Nearly Almost Somebody (3 page)

‘That’s right.’ Clara shook her head in despair. ‘Because when I moved here with Daisy, that’s what we were, hot lesbians. Idiot.’

‘Scott, you promised me that was true.’ Patrick thumped Scott’s arm and found himself in a headlock for his trouble. Their laughter was cut short when the baby monitor crackled into life and Will’s cries filled the air. Scott jogged away, muttering expletives, and Clara reclined a little further, closing her eyes against the sun.

In an effort to banish the image of her and Daisy, Patrick glanced around the garden. To his left, walking away from the other guests, Vanessa practically skipped along as she spoke to Robbie. They stopped, half-hidden by the rampant honeysuckle draped over the pergola and Vanessa smiled, waving her hands as she spoke to her husband. She looked so excited, Patrick wondered if she might be pregnant again – a fourth kid would explain why Robbie was trying to tear his hair out.

‘Are you kidding?’ he heard Robbie ask, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the vicar and Lynda from the post office as they admired the clematis growing up the side of the rickety shed.

Vanessa’s smile disappeared as she answered him, quietly so no one could hear.

‘No,’ Robbie snapped.

She folded her arms, staring at Robbie in surprise. ‘What?’

‘No,’ he said again, folding his arms to mirror her.

Jesus, this didn’t look good, and Lynda had sniffed gossip in the air.

‘Clara, deal with the vicar,’ Patrick said, already psyching himself up to distract the nosiest cow in the village. If Robbie and Vanessa were about to have a marital, they didn’t need her within earshot. ‘Lynda, how’s Boadicea? I had a couple asking about puppies the other day. Have you got homes for yours?’

Lynda lost all interest in the Golding’s row as she gave him a simpering smile, resting her hand on his arm. ‘Oh, Patrick, I’m so pleased you asked. I wanted to talk to you actually…’

Grinding his teeth, he smiled. Rob, you owe me for this. While Lynda rambled on about a puppy’s paw, Patrick gave advice he ought to be charging for and kept an eye on Rob. The argument had gone quiet bar the occasional hissed invective, but the arm waving, finger jabbing and clenched fists meant this was an out of character, venomous argument – especially for Vanessa who’d usually never say boo to a gosling.

‘… so if you could pop round to look at little Pickle…’

Vanessa turned, tears already falling down her beautiful face and Robbie stalked away, heading out of the garden.

‘… but the cat’s never been sick in the house before…’

Patrick glanced back down at Lynda. ‘Why don’t you ring the surgery on Monday? Grace can book you in for an appointment.’
And I can bill you
. He flashed her a cursory smile and followed Robbie, grabbing a bottle of whisky from the bar on his way.

Around the back of the house, in a small secluded garden away from the party, Patrick stepped over the children’s toys littering the grass as he made his way to the large wooden chair swing where Robbie sat, smoking a cigarette and staring at the sky. Patrick sat down and handed him the whisky bottle without saying a word.

‘She wants to go on tour with that ridiculous quartet.’ Robbie slugged back a mouthful of whisky.

‘Be fair, you were always going away with work before you had the restaurant.’

‘But she wants to leave the girls for one, maybe two months. Why would she want to do that? Just to play a bit of Mozart? Or is this because of that French wanker?’

‘Oh, come on, she’s an angel. She’d never–’

‘Whose side are you on?’ Robbie flicking his cigarette butt across the lawn.

‘Yours.’ Patrick took the bottle back. ‘And never ask me that again.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Are you going to let her go?’

‘Let her?’ Robbie rubbed his temples. ‘I told her not a fucking chance in hell, but how can I stop her? It’s her dream come true.’

‘So let her do it. You know she wouldn’t shag around.’

‘I used to, but these days...’ He let out a long slow sigh. ‘I’m not sure she even knows what she wouldn’t do. Since the restaurant, she’s… well, she’s always fed-up and the only thing that seems to make her smile is that fucking viola player.’

‘She wouldn’t, Rob.’

‘Even so, how the hell am I supposed to cope with three kids, a restaurant and twelve horses on my own?’

‘You could get an au-pair. A hot Swedish girl would help me cope.’ Patrick smiled at the thought. ‘Might keep Van on her toes and distract you from the drudgery of being a stay-at-home dad.’

‘I’m not letting some eighteen year-old look after the girls.’ Robbie lit another cigarette. ‘Christ, what a bloody mess. Did everyone hear us fighting?’

‘No, we distracted the main offenders for you.’ Patrick knocked back two mouthfuls of whisky before nodding to the right. ‘Look at this, a shining example of modern parenting.’

Scott came over, pushing Will’s pushchair with one hand and clutching a six pack of beer in the other.

‘Little bugger will only sleep in this.’ He left the pushchair ten feet away and sat down next to Robbie. ‘Clara told me what happened.’

‘I’m trying to talk him into getting an au-pair,’ Patrick replied. ‘Swiss, maybe?’

‘If there was a hot au-pair working here, you wouldn’t be allowed on the yard.’ Robbie shook his head, smiling.

The buzz in Patrick’s pocket alerted him to a new message, the third from Miss Haverton.
Want something to snuggle up against tonight?
The attached photo showed her fake breasts barely encased in a white lace bra, the edge of a nipple peeking out. He thought better of sharing it with his friends. Robbie’s jaw was twitching again, his brow furrowed and Scott yawned for the hundredth time. Marriage? Children? Looked a lot of hard work, and for what? From the sounds of things, shagging your wife wasn’t one of the bonuses.

Patrick really didn’t see the point.

Two weeks later, he sat back, enjoying the buzz of his latest coke hit and Miss Haverton unzipping his fly. Clearly, the girl was a nutcase. They were in the restaurant toilets and the mayor was dining with several local businessmen about twenty feet away. Anyone could walk in but, Jesus, did she know how to use her hands. And tongue.

‘Christ, Rachel...’

Patrick clutched at her hair, looking down at her arse as her head bobbed. Her little black dress had ridden up, revealing a leopard print thong, and her shiny black heels were resting against the cubicle door. There wasn’t a single classy aspect to Miss Haverton, but since she’d first wrapped her fingers around his dick, rubbing in coke like a pro, he’d cared less about her dubious taste in underwear and more about the toys she had in her bedside drawer. At least he’d persuaded her to stay inside this time. Her penchant for dining al fresco nearly had them collared by the police two days ago.

Sod this. Who cared if the mayor walked in? Patrick pulled her to her feet and moved behind her, smiling as she bent at the waist and wedged her feet against the walls, her hands planted in front of her. Not a single classy bone in her body. This was the last time he was taking her out. Definitely.

‘Baby,’ she said, purring as she pushed back against him. ‘How do you fancy my friend Emma joining us later?’

Miss Haverton had just earned herself another reprieve.

A year ago, the tone of the
Haverton Gazette
had taken an odd turn when Michael Wray, an Australian hack and former
News of the World
employee, relocated to the Lakes and took over as Editor-in-Chief. Instead of reporting on crime rates, school fetes and the lack of affordable local housing, Wray focussed his attention on what kept circulation figures high at his last paper – celebrity scandal.

But instead of photographing C-list celebrities falling out of limousines, he turned everyday people into local stars – the vicar and his fling with the verger, the posh kids crashing cars and snorting coke in Sedbergh. Patrick and his assistant Grace had devoured every sensationalised snippet – it was all good fun, something to laugh about over a coffee, until one day Patrick became the celebrity.

It started with a drunken brawl at a wedding, escalated when he was spotted with the Cumbrian Business Man of the Year’s wife at a boutique hotel and peaked at the Haverton versus Gosthwaite football match last August bank holiday when Patrick was photographed snorting cocaine off his Land Rover bonnet. But it was the blog where he became truly infamous.

The
Haverton Eye
gave the sordid details and revealing photos the
Gazette
wouldn’t dare print, and although no one in East Cumbria doubted who was behind it, Michael Wray denied any connection to
the Radar
, the anonymous author of the blog. And the Eye never seemed to miss a moment of Patrick’s life – blurry shots at parties, quotes from
friends
. The Radar was always there.

But this time Patrick was in trouble.

He stared at a small photo of himself on the front page of the paper. From his grin he’d been a lot happier when the shot was taken than he was looking at it now. Hardly surprising. It had been taken after a black tie charity event at Haverton Hall where he’d been drinking since midday and had taken a cocktail of recreational drugs. He couldn’t remember the photo being taken but since he was smiling in the direction of the camera he must have been aware of the photographer.

But having his photo on the front page wasn’t the killer. The content was. His tie was undone and draped around the neck of Miss Haverton – her top was undone and her legs draped around his waist. Whoever had taken the photo would’ve taken more, x-rated shots the paper would find unpublishable. They’d be on the blog already. Patrick pushed his hair off his face and dared to look at his father.

Malcolm McBride drummed his fingers on his three-hundred year-old desk. ‘What is it with you and black tie events? Do you do these things on purpose?’

It was his tone that worried Patrick the most. In previous dressing downs his father had ranted and yelled – he’d even thrown a vase on one occasion. This time his father’s voice was steady and his face as hard as Ailsa Craig granite.

‘Are you trying to ruin me? This isn’t Edinburgh. I know everyone. These people are my friends. They used to respect me. Now I’m Patrick McBride’s father and they pity me.’

Patrick knew when to keep quiet. Through the low, leaded window, he watched coal tits on the feeder and waited for the
your mother’s so disappointed in you
line that always ended the paternal rant.

The line never came.

‘This is it, Patrick.’

This is what?
Patrick turned back to his father.

‘The affairs with married women are one thing,’ Malcolm went on, ‘but you come to work hung-over and some days probably still drunk, or worse. You’re downright rude to clients and bloody awful to the staff. This is my veterinary practice. You work for me. You’re nothing more than a staff member I have the misfortune to be related to. Christ, if I wasn’t your father I’d have fired you a year ago, certainly after you were caught with the bloody cocaine.’

‘Are you firing me now?’ Patrick asked quietly, his heart racing.

‘Not yet.’ Malcolm shook his head and Patrick’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘But this is your last chance. You’re nearly thirty, but you’re acting like your life is one long Freshers’ Week. You need to learn what's really important to you, because sometimes we have to give up what we want to keep what we damn well need. You’re on twelve months’ probation. Step out of line and I will personally hand you your P45.’

Patrick nodded. ‘I swear it won’t happen again. Starting now, I’ll–’

‘No.’ Malcolm held up a hand. ‘Not starting now. I’ve heard you swear it won’t happen again too many times. You’re suspended.’

‘Suspended?’

‘You’re to go to your brother’s for two months. Sam’s expecting you. I want people to forget this Miss Haverton thing ever happened. When you come back, you’ll lay off the booze and no more drugs. There’ll be no more flings with married women, no more turning up at Ascot with drunk actresses and absolutely no more bloody newspaper articles.’ Malcolm paused. ‘Because if I see your face in that bloody paper one more time, you are out of this family.’

‘What?’ Patrick’s face turned cold.

‘I will disown you.’

He wouldn’t, surely. ‘But Dad–’

‘You haven’t given a second thought to your mother or me for the past eighteen months. Since you came back to Gosthwaite, you’ve thought of no one but yourself. You’re a disgrace to this family.’ Malcolm’s face reddened as his anger threatened to boil over. ‘Go and pack. I want you on a plane tonight.’

Patrick headed for the door, running his hands through his hair. ‘What about the surgery?’

‘Since it’s still my practice, I’ll worry about that.’

‘But you’re retired.’

‘Not for the next two months.’ Malcolm stood up. ‘Patrick, I’ve never been so disappointed.’

That was a new one. Patrick’s stomach churned. He stumbled out of his father’s study and into the kitchen where his mum sat at the scrubbed pine table, drinking an uncharacteristically large glass of red wine.

‘Mum?’

She didn’t look at him as she straightened her back, no doubt strengthening her resolve. ‘They call this Tough Love in the States.’

‘But Mum–’

‘Go to Sam’s and when you come back, behave. That’s all we ask.’ Elizabeth clamped her hands around her wine glass. ‘I’ve booked you on a flight from Manchester. If you get back here at four, we’ll take you to the airport. And sort yourself out. You look awful.’

He wanted to hug her, for her to hug him, like she did when he was a kid. ‘I’m sorry.’

Finally she looked up, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘I really am very ashamed to call you my son.’

No more. He fled, his head reeling with guilt, anger, humiliation. He’d made his mum cry, for Christ’s sake. Fumbling, he dropped his keys trying to open his Land Rover door – the six-month-old Discovery that came with the job.

Probation? Suspended? Disowned? What if they meant it? They sounded like they meant it.

He climbed into the Land Rover and pulled away from Braid Hall smoothly and slowly, not slamming his foot down, hoping to release the tension that threatened to compress all rational thought. They’d be watching. He had to show them he could be restrained. He had to. He couldn’t lose his job. What other job could he get when he’d been fired by his own parents and had a minor drug conviction?

By the time he’d reached the Green, ten minutes later, the tension had given way to mild panic. What if they really sacked him? He parked outside his house. The end-terrace, three storey, Georgian townhouse that came with the job. If they sacked him, he’d lose more than just his job. The nearest vets was in Kendal and they’d never employ him after he’d accused the practice owner of conducting vastly expensive operations on animals who ought to be put down – an increasingly sickening practice in the veterinary world of putting profits before welfare. He’d have to move away again. He’d have to leave Gosthwaite, and Gosthwaite had everything. Scott and Robbie both lived in the village, he could ride his bike over the fells from his doorstep and his local served decent beer to accompany their award-winning Cumberland sausage and mash.

Jogging up the steps to his house, he glanced to the right, to the front door next to his own. Both painted the blue of the St Andrews flag, the right hand door led to his surgery.
His
surgery. His parents might own the veterinary practice but the Gosthwaite surgery was his. He was his own boss, picking his own staff and largely dealing with the cows, horses and livestock, leaving the dog, cat and budgie owners for Kate and Fergus to deal with at the Haverton surgery.

House, car, job, friends. He had the perfect life.

He slammed the door shut and slumped against it. Hyssop scooted from the armchair closest to the fire to greet him, mewing a hello as he had every day since he’d moved in four months ago. Patrick picked him up.

‘Fuck, Hyss, I think they mean it. What the hell am I going to do? And what am I going to do with you? You’re about to be abandoned by another human.’ Despite the sick feeling building in his stomach, he laughed as Hyssop rubbed his head against his chin, his usual signal. ‘Okay, pal. Teatime, it is.’

With Hyssop nose deep in his teatime pouch of salmon in jelly, the same brand Maggie used to feed him, Patrick fell onto the sofa with a mug of strong coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.

He’d had the perfect life so how the hell had it got so fucked up?

When he’d moved back to Gosthwaite eighteen months ago, he’d maybe go to the pub with friends on a Friday night. Now, he woke every morning regretting ever setting foot in the Alfred and vowing to spend that evening at home watching TV. But the next morning it was the same. And the next. He hadn’t touched coke since university, but for the last six months, he barely remembered a weekend without it. He barely remembered a weekend. Was it Gosthwaite’s fault?

The bottle of Glenfiddich on the kitchen table called to him, promising to take the edge off his hangover.

He flicked through the photos on his phone, looking for someone to blame other than himself. Nina. The photo was taken at a friend’s wedding, the only one he had of her, of the two of them. Her dark hair fell in unnatural curls, the red dress subtle but sexy and she held his hand, her fingers linked with his. He smiled, remembering that night in the hotel. But why keep that photo? Because she looked like she most preferred, dressed up rather than scrubbed up? Or because that was the day she’d ruined everything?

We should do this.

Why did she have to say that? They had fun. They got on. Okay, so they slept in the same bed most nights, but they didn’t even live together. He’d run a mile, two hundred miles – from Gloucestershire to Cumbria.

Nina: pretty, sexy, clever, a good vet and a good shag.

His problem had been Clara and Vanessa. Scott and Robbie were sledgehammered by those girls. Girls they couldn’t run away from. Girls they didn’t want to run away from. He’d gone out with Nina for four years and then ran away. Not that Nina wasn’t great. Jesus, she was almost perfect. But she was just that. Almost.

He’d escaped a four year relationship. It was normal – understood even – for him to play the field, to have fun, to breathe. But he’d never planned to get hammered every night he wasn’t on call and shag coked-up beauty queens. He looked at Nina’s photo. Maybe he shouldn’t have... He shook his head and pressed confirm. Nina was deleted. Almost wasn’t good enough. Almost wasn’t a sledgehammer.

Skipping forward through the latest images, he smiled at one of him on his bike overlooking Grasmere, but stalled at Miss Haverton’s cleavage. If he wanted to change, it should start with her. She might be an insatiable, moral-free ho-bag but she wasn’t a bad person. He should tell her it’s over. Surely she deserved that. His thumb hovered over the phone. But she’d cry, swear at him, call him a bastard, tell him she loved him. Just like Nina had.

Man up.
He pressed dial and closed his eyes.

‘Hey, baby. Did you see the paper? Wow, that brought back some memories.’ She giggled. ‘What are you up to? I’m bored, naked and about to get in the bath. Come over?’

‘Rachel, sorry. I’m going away for a while. This has been fun, but look, it’s over.’

She hung up.

He stared at the phone. Well, that was easy.

With his suitcase in the Land Rover, Patrick packed a bag with Hyssop’s food and picked up the purring tabby, turning the cat to face him.

‘I’ll be back soon and you can come home. I promise.’

On the opposite side of the Green, two doors down from the King Alfred pub where she worked three nights a week after her shifts at the surgery, Patrick knocked on Grace’s door. Grace, the only person he could rely on. Jesus, if it hadn’t been for Grace’s treacle-coffee every morning and her willingness to cover for him when he was too wasted to function, he’d have been sacked months ago. How he hadn’t killed an animal by administering the wrong drug or dosage was a mystery, though he suspected Grace saved his arse many times.

He smiled, his eyebrows raised hopefully as Grace opened the door. Under her long black fringe, the rest of her hair trying to escape its plastic clip, her frown grew when she saw Hyssop. Patrick had expected nothing less.

‘I’ve got to go away,’ he said.