Nearly Almost Somebody (24 page)

‘With the silver fox?’ Libby asked.

‘Older, by how much?’ Patrick asked, clearly warming to his honorary girl role.

‘Sugar daddy kind of older.’

‘You’re a very bad girl, Ms Horton.’

‘And what about dinner?’ Libby asked, despising the way Patrick smiled at Zoë.

‘Patrick looks like a red meat kind of guy,’ Zoë said before heading out of the room.

Oh, the stirring cow. Patrick sipped his drink, trying not to smile. And what was he after? Clearly, he didn’t fancy her. He couldn’t have been more disparaging about her new hair.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

‘Starving.’

‘Would you like to stay for dinner? Steak with dauphinoise potatoes and green veg.’

He nodded, looking her over. ‘You don’t strike me as the steak and dauphinoise type.’

‘It’s all part of my fell race fitness regime. Saturday. Red meat and carb night. I’ll run it off tomorrow.’

He grinned at her. ‘Ob... sess... ive.’

‘Bite me.’

‘There’s more meat on a potato. I’ll pass.’

She handed him a bottle of red. ‘Here, make yourself useful.’

Although she did a sterling impression of sounding pissed off, Libby struggled not to smile. Patrick didn’t bother.

‘So, little miss ballerina, I have a million questions.’

‘You can keep them to yourself. I don’t want to talk about it.’ She stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island to prepare the vegetables. ‘Any of it.’

‘Dinner’s going to be fun. What’s in your back pocket?’

‘None of your business. Broccoli and French beans okay?’

‘Fine. Why did you go all weird when I said I wasn’t Scottish?’

‘It was a surprise.’

‘Were you a professional ballerina?’

‘Did you get out for a ride today? Awesome day.’

He laughed. ‘Oh come on, Libs. There’s a big fucking elephant in the room and it’s wearing a tutu.’

She banged her head against a cupboard door.

‘Okay, let’s start easy,’ he said. ‘If Paolo’s so in love with you, why did he go to London?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Libby...’

She sighed, lacking the energy to distract him. ‘He said he wanted to become rich and famous. Really, he went because I didn’t love him. God, he’s actually done it, become rich and famous. All I’ve done is become slightly infamous.’

Patrick studied the paper, peering at Paolo’s photo. ‘He’s good-looking, talented... what’s wrong with him? Rubbish kisser?’

Despite everything, she smiled. ‘No. He’s pretty fabulous in every way. I actually questioned my attraction to men when I didn’t fall in love with him.’

‘How seriously?’ He leant forward, his elbows on the worktop, his grin infectious. ‘Any girl on girl action?’

She laughed, flicking her hair back. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t question it for long. He’s hot.’

‘He can’t be all that hot. You’re here. He’s there.’

‘He’s a good friend, but he just... he was nearly perfect, but just not quite, if you know what I mean.’

He nodded. ‘Nearly isn’t good enough. What wasn’t perfect with Paolo?’

‘He’s too emotional. We fought a lot. Mostly over his obsession with painting me. I met him the first week I moved to Manchester and we went out for a year. I actually thought I could just fall in love with someone...’ She checked the potatoes, fussed over the vegetables.

‘But?’

‘He ticked all my boxes, but he literally spent all the time we weren’t in bed sketching me. It’s actually quite draining to be stared at that much, to sit still for that long.’

As Patrick laughed, Libby relaxed. God, it was nice to talk to someone about Paolo. Zoë only ever mocked her for sticking with him for so long.

‘We split up, but for the last two years neither of us went out with anyone else. We’ve had more absolutely never again last nights than I’ve had my roots done.’ Libby gazed out of the window, smiling. Bloody Paolo. ‘When he told me he was leaving for London, I told him I used to be a ballerina and he drew me. He said he finally understood me. I guess he understood me enough to paint me, the bugger.’

‘You spent three years with the guy and you didn’t tell him until he said he was leaving?’ Patrick’s eyebrows had disappeared under his black curls. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t see why people need to know everything about me.’

‘Well it helps them get to know who you really are.’

‘What if I don’t want people to know who I really am?’

‘Then you’ll never be happy.’ He rested his chin on his hand, still leaning on the island. ‘What is all the secrecy about? You were a ballerina, so what? Or are you in some ridiculous witness protection program?’

‘It’s not even remotely exciting,’ Zoë said, tottering in wearing a skin-tight black dress and the five-inch Louboutin heels. ‘But good luck trying to talk any sense in to her. I’ve failed on many occasions. I’m off. While ’dile.’

Libby kissed Zoë’s cheek. ‘Later ’gator.’

‘Careful you don’t give him a heart attack,’ Patrick said, frowning at the metal studs on Zoë’s heels.

‘But surely that’s the point of a sugar daddy,’ Zoë called as she walked down the hallway.

Patrick appeared to be unable to take his eyes off her arse.

‘You’re not old or rich enough for her.’ Libby frowned at him, holding up a sirloin steak. ‘How do you want it?’

‘I’d be scared she’d eat me alive afterwards. Medium rare, please.’

This would be a disaster. She’d never be able to cook, not with him watching. His t-shirt was snugger than his usual tatty efforts, and it showed off his perfect body. She could see the muscles in his back working as he pulled the cork from the bottle. God, what must he look like with his kit off. Her cheeks burned.

‘I’m not promising it’ll end up that way,’ she said, ‘but it’s something to aim for at least.’

Somehow she held it together and ten minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table with pretty perfect-looking steaks and potatoes that made her mouth water from the mere aroma. He poured the wine and held up his glass.

‘Thank you, it looks great.’ He chinked his glass against hers. ‘The elephant’s doing pirouettes, by the way.’

He wasn’t going to let this go and she couldn’t go through the entire meal deflecting his questions. She took a deep breath.

‘Look, I was a ballet dancer, but talking about it makes me cry, so I don’t talk about it.’

‘Everything makes you cry. I’m used to it.’

He sliced into his steak and Libby smiled. Medium rare, miracles do happen.

‘So this is why you need the distractions?’

She nodded. Don’t cry.

‘What happened?’

Maybe she should’ve told Paolo the truth years ago. Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe she’d never be happy until people knew who she was. The
Somebody
song popped into her head. She’d wanted somebody to know her innermost thoughts, know her intimate details. Was this her chance?

Saturday night. He could’ve done anything, gone anywhere. He could’ve got drunk, got stoned, rang Miss fucking Haverton and got laid. Instead, Patrick had chosen to visit Ms Olivia Wilde and now he sat willing her to speak. What the hell was wrong with him being English? And so she used to be a ballerina, what was all the secrecy about?

Libby opened her mouth, no doubt to voice her usual
none of your business
response, but instead she ate a forkful of potatoes, never dropping her eye contact with him. What was going on behind those pretty grey eyes?

‘I grew up in Brize Norton.’ She took a sharp breath, as if the admission shocked her. ‘It’s honestly not that interesting.’

Oh, it is
. ‘Go on.’

‘My mum was a senior officer in the RAF, my dad did god-knows what for the MOD. I learned not to bother asking.’

‘Brothers or sisters?’

‘Two brothers, Lucas and Connor, but they’re ten years younger than me, so I was an only child for ages. Originally, I wanted to fly planes, like Mum used to, so she taught me to toughen up. Judo, kick-boxing, generally how to take someone down–’

‘Like Jack?’

She laughed a little. ‘Like Jack. But she didn’t want me to grow up a tomboy, so she picked girly hobbies. Horse-riding, Brownies, piano lessons and ballet. I was eight when I saw my first professional ballet.
The Nutcracker
. I took one look at the Sugar Plum Fairy and decided to be a ballerina rather than a fighter pilot when I grew up. I worked hard, took it seriously and got into the Royal Ballet School.’

‘Is that where Zoë went too?’

‘We met on the first day and we’ve been best friends ever since. God, I missed her when she left London, but we stayed friends. She went to university and I turned professional. I joined the corps of the English National Ballet.’ She sipped her wine, smiling at the ceiling. ‘It was like some kind of fairy tale and I was starring in it. They paid me to dance and by the time I was twenty-one I was a senior soloist, well on my way to being a principle.’

‘What happened?’

She dug into her steak, her frown deepening, but she wasn’t crying and after several mouthfuls she carried on. ‘One day we were rehearsing, and my dance partner… he dropped me. I landed badly and fractured my ankle in three places.’

‘Ah, the ankle that hurt when I mowed you down. Surely they pinned it?’

‘Yes, but it was never the same. When you’re in a company, you work hard. Class, rehearsals, performances. It adds up to eight hours dancing a day.’

‘Jesus. So you quit?’

‘For about a year, I tried so hard to keep going, refusing to admit it was killing me, but the black cloud on the horizon kept getting bigger and bigger. In my last ballet, I was a cygnet in Swan Lake. My ankle was agony, plus I had a broken metatarsal and two stress fractures in my right shin.’

‘You danced with a broken foot?’

‘I had to. I wasn’t letting some corps wannabe steal my place.’

‘You’re certifiable.’

She laughed. Finally. ‘One night I’d taken so many painkillers, my head was fuzzy and I missed my cue. I mean, ninety-eight percent of the audience wouldn’t have known, but I buggered it up and I have the DVD to prove it. I’d rather not dance than be second best, so I quit. One day I was understudy for Odette, the next I wasn’t a dancer anymore.’

‘But why just abandon your whole life?’

‘Because I was Olivia Wilde, the ballerina. I doubt I would’ve been the next Darcey Bussell, but that kind of talk got bandied around me at school. But oh look, I’m not a principal ballerina. I failed.’ She forced a smile. ‘I don’t do failure very well.’

‘Ob… sess… sive.’

Her smile grew. ‘I don’t like making mistakes.’

‘You have very high expectations of yourself.’

‘Oh come on. Your mum’s a vet, your dad’s a vet and your big brother is a vet. You wanted to be one too. How would you have felt if you’d failed?’

An excellent point. Christ, this could be him if his dad sacked him. What would he do if he couldn’t be a vet? Somehow he doubted he’d be dealing with it even half as well as Libby. And she wasn’t dealing with it at all.

‘Why don’t you teach ballet?’

‘And why would I want to teach ballet? Every day I’d send a mini-me off to live my dream. Every day I’d be reminded I was a failure.’

Her bitterness surprised him.

‘You had an accident,’ he said quietly.

‘I should’ve found a way to carry on. Tamara Rojo broke her foot. She dances through it. I wasn’t tough enough.’

‘You need to give yourself a break.’

‘But it was my own stupid…’ She knocked back her last half a glass of wine in one.

‘How was it your fault?’ He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table.

She shook her head as she moved to sit cross-legged on her chair, picking at a French bean. ‘I haven’t had enough to drink for this conversation.’

He topped up her glass. ‘Don’t let me stop you, princess.’

Libby defiantly glugged her wine.

‘Feel better? Now, spill.’

‘The guy who dropped me was Tristan, my boyfriend. I should never have got involved with my own dance partner. It’s too distracting, especially when things go wrong. He thought he’d teach me a lesson. It went a little further than he intended.’

‘Nice guy. What was he pissed off about? Aside from being called Tristan.’

She didn’t smile, but turned her head, staring out of the window. ‘He expected me to love him more than ballet. To skip class for him. Basically, he was pissed off because he loved me, but I didn’t love him back.’

‘I’m seeing a theme here. Tristan, Paolo.’ Patrick sat back. ‘Little ice maiden, hey?’

‘Piss off. I’m not an ice-maiden. I just loved my job. The routine, the perfection, the pain. God, the adrenalin rush of being on stage, under the lights, hearing the music… I miss it, but I’d sacrificed too much to waste time missing class to go to Paris for the weekend.’

‘Sacrificed what?’

‘My family.’

‘Why aren’t you in Sydney?’

‘I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of getting full custody.’

She kicked his ankle and for a moment they grinned at each other. Jesus, they’d be flirting next.

‘My family emigrated when I was sixteen. I refused, point blank, to leave the Royal Ballet School so they went and I stayed.’

‘You could’ve gone after your accident. Think how big a distraction a whole new country would’ve been.’

‘Don’t take the piss.’ Sadness filled her face.

‘Sorry.’ He meant it.

‘I can’t face my mum. I rejected them for ballet and I can still see the disappointment in her face. I failed in my dream and I failed my family.’

He closed his eyes, knowing the same shame she was feeling. ‘Sorry for calling you an ice maiden.’

‘You’re forgiven.’

He was a coward. Here he was giving her a hard time for keeping things to herself, but he had no intention of telling anyone that he had a noose hanging over his head. Failed? Libby hadn’t failed. Patrick was the one who’d failed. He’d let everyone down. But no more.

His plate was empty, hers almost as she put her knife and fork together.

‘Man, that was fit as, by the way,’ he said. ‘The steak was perfectly cooked and the potatoes... actually, can I have the rest of yours?’

She laughed as he switched their plates and began hoovering up her leftovers. ‘Zoë taught me. She still says I’m rubbish, but I think my paella rocks.’

‘A bold statement you’ll have to prove.’

Her answering smile definitely crossed the flirting border.

‘I can’t help noticing that you’re not crying,’ he said, trying not to grin.

‘Yes, I’d noticed that too. I suppose, things have changed.’

‘Why?’

‘Moving here. This life.’ She paused, toying with her glass. ‘Rob.’

He drained his wine. ‘You’re not still likely to go bunny boiler, are you?’

‘No. He just raised my expectations. He…’ She pressed her lips together, staring at her fingers as they tapped against her glass.

‘Do you think your dad being so secretive made it impossible for you to be open?’

‘I hate you,’ she said, blushing a little.

‘Rob raised your expectations and...’

‘I don’t want to have this conversation.’

‘For god’s sake.’ He pushed his empty plate away, laughing. ‘Let me guess, Mister Romantic has shown you that you can love something more than ballet.’

Her cheeks turned another three shades pinker.

‘What would’ve happened if Vanessa hadn’t come back? Would you’ve played happy families?’

‘Probably. I liked the life.’

‘Marriage, kids, dog, cat, tumbledown farmhouse?’

She nodded.

‘Why do all girls want the married thing?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

He shrugged. ‘I ran two hundred miles from the last girl who suggested it.’

‘Commitment-phobe.’ She tucked her hair behind her ears and gathered up their plates, but he didn’t miss that her smile had fallen.

‘Hey, your dream is to have what Rob has. This is the guy you were shagging while his wife buggered off with a viola player. What’s so great about that set-up?’

‘Who was she, the girl you ran away from? The one who scarred you for life.’

‘Nina. We met at vet school.’ He cleared the table, putting the peppermill and placemats away as she quietly directed. ‘But she hasn’t scarred me. I still don’t get what’s so great about persevering with the same person forever.’

‘Commitment-phobe.’ She flashed him that angelic, shy smile. ‘How are they, Rob and Vanessa?’

‘Happy. Very happy. More so than I’ve known for a long time.’

‘I’m glad.’ She nodded, looking genuinely pleased.

Together they pottered around the kitchen. He washed the griddle pan as she stacked the dishwasher. He liked that she got on with it, not needing to fill the silence with inane chatter. Nina used to hate silence. He left the pan on the draining board and dried his hands, watching as Libby wiped down the worktops. She even managed that with effortless, graceful movements.

He’d come to assume she’d didn’t possess anything other than jodhpurs and mini-skirts, but jeans worked on her. Okay, they covered her perfect legs, but they were tight and low cut, showing off her trim waist as she reached up to put things in the cupboard. In fact, Libby looked hot in jeans. Shame about the bloody awful black stripes in her pink hair. Seriously, pink hair...

‘So,’ he asked, ‘is the rock chick look part of denying you were ever a ballerina?’

‘No. Seventeen year-old trailer trash has always been my off-duty style. I’ve always hated being
nice
.’ She stuck her tongue out at him, but then laughed, flicking her hair back.

He couldn’t imagine her not falling in love. It was so easy to picture her holding hands on walks through the woods, having easy conversations over dinner in the pub. Now, he just had to stop picturing himself doing it with her. She was
Off Limits.

‘You don’t look much like a ballerina, aside from being so thin.’

‘Don’t say it like that. I’ve never been anorexic in my life, or come close.’

‘I can’t see you in a tutu, looking pretty.’

The dish cloth hit his shoulder. ‘I’ll show you, mister.’

She ran upstairs and he half-expected her to come back down in a tutu. Instead, she returned with a thick photo album and they headed outside with the wine. In the fading light of the late September evening, he sat on the rickety bench as she opened the album near the back, pointing to a photo of a Libby he’d never seen before – maybe he’d seen a hint of it when she was in her running gear. In a pink and purple dress, stood on the tip toe of one foot with the other leg lifted behind her. She looked... beautiful. Jesus Christ.

‘See? Me in a tutu,
pretty
.’

He poured the wine, trying not to show how floored he was.

‘Passable.’
Perfect. Fuck. Don’t get hung up on her. Not her.
Robbie was too good a friend to break the
Off Limits
rule. And Michael Wray would be on them like a rash. ‘Christ, you were even thinner then. You’re just sticks with muscle. And you can see your chest bones. That can’t be right.’

‘I was a ballet dancer. It’s what we look like. Do you have to focus on the fact I have no tits?’

Without bothering to be subtle, he glanced down to compare now with then, making her laugh. He shrugged, trying not to smile. ‘Not so bad now.’

‘Try admiring my fabulous legs and perfect arm positions. This is when I was the Sugar Plum Fairy, my dream come true.’ She gulped her wine. ‘You’ve no idea how much I miss it, but hey, I couldn’t drink bottles of wine back then.’

‘It’s a whole different world.’ He shook his head and flicked back to the start of the album. ‘Can I?’