Nearly Almost Somebody (22 page)

‘I don’t like weed.’

‘If you drink a shed-load of booze, you’ll just cry all night. This might make you smile.’ He lit the joint, taking a long drag. ‘And you need to lighten up.’

‘I do not.’

‘Oh come on, you’re so hardworking and earnest. Do you ever let your hair down, get wasted?’

‘You’re such an arse. I was trying to tonight, but you threw my wine away.’

‘I call bull. You’re all smoke, a front. I reckon you wear the black crap and dress like seventeen year-old trailer trash because you want to look bad. You want to look bad because really you’re nice but you don’t want to be nice. You’ll smoke this...’ He held out the joint. ‘Because it’s bad and it’ll prove you’re not nice.’

‘Stop trying to psychoanalyse me. I hate you.’ She took a drag on the joint, trying to be cross, but Hyssop padded towards them. He stood on his back legs to rub his head against Patrick and Libby found herself smiling for the first time that day.

‘Hey, pal.’ Patrick’s smile grew to a huge grin, as he petted Hyssop. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being nice.’

‘I’m not nice.’

‘Yes, you are. I wish more of the world was nice. I wish...’

‘What?’ She took a second, longer drag, the effects of the first already hitting her.

‘There’s nothing wrong with nice.’

A happy buzz enveloped her and she lay back on the grass, smiling. ‘Oh god, I’m going to be wrecked.’

He lay alongside her, a couple of feet away, Hyssop curling up by his side. ‘Me too. I haven’t smoked in months.’

She turned her head to him. Patrick. He couldn’t be her somebody – he was Scottish, so he couldn’t be the one she summoned, but God, he could be... something.

‘Did you see the paper?’ she asked.

He nodded.

‘Do you know, until I came to this bloody village I’d never so much as flirted with another girl’s boyfriend and now I’m talk of the town as a home-wrecker. The ironic thing is I constantly persuaded Robbie not to give up on Vanessa, I’ve never touched Xander and Jack was perfectly single when we… you know, so no scandal there. Yet read all about it and I’m the village whore.’

‘Not nice, is it? At one stage there used to be some crap about me in there every week.’

‘How did you cope?’ She lay on her side facing him, propped on one elbow.

‘I’d go out and get drunk, which would usually make things worse. There was a lot of coke involved. At least you’ll be safe hiding here. I reckon you can only see into this garden from the air, so not much danger of being papped.’

‘Papped?’

He nodded. ‘Okay, sometimes I was too wasted to know if someone was taking photos, but at other times... there were photos... someone had to be watching.’

‘That’s weird. You’re not a celebrity. You’re a vet.’

‘It’s what Wray’s done with the paper. Neighbours are selling out neighbours. I’ve heard he pays them for gossip shots he can use to back up his stories.’ Patrick rolled onto his side, mirroring her position. ‘And it looks like he has you in his sights.’

‘So lesson one, when your name has been trashed in the local rag, don’t go and make things worse by getting wasted with unsuitable types who have a reputation worse than your own.’ She took another drag on the joint. ‘Oops. What’s lesson two?’

‘Don’t do anything in public. There’s a law which stops the press invading your privacy. They can only take photos in public places. I sued over the first story they did on me using that. They settled out of court and that pissed Michael Wray off. He hounded me and I was stupid enough to keep getting drunk and up to no good in very public places.’

‘What was your worst story?’

‘Definitely the... there was this beauty queen, Miss Haverton... it was messy.’

A beauty queen? Oh.

Patrick put out the joint. ‘But getting nicked for coke at the football last year wasn’t great.’

‘I heard PC Andy wasn’t impressed.’

‘He was just pissed off because he couldn’t turn a blind eye. Or have any of the coke later.’

‘What?’ Libby stared. ‘But he’s a police officer. He can’t…’

Patrick grinned. ‘Earnest, hardworking
and
naive.’

‘Oh bugger off.’ Libby stuck her tongue out at him. ‘What happened with Miss Haverton?’

‘No comment.’

‘Was everything they wrote true?’

‘Pretty much, I gave them so much material they didn’t need to sensationalise it.

‘So,
Porthos
, at the football Jack, Grace and a few others were doing coke. Why didn’t you?’

‘Aren’t I allowed a night off?’

Despite the fug of dope enveloping her brain, Libby didn’t miss his tell, the twitch in his right eye. It was tiny, and would be barely noticeable on anyone else, but unless Patrick was smiling, his emotions were buried, his face impassive and that made his tell all the more obvious to her.

‘You had a few beers,’ she said, ‘a few shots of tequila, and I heard you walked back alone. From what I’ve heard, that wasn’t your style at all.’ She poked a finger in his ribs. ‘You, don’t match your reputation. It seems to me that since you came back from Spain, you’ve turned nice. What happened?’

In response, he lay on his back and stared at the sky with his hands behind his head. ‘I went to my brother’s to sort myself out. I just wanted to work, relax and – well, not be here.’

‘Why did you need to sort yourself out?’ she asked, trying not to stare at the patch of torso peeking between his t-shirt and shorts. Or touch it.

‘Things had got a little wild. Charlotte, my sister-in-law, decided I needed some therapy so they cold-turkeyed the house, no booze for anyone. There are no TVs at their place so they talk, a lot. It drove me insane to start with.’

‘And what did the therapy reveal?’

‘Charlotte decided I’m a hedonist.’

‘Zoë reckons the entire human race is made up of hedonists.’

‘According to Charlotte, I don’t know where the off-switch is. I’m a danger to myself.’

‘And what about according to Patrick? Do you have an off-switch?’

His face softened into a smile. ‘Actually yeah, I do. The football proved that. But Charlotte’s Google-informed psychoanalysis did make me realise I’m used to getting my own way. Mum says I never liked being told no.’

‘So you’re an overindulged, selfish arse?’

He laughed and shook his head. ‘No. I just like getting what I want.’

‘Like Hyssop? You must be losing your touch.’

‘He visits every day. I’ve still got it.’ Patrick grinned, finally turning his head to face her. ‘Why were you meditating in the garden?’

‘I’ve just lost my job and a very good friend.’

‘I meant why the garden.’ He sat up, preparing to roll another joint. ‘Maggie used to sit in the exact same spot and channel Mother Nature, or something.’

Libby opened her mouth, wanting to lie, but how could she when he’d been so honest about Spain? So as Patrick skinned up with practised ease, sticking the papers together, crumbling the dried weed, his long fingers rolling it all into a neat joint, she told him about inheriting Maggie’s spell book and the Good Luck spell which had kick-started her life in Gosthwaite. Patrick didn’t even bother to restrain his amusement.

‘I can’t believe you’re getting sucked into that crap,’ he said.

‘Don’t you dare tell anyone, especially not Grace.’

He lit the joint, his eyes still twinkling. ‘Think you’re the nice white witch and she’s the evil one?’

‘Something like that.’ Libby’s cheeks heated up.

‘You two really ought to be friends. You’d like her. You both run, you’re both into this Wicca nonsense, Christ, you even look the same, with your ridiculous fringes.’ He twirled her lighter through his fingers. ‘Libs, I’ve been thinking about the elderflower wine.’

Libby’s hand paused as she stroked Hyssop. ‘Why?’

‘It was something Grace mentioned. She couldn’t understand why the wine had belladonna in.’

‘But she said Maggie laced her drinks with it to get rid of migraines.’

‘Look, this might sound a bit... Grace reckons that it could be because you’re skinny, but the way you reacted after one glass was fairly full on. Maggie used to knock back a bottle of that at a time. Grace thinks it was too strong for Maggie’s usual dose. She doesn’t think Maggie put the belladonna in.’

‘So who did?’ Libby frowned. The wine had still been in the gift bag when she and Zoë arrived.

‘Sheila,’ Patrick suggested.

‘Okay… maybe she thought she was doing a good deed, but got the dose wrong.’ Libby liked the neat explanation. ‘It was an accident.’

‘Accident or attempted murder?’

‘But why would Sheila want to murder Maggie? They were friends.’

‘You know Maggie had an affair with Sheila’s husband?’

‘Does Sheila know?’

Patrick nodded. ‘Last Christmas, Jack and Sheila had an almighty row on the Green. He hated Maggie because he found out about it at the time. He blurted it out. Half the village heard.’

‘Do you think Jack might’ve poisoned the wine?’

‘Would he have given you wine he knew was poisoned?’

‘I hope not.’

‘Sheila it is, then.’

‘You know this is ludicrous, right?’

‘Yep.’

‘We’re just guessing, making wild allegations based on the assumption that Maggie didn’t lace the wine herself.’

Patrick nodded. ‘But what if we’re right?’

‘Do you think Sheila took the emerald pendant too?’

* * *

He’d only meant to stay for an hour, to make sure she wasn’t going to go nuts, but Patrick stayed for three. They made cheese on toast, smoked some more and eventually wound up on the sofa listening to music, talking about Robbie’s horses. Libby lay curled up at one end of the sofa, nursing an empty mug, her eyes half-closed.

‘I should go,’ he said. ‘You’ll be okay?’

She nodded. ‘I liked him and the stables. It was the best distraction, but I’ll survive.’

‘The best distraction from what?’

‘Being bloody miserable.’ She yawned. ‘Now I just need a distraction from my distraction.’

He played with the Fatima’s Hand attached to his keys, a little talisman Maggie had given him to promote honesty. He’d mentioned, in passing, how much it irritated him when people wouldn’t ’fess up to doing something that resulted in an animal winding up in his surgery. The dishonesty often slowed the diagnosis. Not that he believed in the whole Wicca thing, but he still carried it with him, just in case.

‘And why are you bloody miserable?’
Come on, Fatima.

She didn’t answer, but curled up a little more.

‘Libs?’ Was she asleep?

‘You’d be a good distraction,’ she mumbled.

He sat frozen for a moment, not having a clue how to react, but her mug slipped as her hand relaxed. She’d passed out and relief flooded over him. He could pretend he hadn’t heard her, or that she hadn’t even said it. The last thing she needed was to be rejected again. Once in a day was enough.

Carefully, he took the mug and covered her with a throw. Asleep, she seemed as angelic as she did when she smiled, and how much prettier did she look without all that hideous black crap? He sighed, still crouching beside her.

It didn’t matter how angelic she looked, or that she made him laugh – Robbie had called her
Off Limits
and she was Michael Wray’s new target. Even a harmless trip to the cinema with Libby Wilde could lose him everything.

‘It’s not going to happen, Libs,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t be your distraction.’

But the dope-high made it irresistible for him not to take the opportunity and he dropped a brief kiss on her lips.

As the assistant to the head girl at the Haverton Equestrian Centre, Libby’s job was to ensure the yard and horses were immaculately prepared: hooves oiled, tack spotless and yard hay-free. None of that bothered her, but the attitude of the riders did. At weekends and evenings lazy kids moaned their arms ached if she asked them to carry their Welsh Mountain’s saddle, and on weekdays, yummy mummies climbed out of their Range Rovers, expecting their Thoroughbred Crosses to be stood waiting. Why did no one want to groom and tack up their own horses? She’d begged to do it when she was a kid.

She hated Haverton Equestrian Centre. Helen, her boss, was work-shy, quick to delegate and far too soft with Kayleigh, her overweight, spoiled ten year-old daughter. Kayleigh, the worst
it makes my arms ache
offender, felt she was within her rights to order Libby around like a slave, a habit that quickly caught on with Melanie, the head girl.

Libby longed for her days at Low Wood Farm. Hell, she’d started to long for her days with the North West’s most caustic wedding planner.

But that wasn’t all she longed for.

It’d been over two weeks since she’d lost her job and Patrick had come to check she wasn’t going bunny boiler. She hadn’t seen him since, but she hadn’t stopped thinking about him. She didn’t know if she’d dreamt it, or if it really happened, but she seemed to have a memory, or something, that he’d kissed her and said he couldn’t be her distraction.

It had to be a dream. He made no secret of disliking how she looked – of course he hadn’t kissed her. If only she could dismiss other memories so easily – like the one of him stretching, revealing that patch of perfect torso, the hair leading down to the good stuff.

The only thing keeping her sane was Xander’s amped up running regime. He’d turned up the morning after Patrick got her stoned, announcing fell race training had begun. And God, did he mean it. Four times a week, he pushed her harder than most dance instructors had. She hadn’t had abs so defined since she left the ballet.

In ménage, Kayleigh was putting her pony Ferrero over the jumps. Libby watched with mounting annoyance as Kayleigh’s legs remained resolutely still, but the crop in her hand bashed the little Fell pony’s flanks.

‘Kayleigh,’ she called. ‘Less whip, more leg.’

Kayleigh pulled up Ferrero, scowling at Libby. ‘I do know how to ride.’

‘No, you know how to sit on your arse and hit that pony around the course. You’re fat, lazy and a woefully ineffective rider.’

Libby wanted to regret the words the second they came out, but she didn’t. And when she realised an apoplectic Helen stood six feet away, she regretted them even less.

‘Olivia, how dare you–’

‘Tell the truth?’ Oh, what the hell... ‘If you weren’t such a fat, lazy and woefully ineffective riding instructor, you’d already know that I’m right.’

She walked away as Helen spat out the dreaded four words:
Olivia Wilde, you’re fired
. At least Robbie’s three month guilt money meant Libby wouldn’t starve while she looked for a new job.

A new job? She ambled up from the post office,
Gazette
in hand, scanning the situations vacant ads. Care worker, care worker, domestic staff – all required qualifications she didn’t have. The escort ads in the Manchester Evening News were looking promising. Maybe she could get a job in a hotel – being a receptionist at one of the high end boutique places around Windermere might be nice. Would Robbie fudge a reference for her, say she worked at the Mill, not the yard? Oh, a hack on Shakespeare would cheer her up. Libby sighed, folding up the paper.

What was the point? Even a job at the swankiest hotel wouldn’t distract her. It wouldn’t distract her from Low Wood Farm and it certainly wouldn’t distract her from ballet. She had to leave. It wasn’t working. Gosthwaite, the countryside, wasn’t working. What did she have left to try? Australia with her parents, or London with Paolo.

Her feet itched as they always did at times like this, begging to be laced into satin. Her toes wanting the familiar pain of being
en pointe
. If she moved the sofa, she’d have the whole living room, twice the space she had in Manchester. And real pitch pine floors, not three millimetres of laminated oak.

No. She had to put dancing behind her.

‘Afternoon, Libby,’ Sheila called, pausing as she washed her windows.

Did you try to murder Maggie? If you did, I can’t be your friend
. Libby smiled, possibly the most insincere smile she’d ever given, and hated herself for it. What if Patrick was wrong? What if Maggie had laced the wine?

‘Sheila,’ Libby said, as she stood by her own filthy bay window, ‘I was wondering how that bottle of elderflower wine came to have belladonna in it.’

No one needed to be the daughter of a body language expert to see Sheila’s guilt. She dropped her chamois leather, blinking furiously as she paled. Libby wanted to be sick. It was true. Sheila had tried to poison Maggie.

‘Maggie hadn’t even opened it,’ Libby said, sitting on the windowsill, ‘so she couldn’t have put the belladonna in.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Sheila wrung out her cloth before going back to her windows.

Seconds ticked away, but Libby didn’t care how long they kept this up. This was for Maggie.

‘Sheila, did you put the belladonna in?’

‘Maggie fell down the stairs. She broke her neck.’

‘I know you didn’t
actually
poison her. I’m asking if you tried to.’

Sheila swallowed hard as she rinsed her cloth. ‘You should do your windows. My mother would turn in her grave if she ever thought I’d let mine get into that state.’

‘When she didn’t appear for a few days, did you wonder if it’d worked? Did you go in to see if she’d drunk any? Did you see her body? Did you walk away and leave her there for someone else to find?’

Sheila’s cloth paused and tears rolled down her face, her shoulders sagging, her eyes downcast.

‘And did you take her pendant, Sheila?’

‘I’d never steal from anyone,’ she said, moving onto the second bay. ‘And especially not her.’

‘Really?’

Sheila made broad strokes over the window, creating a soapsud rainbow that glinted in the sunlight. ‘Maggie was my friend.’

‘With friends like you...’ Libby walked away.

London or Sydney? Whichever, she had to leave. The heart of Gosthwaite had turned black.

The ballet clothes remained in the box under her bed until nine o’clock, but after half a bottle of wine her resolve collapsed. Hyssop was out, at Patrick’s no doubt, and without the tabby’s calming influence she needed to dance. She pulled on a spaghetti-strapped black leotard and her favourite long black legwarmers – they were so old they’d frayed at the heels, but she’d never throw them away. As usual, she left the shoes until last, flexing her feet, stretching her hamstrings, laying her forehead on her shins before she slipped padding between her toes and eased on her lucky black satin shoes.

In her head, the music had started, the opening strains to Swan Lake, but this time her role wasn’t a cygnet. This time, she’d take on the role she was born for, the role she’d never got to dance on stage – Odile, the black swan. She’d watched Tamara Rojo claim the role, turning through thirty-two fouettés and Libby knew, one day, she’d do the same, but she’d be better. She’d be better, because she’d be England’s own prima ballerina.

But instead of ruling the Coliseum, here she was, performing substandard, rusty turns in a cottage in the Lakes. In the home of Margaret Keeley, another dancer who should’ve been a prima ballerina but had it ripped away from her.

The imaginary music ended, but Libby shook her head and moved into first position, ready to start again. Her ankle throbbed, unused to the punishment after only a brief warm up. This time, she’d do it perfectly.

Halfway through, with sweat pouring down her back, a knock on the kitchen window stopped her dead. Was it Patrick, coming to check she was okay? Patrick? Why was he her first thought? She unfastened her shoes and kicked them under the sofa, hiding the evidence.

There was a second round of knocking. A persistent caller – not how she pegged Patrick. Robbie maybe, was something wrong?

Libby hovered by the door to the kitchen, peeking to see who it was, but the efficient LED lights under the wall units meant she could see nothing but her own reflection and the silhouette of a male. What if it were Patrick? She stepped forwards, as did he. It wasn’t Patrick. It was Jack.

‘Let me in, Libby,’ he said, his voice low.

‘Why?’
Because I accused your mum of murdering Maggie?

‘I want to talk to you.’

The door wasn’t locked, left open for her to pop out for a cigarette later, but if the key were in, she might have chance to lock it. She glanced over. No bloody key.

‘Libby...’

Her phone was in her bag sitting on the kitchen table, too near the door for comfort, but there was no way she could make a run for it. Maybe she could blag it, calmly walk over but then call the police. The police? Oh, ha ha. PC Andy, Sheila’s eldest son? Well, she could call the cavalry, at least.

With all the nerve she could muster, she headed across the kitchen, as if she were going to the kitchen door, but when she reached the table, she picked up her phone, grateful she’d not taken Robbie off speed dial. She stared at Jack through the glass pane in the kitchen door, his face turning seven levels more angry as he stepped towards her, reaching for the door handle.

Please answer.

‘Libby?’ Robbie said.

‘Remember you said if I ever need anything, I should call you? Jack’s turned up.’

Robbie swore. ‘I can’t–’

‘I have no idea why he’s here, but I might need rescuing. Please.’ She hung up, needing both hands free.

Her mother had trained Libby for moments like this. She could fell someone Jack’s size with a leg sweep, break a few ribs with a well-placed kick, incapacitate him, but if she missed her chance he could easily overpower her.

She backed away, towards the other side of the kitchen as he came in, keeping an escape route behind her. Sadly, that exit involved a deadlock on the front door. Five minutes. The cavalry could be here in five minutes. She just had to manage Jack for five minutes.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘To talk.’ He leaned against the sink, his jaw twitching, his arms folded.

‘About...’

‘You know what about. My mum rang me tonight, crying.’

‘And?’

‘And she said you accused her of murder.’

‘No, I accused her of
attempted
murder.’

‘Maggie died of a broken neck. There was an autopsy. Mum didn’t kill her.’

‘When did she find out about Maggie and your dad?’

He studied her. ‘Who did you just call?’

‘Robbie.’ Her heart raced too much to have any chance of hiding her tell. ‘Hardly much point in ringing the police.’

His arms relaxed, undoubtedly after calculating how much time he had, and his fingers tapped out a repetitive beat on a cupboard door. ‘Shagging the boss, hey? Was he why you kicked me out?’

‘No.’ Libby edged nearer the door, ready to flee. She could hide in the bathroom. The lock was pathetic, but it might buy her a little time until Robbie arrived. Would he arrive? ‘I kicked you out because you took advantage of my incapacitated state. When did you realise I was out of it?’

‘When you called me Robbie.’

‘You bastard.’

‘It was a mistake. I’m sorry.’ The drumming stopped as he looked her over. ‘A big mistake.’

Feeling naked and vulnerable, she wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Please go away.’

Jack moved towards her, but a little to her left, creating a triangle between the two of them and her escape route. She’d never make it upstairs. Stupid, stupid girl.

‘I don’t want to fight with you, Libby. I like you, a lot. You know that.’

How could she get out of this? Libby’s stomach churned as Jack reached out, his thumb brushing her shoulder, and she turned to the window. Patrick stood on the other side of the glass. Her heart jumped, but her relief was short-lived as Jack toyed with her strap, caressing her skin. She implored Patrick with her eyes.

Please, help me.

Patrick darted across the patio, catching Jack’s eye and Libby seized her opportunity. She raised her hands to Jack’s shoulder as her right leg smashed his left from under him. Using his momentum and her body weight, she toppled him just as she’d learned. Jack yelled, hitting his head on the worktop on his way down, but Libby didn’t look back as she jumped over his flailing legs and ran behind Patrick.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

‘Rob couldn’t make it.’ Patrick glanced back at her. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘Fucking bitch…’ Jack lay on the floor, winded.

Libby peeked out, clutching Patrick’s t-shirt. ‘Go home, Jack.’