Nearly Almost Somebody (25 page)

She nodded.

He absorbed himself in her life, smiling briefly at the snaps of little Libby in her first tutu, laughing at the stick insect teenager. In one photo, she stood with an equally stick insect girl with dark hair and bad skin.

‘Christ, is that Zoë? I never knew her when she was a teenager. She’s thinner than you.’

Libby took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘I know you think I’m too skinny, but that’s just the way I am. I eat well and exercise a lot. Zoë’s different. Thanks to Maggie’s hideous influence, Zoë’s had a hard-core battle with food since she was seven.’

‘Maggie, why?’

Libby explained how those long summers that little Zoë Horton had spent in Gosthwaite were really six weeks of bullying hell, and guilt swamped him. He’d have been twelve the day he, Zoë and a few others went blackberry picking. With purple fingers and faces, they’d eaten until their stomach’s hurt. When Zoë’s tutu got stuck in the brambles, he’d rescued her, but she’d started crying, upset over the shredded netting. A soft touch for tears, even then, he’d walked her home to explain to Maggie what had happened. But Maggie hadn’t cared about the tutu, only the evidence of the blackberries around Zoë’s mouth. Her first question wasn’t for her great-niece’s well-being. It was,
what have you been eating?
Poor Zoë.

He skipped forward and smiled at a portrait of Libby dressed in a black and purple tutu. Her poker straight hair was white blonde, her lips bare, her eyes coated with the usual black eye make-up. Stood on her toes, hands on hips with the nonchalant attitude he knew so well, she looked about twenty and just the kind of girl the twenty-five year-old him would’ve quite happily shagged.

His favourite photo was taken in rehearsal. She sat with a friend against a mirrored wall, wearing a leotard and legwarmers like she’d worn the night Jack hassled her. Her hair was pulled back, her face make-up free and her smile... That was her, the real Libby, the one he’d seen when she wasn’t hiding behind the black crap and fringe.

She leant in, looking at the photo and her subtle floral perfume filled his head.

‘You actually look very pretty when you’re not wearing the black crap,’ he said, unable to stop himself.

‘We had to attend grooming classes, to make sure our eyebrows were waxed, our complexions flawless. It took a lot of effort to look that perfectly natural, I can tell you. I rebelled against it.’

She flicked over the page, flinching at the photo of her lying in a hospital bed with her foot in plaster. The girl in the photo smiled, the one next to him looked to be on the verge of tears for the first time.

‘You okay?’ he asked, his voice quiet.
Don’t cry, Libs.

‘I had no idea my life was ruined at that stage. I thought I’d be out of action for a few weeks, then back at class.’

Patrick nudged her. ‘It’s not ruined. It just needs to be different.’

The last photos were of her in a white tutu. ‘Then it was over.’

‘Your life’s not ruined. You’ll see.’

She closed the album and picked up the empty bottle. ‘More wine?’

Without waiting for his answer, she ducked inside, taking the album with her. Christ, he had to be careful. A few glasses of wine would be okay, but they shouldn’t get pissed because if they did... He’d seen the signs: the smiles, the gazes. He’d probably given enough himself. She might be recovering from Robbie, but Libby so would. And he would too. Thankfully, when she returned, her smile in place once again, she lit the patio heater and they sat in separate chairs at the table. Safer.

‘God, everyone’s going to know, aren’t they? What if Lynda asks me and I cry in the middle of the post office?’

‘I’d be surprised if anyone else recognises you. I only did because you mentioned Paolo the other week and... you sit like that a lot.’

‘No, I...’ Libby lifted her head off her knees, glancing down at her arms hugging them. ‘Oh.’

‘You know, I think you’re going about this distraction thing all wrong. You can’t just pretend the last twenty years of your life didn’t happen. You’d been dancing when Jack came round, hadn’t you?’

She nodded.

‘You need to get it back in your life.’

She shook her head.

‘You believe in Fate. Don’t you think it might be for a reason that you’ve ended up in Maggie’s cottage?’ He waited, but she shook her head. In denial. ‘Clara’s mum used to be a ballerina too.’

‘I know.’

‘She has a dance studio in Haverton.’

‘I know.’

‘You could go there. To dance.’

‘No. What I need is a decent career.’

She forced a smile, her lip wobbling and he knew to shut up. He didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good evening by making her cry.

‘Okay, a new career,’ he said. ‘A is for… Artist? Architect? Air Hostess? Actor? Anaesthetist? Do you have any GCSEs?’

‘Bugger off, of course I do. I also have Dance, English and French A-Levels, all As, and a First Class degree in Performing Arts and Dance. Not sure if that’ll get me into medical school though so forget Anaesthetist. And we can skip B. I’m starting my barmaid life tomorrow and as we’ve already discussed, I don’t have the boobs to be a beauty queen.’

He laughed along, loving how she didn’t take herself too seriously. ‘C... Clown? You already have the make-up skills.’

She punched his arm and they settled into an easy routine mocking one another. Although a lingering regret of a missed opportunity didn’t abate, he kept his distance. She was Michael Wray’s target and
Off Limits
. Besides, he liked spending time with her. If he shagged her, it’d be over. He’d fuck her and fuck off. It’s what he always did.

Being friends was better.

* * *

The following morning, Libby stared at the orange leaves on the ground, trying to focus on her stride, her breathing, the next bloody big hill, but her mind kept flitting back to the night before, to Patrick. She’d bared her soul to him, told him everything, and yet he’d gone home without even kissing her cheek. From what Clara had told her, Patrick ought to have tried to shag her by now. Oh, he’d made it perfectly clear that he hated how Libby looked, but he’d also said she was very pretty.

She shook her head. She should be concentrating on the fell race, not Patrick. In six weeks, she’d have to run fifteen miles over some bloody big hills and despite the training, the idea still terrified her.

She and Xander regularly clocked up fifty or sixty miles a week – running long, varied terrain circuits, short steep uphill repetitions, sprints, jogs, all of it with little regard for the weather. She’d learned two things: always carry extra layers and just keep going, no matter how much it hurts. Just keep going. She jogged next to Xander, wishing she’d never said she’d do the bloody race, let alone that she’d beat Grace.

‘You’re quiet today,’ Xander said.

‘Too tired to talk.’

‘It’s been an easy run.’

‘Late night, too much wine.’ She held up a hand. ‘I know. No lectures.’

Too much wine with Patrick. Oh god, there he was. Outside the vet’s, Patrick leaned against the railings, talking on his phone. He’d been mountain biking and had the mud splatters to prove it. Xander pointed to the police car and they jogged over, curiosity piqued.

As they neared, Patrick hung up, giving Xander a terse hello and Libby a small smile. This really wasn’t how she wanted to look when she saw him: red, sweaty, hair scraped back and make-up free. In an effort to hide her face, she stretched her hamstrings.

‘What’s going on?’ Xander asked.

‘Burgled last night. A load of drugs gone. Ketamine mostly.’ Patrick ran his fingers through his curls. ‘Grace is adamant she put the alarm on on Friday night, but it was off when I came in to sort some paperwork. Not what I needed this morning.’

‘Hangover?’ Libby asked, trying not to show how badly she wanted to run her fingers through his hair too.

He nodded.

Xander looked from her to Patrick, but didn’t say anything, just smiled at the floor.

Libby frowned at the alarm box on the wall. ‘Zoë and I got burgled last Christmas in Manchester. They took the usual: laptops, iPads, but it was our bloody passports that was the worst. We were going skiing a few weeks later and had to get new ones. Zoë couldn’t find her birth certificate, so we ended up not being able to go. The buggers had turned the alarm off. It’s so easy to override them these days, especially older systems like yours.’

Patrick and Xander both raised their eyebrows.

‘What?’ she laughed. ‘I worked for an alarm company for a while. Only the engineers should have override codes, but you can get them off the internet. You need a better system.’

‘Point noted, Safecracker Barbie.’ Patrick smiled, tugging her ponytail. ‘Did you do it?’

Libby didn’t laugh. Grace came out of the surgery and Libby wrapped her arms around herself, needing the reassurance. As she did, Patrick and Xander stood either side of her. Flanked by her superheroes.

Grace looked Libby over with disdain, but smiled at Xander. ‘Good run? I did the Crag Loop last night.’

It’d been over three months since Libby and Jack... but if Grace’s animosity hadn’t lessened, her bodyweight had. She had to have lost at least a stone and her fell-running capabilities suddenly seemed a lot more realistic.

‘You managed the Loop yet, Libby?’ Grace asked flashing a saccharine smile.

The intimidating Crag Loop made up half the race circuit and as yet, Xander wouldn’t let her attempt it. Libby stood a little straighter. ‘I will beat you.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Patrick snapped. ‘Will you two pack it in?’

Xander took Libby’s arm. ‘Careful,’ he said as they walked away. ‘You’ve got a way to go before you can beat her.’

Libby glanced back, just catching Patrick’s comment to Grace.

‘I don’t know, Gracey. She’s bloody determined.’

Libby jogged beside Xander, heading to the back garden.

‘Well, this explains a few things,’ he said as they did their usual cool down stretches. ‘Daze sulked all night at the football because Patrick didn’t hit on her once. I know she wouldn’t, but she does like the attention.’

Libby frowned at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You and Patrick.’ Xander’s smile grew. ‘I wholeheartedly approve, by the way, because if you can keep him away from Daze, I’d owe you. Big time.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we’re just friends. I’m not his cup of tea.’

‘Doesn’t look that way to me,’ Xander said. ‘Maybe he just needs a nudge. You should have a party. He loves parties.’

Libby sat on the grass, stretching down to put her head over her shin. A party? Would that be the answer?

‘What do you think?’ Zoë stood back, admiring the carved pumpkin lanterns arranged in the fireplace.

‘You’ve missed your calling.’ Libby sat on the windowsill, summoning the enthusiasm to prepare for the Halloween party to end all Halloween parties. ‘The courier picked up your parcel.’

‘Thanks. How was work?’

‘Just awesome,’ Libby replied, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

Three weeks. Twenty days, if she was being precise. Twenty days she’d survived at the bar. How she’d managed that was a miracle. If she’d had one friend at work, just one, it would help, but every single member of staff hated her. They were jealous. She’d shagged not just one Golding brother, but both of them. It didn’t matter how many times she told them she hadn’t touched Xander, because they’d seen the photos in the paper; they knew the
truth
.

The job itself was surprisingly okay. Oscar’s Bar and Bistro was set in the old magistrate’s court, kitted out with ornate mahogany tables and ancient chesterfield sofas. In keeping with the classy setting, they served decent wine and addictively tasty tapas. Libby proved to be a great barmaid, but then she’d done it so many times in between other jobs that she ought to be a bloody expert. Actually, if she included the temporary bar jobs, her employment tally over the last three years had to be well over thirty. An incredible feat.

‘What happened?’ Zoë handed her a staple gun. ‘Cobwebs on the beams, please.’

Libby dutifully stapled stringy nylon threads to the ceiling while she explained how at ten past eleven, Oscar Golding, her über-boss and father of the Golding brothers, had walked into the bar. Inevitably, he’d asked why she was working there and not Low Wood Farm, but before Libby could answer, she’d glanced around to see Steve, the chef, taking a photo on his phone.

Without hesitation, she’d taken Steve down with the defensive leg sweep her mother had taught her and, as he lay on the floor groaning, Libby deleted the photo. Of course, then she’d had to explain to Mr Golding Senior not only why she’d lost her job at the farm, but why she’d floored the chef.
I fort she were goin’ for an ’at trick,
Steve had said. Sadly, the ground hadn’t swallowed her.

‘It’s a job,’ Zoë said, ‘and for Haverton, not a bad one. Don’t bugger it up.’

If Libby could just keep her head down at the bar, the rumours would die down and she’d make friends. Or, more likely, the very dishy Mr Golding Senior would see she could run the place better than Greg, give her the manager’s job and the staff would resent her even more.

Libby sat on the windowsill again, staring outside. ‘Do you think he’ll come?’

‘Paolo or Patrick?’

When Libby had mentioned throwing a party, Zoë leapt at the idea. A Halloween shindig, Zoë said, would be the perfect excuse to dress in porn-worthy costumes and pull hot guys – exactly what she needed to keep Jonathan on his toes, so they’d emailed everyone they knew, in Gosthwaite and Manchester, with the majority saying yes. Friends were crammed into holiday cottages throughout the village, even Robbie and Vanessa were coming. Libby had been astonished when Robbie emailed to say yes, but he’d explained how it’d show everyone that things were okay. The only person who hadn’t responded was Patrick.

Four o’clock. Libby frowned towards the veterinary surgery. His Land Rover still wasn’t there.

She didn’t get him. Three weeks ago, he’d persuaded her to bare her soul. He’d totally taken an interest in her life. He’d even said she looked pretty. But since then,
nada
. No dropping in for a quick coffee, no cheeky chats over the fence as he passed by on his bike and to cap it all, the other day he’d posted eye drops for Hyssop through the letterbox. Patrick was avoiding her.

What if he didn’t turn up – or worse, copped off with someone else? Where was he?

An ancient MG pulled up and Libby’s heart made an involuntary leap. Paolo. He’d really come all this way. After a quick check for smudged make-up, she ran outside to meet him. Okay, her lust cravings were purely for Patrick, but she still longed to see her old friend.

Paolo climbed out of the car, raking his hair out of his eyes. It’d grown back to dishevelled perfection. God, it was good to see him. She ran down the pavement, straight into his arms and he held her tight, muttering how much he’d missed her, how much he loved her. She held his face, gazing up at him.

Had she been an idiot? This was Paolo – a talented, truly lovely person. He’d never walk out of the pub, embarrassing her in front of Grace. His fingers gently pushed aside her fringe as he looked into her eyes. She should kiss him. She should. She should kiss Paolo and make it work. Surely, she could love him back.

With the worst possible timing, she spotted a dark green Land Rover in her peripheral vision. Patrick. She glanced round, catching his eye. She smiled. He didn’t. Arse. She rested her head on Paolo’s shoulder.

At least you’re here.

Paolo frowned, taking in the Green. ‘Ach, it’s great to see you again, but did you have to move to the middle of nowhere? It’s an artistic wasteland.’

‘Hey, I like it.’

‘You’re insane,’ Paolo said, finally letting her go. ‘I have a present for you.’

From the car, he took out a large canvas covered in a dust sheet. Oh god, had he painted her again? Libby sat on the garden wall as Paolo propped the canvas against Zoë’s BMW. When he lifted the sheet and Libby saw herself, she stifled a sob. It was
the
Broken Ballerina
.

‘You didn’t burn it?’

Paolo sat next to her. ‘Of course not, I struggle to throw a sketch of you in the bin. I’d never burn it, but I can’t keep it or sell it. It’s too personal, so it’s yours.’

She sat for a moment, taking in Paolo’s rough style. It was too personal, her heartache in oils for the world to see. But Patrick was right – it’d be a miracle if anyone recognised her.

‘Thank you.’ She leaned against him, kissing his cheek. ‘I love it.’

Paolo nodded over her shoulder. ‘You have company.’

She turned to see Patrick sauntering over with his hands in his pockets, peering at the painting. Was this the hot or cold Patrick? God, he looked hot in his Arran jumper and jeans.

‘It’s
the Broken Ballerina
,’ he said, nodding to the painting. ‘You must be Paolo.’

They shook hands as Libby formally introduced them, but she didn’t miss the wary look in Patrick’s eye. He didn’t like Paolo. Was he jealous? Libby’s hopes soared.

‘It is very good,’ Patrick said, again focussed on the painting. ‘Very Libby.’

‘Are you coming to the party?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Not sure. Depends on work. See you later.’

Will you? Libby watched him head back to his house.

Paolo scowled. ‘And he would be?’

‘A friend. He lives next door.’

‘A friend you happen to be in love with?’ Paolo sighed. ‘It’s stupid, I hoped–’

‘I’m not in love with him.’

‘Yes, you are. It’s written all over your beautiful face.’

Maggie’s cottage, the spiritual home of witchcraft in Gosthwaite, had been transformed from country cottage to kitsch Halloween extravaganza. A cauldron filled with a vodka and blackberry liqueur punch, complete with floating lychee eyeballs, sat at one end of the living room, while orange pumpkin balloons, huge plastic spiders in faux cobwebs and furry black bats dangled from the walls and ceiling. In the garden, a gazebo over the lawn stood festooned with orange fairy lights and creepy witch silhouettes knocked together by Paolo out of bin liners.

Cheesy Halloween tat? Tick. Porn-worthy costumes? Tick. Two drinks already downed to get in the party spirit? Tick. Paolo cutting up lines of coke? Arse.

‘It’s a party.’ Zoë lifted the bodice of her Queen of Hearts dress, raising the hem another two inches to reveal frilly red knickers. ‘I’m up for it.’

Libby shook her head as the doorbell rang. No way would she risk her chance of pulling Patrick by becoming some itchy-nosed, self-centred cow. She’d rely on her sweet-but-kinky Alice in Wonderland outfit and copious shots of vodka-based self-confidence.

It would be a great night.

An hour later, zombies, witches and superheroes filled the house. Even Grace turned up. Wearing a tiny black PVC witch’s dress and fishnet stockings, she’d brazenly handed Libby a bottle of Sheila’s elderflower wine. Refusing to bite, Libby took the wine and politely asked if Jack was playing out. Grace’s response was to introduce herself to Paolo. Not that Libby cared.

Xander and Daisy, dressed as a zombie pirate and his undead wench, were knocking back shots of tequila, while Morticia and Gomez Addams, aka Robbie and Vanessa, were snogging in a corner and had been for twenty minutes. Libby tried to ignore them as she weaved through the bodies dancing in the living room. Sheila waved her fairy wand, winning the most inappropriate costume award as Glinda the Good Witch, and Jack winked at Libby, assuming he looked hot in his cowboy get up. Brokeback Mountain, more like.

But her friends in ridiculous costumes couldn’t distract her from the absence of the one person she’d had the bloody party for in the first place. Patrick hadn’t turned up. And, since it was getting on for ten o’clock, she guessed he wouldn’t. It was anything but a great night.

On the patio, Zoë and Clara were comparing their cleavages, not a game Libby wanted to join in, so she lit a cigarette and poured a shot of Blavod.

‘Are you sulking?’ Zoë asked, pinching a cigarette.

Libby downed the shot. ‘No.’

‘He’s not here, is he?’

Libby shook her head. ‘The party’s rocking and he hasn’t come.’

‘Who?’ Clara asked, straightening her Wilma Flintstone wig.

‘The boy next door,’ Zoë said, earning a swat on the arm from Libby. ‘Oh, it’s hardly a secret. You fancy him; he fancies you.’

‘Or not.’ Libby pouted. ‘If he did, he’d be here.’

‘But he does like you.’ Clara’s eyes lit up. ‘Scott thinks so anyway.’

Libby stared at Clara. ‘Why?’

Clara shrugged. ‘But Scott’s never wrong.’

Zoë took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘If you want him to come, go get him.’

Libby frowned but Clara nodded.

‘Have you looked in a mirror, Lib?’ Zoë turned her around, facing the kitchen window. ‘You look incredible. Sexy as fuck. How could he turn that down? Now get your arse next door and tell him to get his over here.’

* * *

Standing on Patrick’s doorstep had to be the sexiest Alice in Wonderland any man could hope to see. Jesus Christ. The low cut, little blue dress showed off her cleavage, but the skirt crucified him. Incredibly short, it grazed the top of her legs leaving a foot of perfect naked thigh between the fluffy net underskirt and top of her stripy over-the-knee-socks. Tottering in very high heels, her legs looked longer and better than ever.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he muttered, but grabbed her arm, pulling her in before anyone saw her.

This was exactly what he didn’t need and worse still, when she stood in the living room, the lights showed her glazed eyes. She flashed him an overconfident smile and he groaned. Pissed, or getting there at least. He needed her to leave, but she wandered over to say hello to Hyssop who’d taken refuge from the party.

‘What do you want, Libby?’

‘I came to see if you were ever going to come to my party. We’ve got canapés, cocktails… coke. Right up your street.’

Coke? Shit. Grace would have a gram he could scrounge. He itched for a line, imagining the high. No. ‘I’m on call.’

Her smile grew and the look in her eyes turned from mischievous to downright dirty. Slowly, she walked up to him, all legs, cleavage and very sexy confidence, until she stood with her body inches from his. Oh Christ.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispered.

‘Libs…’ But he didn’t back off. Instead, he looked down at her, his heart thumping in his chest.

‘Why don’t you come out and play? I’d guarantee you’d have the best time ever.’ She smiled up at him, peeking through that suddenly very sexy fringe. ‘Say yes.’

He opened his mouth to tell her not a chance, but found himself staring at her. The shoes made her five inches taller, nearer his height, and her mouth was only a couple of inches below his.
Don’t kiss her.

Kiss her? He wanted to fuck her. Probably more than he’d ever wanted to fuck anyone. He wanted to do a couple of rails, neck a few shots and spend the rest of the night in bed with Libby Wilde. Sod the bed. The sofa would do. He doubted they’d get as far as the stairs anyway. He buried his hands in his pockets, desperate not to touch her.

‘What happened to Paolo?’

‘He’s just a friend.’ She took hold of his t-shirt, tugging him toward her. ‘Are you coming out to play?’

Oh Christ, she was right there, on a plate and dressed like Alice in fucking Wonderland. His hands left his pockets, one to hold her tiny waist, the other to hold her face. He rested his forehead against hers, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to give in, to go and party with her. If she kissed him, he would. But she didn’t. She waited, expecting him to kiss her.