior to black ones. King prawns kick ass over tiger prawns, but we’d rather have langoustines cooked on a fire on the beach. Rioja in La Rioja equals heaven. We hate the smell of vanilla unless it’s in ice-cream. Sunday morning lie-ins are the best bit of the week, especially when we get an hour to ourselves before the bed’s invaded by kids.’

‘Go on,’ she said, lifting a hand to her mouth, trying to hide her smile.

A sudden jolt of jealousy surprised Patrick. Not that he wanted Vanessa, he’d known her for so long she was like a sister, but the way she gazed at Robbie, Patrick couldn’t help wishing for… something.

‘Sunsets, walks in the woods, never relaxing until we get to the airport, but once the bags are checked the holiday starts. You might hate horses and I may not love classical music, but we have thousands of other things in common, including the day we fell in love.’ Robbie picked up the bucket by his feet. ‘For my nerves this time. I’m sorry about Libby, but I’m more sorry I ever made you feel you were fourth on my list. You’re not. You’re the most important person in my life.’

Tears were trickling down Vanessa’s cheeks, and a small crowd had gathered. Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets, not wanting to leave, not wanting to go home to his empty house.

‘I love you,’ Robbie went on, ‘and we can find a way for you to have a life with me and with music. I always planned to open a second restaurant. We could open it somewhere near an orchestra, Covent bloody Garden, if you like.’

She wiped her eyes, but still didn’t speak.

‘When you’re ready, I’d like you to come home. We can talk about what you want and how we can make it work.’ He handed her the bucket. ‘You were amazing tonight. That Debussy piece you played was beautiful.’

Then without kissing her, as Patrick expected, or even saying goodbye, Robbie walked away, a bold move, but one that visibly shook Vanessa. Patrick followed, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he passed.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, still staring at the door Robbie had disappeared through.

In the foyer, Robbie stood with his back to the wall, his face pale. ‘What’s happening?’

Patrick hovered beside the reception desk where he could still see inside the hall. Jason was speaking to Vanessa, but she hugged her cello case, putting a barrier between them.

‘It looks like she’s telling the French wanker to piss off, in her very polite and apologetic way.’ Patrick smiled as Vanessa, clearly desperate to follow Robbie. ‘Sit tight, she’ll be here in about ten seconds.’

Robbie took a deep breath. ‘Thanks.’

Patrick nodded. ‘And the plaything?’

‘I’ll speak to her in the morning.’ Robbie glanced at his feet. ‘Do me a favour?’

‘Name it.’

‘Keep an eye on her for me.’

Shit. Patrick didn’t expect that. He needed to stay away from Libby Wilde and her knack of getting in the paper, but then again, she didn’t deserve this. ‘Okay.’

The wait seemed interminable, but then Vanessa ran through the door, cello case in one hand, the bucket in the other, her eyes wide when she couldn’t see Robbie. Patrick nodded behind her. She turned, dropping the cello and the bucket. Vodka and tonic spilled onto the parquet floor as she threw her arms around Robbie’s neck. Patrick’s work here, was done.

‘Ohmigod that’s the most romantic thing ever,’ said a female voice beside him. ‘I can’t believe he came all this way for her.’

Patrick looked around. A pretty and curvaceous blonde in a short velvet dress stood gazing at Robbie and Vanessa, nibbling her thumbnail. ‘You know Vanessa?’

The girl nodded. ‘We play together sometimes. She was telling me about him. Bit of a pain though, we’re supposed to be going to the party at the hotel together.’

‘I think she might be otherwise engaged tonight.’

‘Are you?’

She didn’t look around, but Patrick hadn’t missed the sexy, suggestive tone in her voice. Grassington – forty-five miles from Gosthwaite and Michael Wray’s prying eyes. Maybe his work here wasn’t done. How good would it be to get totally wasted, score a gram of coke and screw her senseless? It’d beat the hell out of going home alone again.

But regretfully, Patrick turned to the girl.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to get home. Have fun though.’

He had a point to prove, and not just to his father.

How could it be such a perfect day when she felt so hideous? Not a single cotton wool cloud dotted the sky, and the forecast promised a twenty-two degree afternoon. What she wanted was grey and miserable with perhaps a little drizzle. A dreadful night’s sleep hadn’t helped her hangover and her hangover hadn’t helped her mortification over the previous day’s newspaper article.

Libby shook her head, dismissing her melancholy. She didn’t want to look depressed when she saw Matilda or Dora, and besides, she could take Shakes out in the morning and school an ever more responsive Dolomite in the afternoon. And she needed to see, Robbie, to have a hug, to give a hug.

In the yard, he stood by the Land Rover, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He wasn’t going to work? Someone else was strapping the girls in. Oh god, no. Robbie was too busy laughing, smiling, looking exactly like the love of his life had come home to notice Libby, but when Vanessa straightened, her ridiculously glossy black bobbed hair blowing in the breeze, she spotted Libby and her smile disappeared. For the longest time, the two women stared at each other, their eye contact only broken when Robbie kissed his wife’s head, whispering something.

Libby held onto the gate, needing its support. Vanessa was back. Libby was sacked.

Run. Turn and run.

She clutched the gate. The Land Rover drove away, leaving her and Robbie staring at each other. Did she love him, was that what had happened? Is that why this was hurting so badly?

Run.

But she didn’t run. She opened the gate and faced him with her head held high and and knowing she’d walk away looking exactly the same.

‘So how does this work?’ she asked when she was six feet from him. ‘Do I make it easy and quit, get made redundant because you don’t need a babysitter now the mother of your children is back, or am I fired for shagging the boss?’

‘I’m sorry, Lib.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, his hands in his pockets.

Three days ago, he’d wanted to spend the night with her. They’d spent the night together. He’d said
what if
. What if, what if, what if...

She couldn’t do this.

In the yard, Storm kicked at her door, demanding her breakfast, and although Libby already knew she was no longer employed at Low Wood Farm, she prepared the morning feed buckets, using the routine to pull herself together.

This was her fault. She should never have got involved with a married man. She should’ve stuck to being his friend, an ear to bend, but instead she’d welcomed the ultimate distraction, and now she’d have nothing. She should’ve listened to Patrick, to her own bloody conscience.

By the time she dropped the last bucket into Shakespeare’s stable, Robbie was already sitting on the bench with two mugs of tea. She paused, watching Shakespeare, her equine best friend, as he hoovered up his nuts and sugar beet. No more Shakespeare, no more Dolomite. No more distraction.

And that’s what hurt. She didn’t love Robbie. She’d miss his friendship, but it was the job she loved, the horses. What had she done? With a bravery she didn’t feel, she joined him on the bench, taking a tea, offering him a cigarette. He shook his head.

‘I promised to quit,’ he said.

‘I should too,’ she said, lighting one, ‘but not today. So when did she get back?’

‘I went to see her last night.’

‘Why didn’t you warn me?’ They’d been too busy kissing and making up, no doubt.

He leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. ‘They were supposed to be gone by the time you got here. You were early. Would you have preferred a text?’

She pulled her feet up, hugging her knees. ‘Are you okay? Happy?’

He nodded.

‘Did you tell her about me?’

‘She’d seen the paper, some kind soul emailed her a link to the paper’s website, but yes, I told her all about you.’

‘She’s very beautiful. I can see where the girls get it from. I mean, Dora and Tallulah clearly take after you–’

‘The stroppy, grumpy pain in the arse?’

‘Opinionated, confident, outspoken. Matilda really looks like her though, doesn’t she? Is that why she’s your favourite?’

‘It’s because Matilda’s a bit of a miracle.’ He sipped his tea, taking his time. ‘There were three others between Lulu and Tilly.’

‘Miscarriages?’

He nodded. ‘The first was a little boy at eight months. Van nearly died too. The second got to twenty-two weeks, but the third didn’t even make it to twelve weeks. I’d started to think it wasn’t meant to be, but then Tilly came along. And survived.’ He smiled up at her. ‘So yes, there may be a little favouritism, but to be honest, she’s much sweeter than her sisters.’

‘She is and from what I hear she’s very like her mother.’

Again he nodded.

She elbowed him, forcing a smile. ‘Oh, don’t look so depressed. We knew this would happen.’

‘Fuck, I’m sorry.’ He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him, kissing the top of her head. ‘This is my fault. I never should have dragged you into my messed up marriage.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘No it’s not.’ His lips were buried in her hair. ‘The thing is, I love her, and I mean really love her. I’d forgotten… But, yesterday, I had to make a choice and, I had to choose her. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, because yesterday, you were the safest, most secure thing in my life. If she hadn’t wanted to come home...’

‘I know...’ She looked around, smiling down at Cromwell. ‘But I’m glad you’re back together, honestly I am, even though I’m going to miss this place. It’s the only job I’ve had that helps me forget.’

‘You never did tell me what happened with the ballet.’

‘Today’s not the day, sorry.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and relaxed back against him, his arm around her so familiar. ‘I’m going to miss the horses, but I won’t miss your bloody lists though.’

‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘You’ll just miss having a tidy yard.’

‘I’ll miss you.’ He removed his arm to take a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I know it’s not… here, but it’s better than the livery yard.’

‘You’ve organised me a job?’
Haverton Equestrian Centre
. She hated it already.

‘Give Helen a ring. She’s okay. I promised her the best groom in the world, plaiting skills aside, and in return I get some numpty sixteen year-old.’ He stroked her hair back, frowning. ‘I really am going to miss you. Maybe in a few months when things have settled down, then maybe she won’t mind–’

‘Don’t make promises. She might be the nicest person in the world, but really, you think she’d let me come back?’

‘No.’

‘I’d better go.’ She tipped the last half of her tea down the drain, and stood up, tears pricking her eyes.

‘Come here,’ he said, already pulling her to him, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tighter than he ever had.

‘You will be okay, won’t you? Because I’d hate to give up all of this only to have you two get divorced in another six months.’

His head nodded against hers. ‘Thank you for looking after this place… and me.’

‘You,’ she said, blinking to keep her tears at bay, ‘are most welcome.’

‘If you ever need anything, ask.’ He kissed her head, ending things the way they’d started. ‘I mean it.’

‘Got any other brothers?’ she laughed, wriggling out of his arms, facing him with a smile. This is how she’d walk away. Happy. ‘Now, don’t forget, put in the effort to spend time with your wife like you did with me. Give Dora more attention so she doesn’t get jealous of Matilda and stop yelling at Tallulah.’

She stood on her tiptoes, kissing his cheek, then walked away, still smiling. When she was certain she was out of view, she collapsed in a gateway, sobbing as she’d only cried for ballet.

* * *

Stonerigg House. Wow. Zoë climbed out of her car, shielding her eyes from the sun. The place was more Georgian mansion than country estate.
I could so live here.
She laughed at herself. What, as the new Mrs Carr? Bit soon to be imagining Jonathan popping the question, especially since he was already married. With two kids. On cue, he appeared from the vast doorway, the incumbent Mrs Carr at his side.

Still, imagining life as lady of the manor wasn’t a bad daydream to have.

‘Zoë, congratulations. I hear contracts were exchanged on Highfield.’ Jonathan politely kissed her cheek, before he whispered, ‘You could’ve said no when she rang.’

She grinned. ‘Where’s the fun in that? Shall we celebrate later?’

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Fee said, seemingly oblivious to her husband’s hand drifting down Zoë’s back and cupping her arse. ‘Come in, come in. Lunch is almost ready.’

This is going to be so weird.

Sure enough, the lunch of salmon with minted new potatoes and fresh peas, was stilted and awkward, not helped by Jonathan barely dropping eye contact with Zoë, and Fee necking Chablis at an unsociable rate. The second she put her knife and fork together, Zoë ran through plausible excuses to get the hell out of there. Sadly, Fee had other ideas.

‘Jonathan, would you mind clearing the table and fetching dessert?’ Fee said, pushing away her barely touched plate. ‘It’s all prepared, but my back...’

‘Of course not,’ he said pleasantly, even if his scowl suggested otherwise. ‘Relax.’

Very, very weird.

The second they were left alone, Fee flashed the most saccharine of smiles. ‘Do you like gardening, Zoë?’

‘Not really.’

‘Your aunt had some marvellous plants. She had offered me cuttings, but sadly... If you’re not interested, perhaps I could just take the originals.’

Zoë sat back. ‘My friend Libby
is
a little green-fingered. I’d have to check with her. Which plants are you after, the wisteria?’

This time, Fee’s smile was much less sweet. ‘I’ll be honest, Zoë. I have a debilitating back condition, constant pain.’

Oh hello
. ‘Which plants?’

‘The
hemp
plants,’ Fee replied, brushing her hair back. ‘Do you still have them?’

‘I do.’ Zoë’s eyes narrowed. ‘But they’re valuable. You can’t just
have
them.’
Not without some negotiation.

‘I see.’ Fee nodded, any hint of a smile evaporating. ‘Yet you think you can just
have
my husband?’

What the hell...
‘Then perhaps we can come to some arrangement, Mrs Carr?’

* * *

Grounding in the early evening sunshine didn’t work. She needed darkness, a full moon, even twilight would add a bit of atmosphere, but Libby held her cross-legged position in the middle of the lawn and persevered. Bloody Zoë hadn’t helped. The day Libby had her idyllic rural life at Low Wood Farm snatched away from her happened to be the day Jemima and Charlie Harington signed the deal on Highfield House and Zoë pocketed just shy of four thousand pounds. After lunch with Jonathan and his wife, he’d whisked Zoë away to a swanky Ullswater hotel.

‘On a scale of one to weird,’ said a familiar, slightly Scottish voice, ‘you’re heading up the weird end. What are you doing?’

Libby opened one eye and took a drag on her cigarette. A mud-splattered Patrick sat on his bike, leaning against the garden fence, clearly amused.

‘Bugger off,’ she said closing her eye again. ‘I’m meditating, not your cup of tea, I’m sure.’

‘I pride myself on having a very open mind.’

She refused to look, but the clattering noises he made didn’t sound like him pedalling away, more like him getting off his bike. She could do without him right now. From the scent of fresh sweat, mud and the remnants of his aftershave, she guessed he’d sat down opposite her.

‘Now, I’m no expert,’ he said, ‘but I’m fairly sure meditation isn’t usually done with a fag and a glass of white wine.’

‘Bad day.’ Again, she opened one eye, peeking at him.

‘I heard.’ He sat about three feet away, mirroring her pose, hands resting on his knees.

‘I’m guessing Robbie sent you.’ She closed her eye, focussing on the sending her negative thoughts to the centre of the earth. ‘You’ve got his back, right?’

‘Right.’

‘You can go home. I’m fine.’

‘Really?’

‘I’ve lost my job. What do you think? But you should go, I’m liable to cry and I’d hate to push your fraternal loyalties to breaking point.’

‘I’ll man up.’

Libby looked up, revealing her red-rimmed, puffy eyes in all their glory. Patrick pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

‘At least tears have washed away most of that hideous black crap.’ He took her glass and tipped the wine into the grass.

‘What the hell–’

‘That’s not going to make you feel better.’ He produced a little plastic bag of grass, a joint already rolled. ‘From your garden, so it’s only right to share.’