Nearly Almost Somebody (31 page)

Grace slumped against the booth as she handed in her dibber. ‘When you fell at the wall... you could barely walk. Were you faking it?’

Libby glanced down at her right foot, which she was still holding up from the floor, and shook her head. ‘Can’t walk.’

‘Respect.’ Grace held out her hand.

Libby’s lip wobbled as she shook it.

Two hours later, after a shower, a vast bowl of pasta and copious amounts of orange juice at Xander and Daisy’s, Libby had returned to the Miller’s Arms, still limping, still exhausted, but feeling almost human again. The same Mumford & Sons tribute band played folk classics in a mini-marquee out the back, the pub barbeque was churning out burgers, but pretty much every runner she’d seen had eaten nothing more than chips and crisps.

And people were dancing, people who’d run that day. She admired them. Even if her ankle hadn’t been strapped up, she’d never have the energy to jig around.

In her favourite purple t-shirt and ancient jeans, with hiking boots for walking home later, Libby sat curled up in the corner of the snug, happily drinking her very first pint of real ale – a ritual Grace insisted on. The first mouthful hadn’t been the nicest thing she’d ever drunk, but encouraged by Patrick, who was also drinking the Cumbrian beer at the bar, Libby persevered. And it wasn’t half bad.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake...’ Zoë killed the beeping on her phone and drained her Bacardi and soda. ‘That’s the sixth time that bastard’s called today. Does he think I’m going to forgive him, just like that?’

‘Are you?’ Grace asked.

Libby half-hoped Zoë would forgive him. It’d been over two weeks since Fee’s funeral and Zoë’s obsessive fasting, like the frequency of Jonathan’s calls, hadn’t diminished. Maybe if she’d talk to Jonathan, she’d get over his affair with Maggie. Something had to change.

‘Never,’ Zoë said, switching her phone off.

‘Never say never,’ Libby said, repeating Zoë’s mantra.

But Zoë just laughed and kissed Libby’s cheek. ‘I’m going for a fag.’

Zoë left, giving Libby her first opportunity alone with Grace. After the handshake, there had been no more animosity, but they’d never had a chance to talk. Grace picked at her cheese and onion crisps, smiling at her.

‘Out with it.’

‘I wanted to say sorry.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘I never would’ve messed around with Jack while he was seeing you. Never, ever. It’s not my style. But even if the elderflower wine thing hadn’t happened... well, if it hadn’t happened, I’d have gone out with him. I’m sorry for that. It’s always felt like a betrayal.’

Grace merely nodded.

‘You don’t fancy giving it another go with Jack?’

Grace shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to move on. Someone new.’

Libby reached into her back pocket, taking out a small, yellow silk pouch. ‘I made this last night. For you. Patrick said... well, I’m assuming you know what it is.’

‘A retribution spell?’

Libby nodded. ‘Everything I’ve done to you, will come back to me, times three.’

Grace shook her head. ‘I can’t take it. We both know you didn’t do anything.’

‘Then nothing will come back at me, times three.’ Libby held out the bag. ‘Please.’

Grace took it, her hand shaking. ‘Blessed be.’

‘Blessed be.’

Inside the bag was the little amulet of the naked woman holding up an offering, the one to promote new beginnings. Grace clipped it to her charm bracelet, still smiling. ‘I think this might be one of the most honest, nicest things that anyone’s ever done for me.’

To Libby’s surprise, Grace leaned over the table and hugged her. Libby clung to her, the relief at making friends with Grace greater than finishing the fell race.

‘Oh hello,’ Patrick said as he stood in doorway, holding another three pints. ‘Scott, check this out. Libby and Grace are questioning their attraction to men.’

Libby threw a beer mat at him, but couldn’t help laughing as he sat next to her, grinning like a fool. Scott, Clara, Robbie and Vanessa joined them, cramming into the little snug.

‘Who’s for poker?’ Scott asked.

Patrick bent his head to whisper in her ear. ‘For half your winnings, I won’t tell him about your spooky mindreading skills.’

She had to press her lips together to suppress her grin. ‘Did you bring your wallet, Scott? I hear you get paid the big bucks.’

Scott shook his head. ‘We play for matchsticks, sweetheart.’

Libby leant up to Patrick, whispering. ‘The deal’s off.’

But Patrick laughed, his breath tickling her neck. ‘Ah, but those matchsticks we cash in for beer tokens. Play your cards right and we can drink for free off this lot.’

Who cared about winning at poker when Hot Patrick was sitting next to her, whispering to her, his lips accidentally brushing her ear? Was this bliss, or did attention like this only make Cold Patrick harder to deal with? Bugger it. She’d take ten minutes of Hot Patrick any day.

Across the table, Scott watched her, smiling as though he knew what she was thinking.

Arse.

* * *

Under clear skies and a full moon, a gaggle of drunken revellers left the Miller’s Arms, heading back to Gosthwaite. Patrick had to jog to catch up to them after being delayed by Steve the landlord to discuss his pet pig’s balding skin.

Up ahead, he spotted Libby zipping up her thick down jacket, shivering against the frosty evening.

‘Cold?’ he asked, slowing to walk beside her.

‘A bit. I’ll be okay once I get walking.’

‘Here,’ he said, pulling his woollen hat over her hair. ‘You should’ve got a lift back. How’s your ankle?’

‘It’s fine.’ She had that angelic smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry for annoying you this morning.’

She tried to pout, but only made him laugh. ‘I can’t believe you doubted me.’

‘I didn’t doubt you could do it. I was worried that if you didn’t win, you’d think you’d failed.’

‘I would’ve.’ She smiled. ‘Obsessive, I know. Anyway, it was a handy motivational tool so, thank you.’

‘Glad to be of service.’ He ambled along, his hands in his pockets. ‘Where’s Zoë?’

‘Buggered off with Sparky. Poor guy.’ She smiled as Scott ran past, giving a giggling Clara a piggyback. ‘Where’s your dog?’

‘Home. He lives with mum and dad. He’s old.’

‘But you don’t have any other pets?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a cat.’ He tried not to smile as she elbowed him.

‘I’d like a dog. Someone to run with.’

‘So get one.’

‘I can’t. Not while I’m living with Zoë.’ She frowned down at the track. ‘Though how long we’ll be here is–’

‘You’re leaving?’ She couldn’t leave, not now.

‘Well, no. I mean, I don’t know. Zoë’s nearly served her tax exile time, so she’s putting the house on the market. It depends on how quickly it sells.’

‘You could share with Grace,’ he suggested. ‘She’s always skint. Has two bedrooms.’

Libby laughed. ‘I think it’s a bit soon to suggest moving in together. We’re only just on speaking terms.’

‘At least you’d still be in the village. Hyssop would have to live with me, of course.’

She elbowed him again, but this time he was ready and grabbed her arm. For a moment he held her close, preventing her from hitting him. Roses and sweet peas. Christ, how did she... She gave up the fight and looked up at him. If a dozen people weren’t with them, he would’ve kissed her. And she knew it. He let her go and she got in one playful arm swat before he pushed her away, still laughing.

‘Now, what’s this about Jonathan Carr being into a bit of–’ He mimed brandishing a whip.

Libby giggled, checking for who was nearby, but the nearest person was ten feet in front of them. Her sore ankle proved the perfect excuse for walking slowly and Patrick couldn’t care less. As Libby explained, their pace slowed further. If only the walk were ten miles, not two.

All too soon, they’d reached the village and her garden gate. He mustn’t kiss her. Absolutely, mustn’t kiss her. Anyone could be watching. With a camera. He stood four feet from her, with his hands in his pockets.

‘Night then,’ she said, pausing.

‘Night.’ He stepped towards her and tugged the hat off. ‘I’m glad you won, Libs.’

Oh Christ, that smile. He kissed her forehead and left, not daring to look back. If he did, there was every chance he’d turn round and kiss her properly. It was going to be a very long seven months until June.

How quickly things had changed.

Three weeks earlier, Libby had been researching flights to Sydney – she’d had a job she despised, a feud with Grace, Patrick hated her and she was afraid to walk into a charity shop for fear of the octogenarian staff whispering behind her back. Now, everything had changed. And sixty faces stared expectantly, cross-legged, chins on hands, waiting.

Oh god.

‘Are you ready?’ Jane whispered.

Why am I nervous?
Libby closed her eyes, taking slow steadying breaths. This wasn’t the Coliseum. It was the dance studio in Haverton. The audience weren’t middle class dance aficionados, they were ballet students aged five to eighteen. So why did she have clammy palms?

‘Okay, let’s do it.’ She flexed her feet one last time as Jane pressed play.

The music began and years of rehearsals took over, moving Libby’s feet without her having to think about the steps. It had been Jane’s idea, to inspire the students, to show them first-hand what they could achieve if they worked hard. Libby had been doubtful. Show them what a failed ballerina was like? But they didn’t know she’d failed. They didn’t know she should still be on stage. All they saw was a grown up, someone way, way older than them. To them she was the dream come true.

It ought to have depressed her, but their little faces stared in wonder and she tried not to laugh. That’s probably what she looked like when she first saw the Sugar Plum Fairy. Libby floated through the moves, feeling more appreciated than she had in front of several hundred people at the Royal Opera House. Bugger keeping her smile restrained, she let it grow.

For the first time in four years, her future felt... hopeful.

She had ballet. She had a tentative new friendship with Grace. And then there was Patrick. God, why did one night sitting next to Patrick playing cards still make her smile? He’d kissed her forehead, nothing more, but before she’d come to class, he’d been at the coffee shop, just like the previous week. They’d had espressos and he’d laughed at her nerves, but when he wished her luck, he’d tugged her plait, smiling. Okay, he didn’t kiss her or ask if she’d like to go out for dinner to celebrate, but hope, she had hope.

After her dance, Libby sat in a corner, relaxing in her warm-up clothes, planning to watch the rest of Jane’s classes. What she wasn’t planning was to be joined by six of Jane’s students. They sat around her, most simply gawping, but the newest recruit, Matilda, broke the ice by clambering onto Libby’s knee.

‘Libby, can I plait your hair?’ asked Amelie.

‘Oh, and me,’ piped up Ella.

They’re just people – really short people.
Braving a smile, Libby let down her bun. ‘Okay.’

* * *

Something had to change. He had to talk to his parents. Patrick wandered into their house, lifting the large canvas above the marauding pack of wagging tails and exuberant paws. He didn’t go into the kitchen, but poked his head around the door. Bacon frying, coffee brewing, mum nose deep in the Guardian – Saturday morning.

‘Mum?’

‘Hello, darling. Coffee’s fresh.’

‘In a minute. Can I have a word?’

She followed him into the dining room, where he propped the painting, still covered in brown paper, against the table.

‘Oh, a present for me?’ She laughed. ‘It’s not my birthday.’

‘I’ve… look, you can’t tell anyone about it, especially Jane. You know what she’s like. Promise.’ After his mum nodded, Patrick tore away the paper and her eyes widened.

‘Is that… the original?’ she whispered.

‘Yes. I know her.’

‘This is the ballerina you took to Jane’s? The girl from the Green.’

He nodded.

‘Why’s she so sad?’

Patrick explained, never taking his eyes off Libby’s mournful face.

‘You like her?’ his mum asked.

He took a deep breath, folding his arms. ‘Maybe.’

‘Well, she’s trouble.’ His father stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets.

‘Dad, she’s not like that. She’s a really nice girl.’

‘She could be the next Mother Theresa, but if you’re seen with her, getting up to no good, you’ll be on the front page of the paper.’

‘But dad–’

‘We have an agreement and if she’s such a nice girl, she’ll wait ’til June. Or you’ll deal with the repercussions.’

‘Mum?’ Patrick implored her. Be reasonable.

She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself.

‘Fine. You can keep the painting and just so you know I’m going out tomorrow night. Drinking. But I’ve taken Monday off, swapped with Fergus. I take it that’s within the rules?’

He strode out, pushing past his dad. Why couldn’t they see that he’d changed? He slumped against the front door, resenting them. Sod it. He’d just do what he liked. He’d go out with Libby and to hell with their bloody rules.

‘No, Elizabeth.’ His dad’s voice carried through the ancient single-glazed windows. ‘The boy hasn’t learned a damned thing. He can’t always have his own way–’

Patrick climbed in his car.
I’ve never been so ashamed to call you my son
. Did he really want to risk seeing that look in his mum’s eye again, even for… even for what? Would he risk everything, his mum’s respect, for a few months with Libby? She wanted to get married, have kids. It’d never work.

Well, it might. Could he risk everything on
might
?

* * *

As birthdays went, Libby’s twenty-fifth didn’t hold much hope for being the most exciting. Her boss, pressured by Robbie no doubt, had given her the day off, but aside from a leisurely run with Xander and going to the Alfred with Zoë later, she had bugger all planned.

And if she were honest, the last place Zoë needed to be was a pub. Weeks of constant drinking, late-nights shagging Sparky – and the odd blast of coke no doubt – were taking their toll on her. She called in sick more than she went to work and her skin, once glowing with peaches and cream, was grey and dull. Her jeans hung off her hips but Libby was at a loss to help – Zoë wouldn’t even contemplate talking about Jonathan, or Ed.

But for three hours, she could run with Xander and forget all about the world.

She lay on the floor, stretching and smiling as sunlight streamed through the window. And on the plus side, it was such a beautiful day, she could merrily potter around the garden, and maybe if Patrick passed by after his usual Sunday morning bike ride she could invite him in for a coffee. That’s what happened most Sundays. They did little more than read the papers, but Libby adored his company. Maybe this week she could ask him to stay for dinner. Okay, it wouldn’t be a Zoë extravaganza of lamb with red wine
jus
, but there was a chicken in the fridge and who didn’t like roast chicken?

The doorbell ringing almost brought her back to reality, but still daydreaming of kissing Patrick over roast potatoes had Libby answering the door, smiling like a loon.

Xander stood leaning against the porch. ‘Happy birthday, Wilde.’

His baggy shorts and bike helmet tempered her smile. ‘You’re cancelling on me?’

‘Slight change of plan,’ Xander said. ‘We’re going for a bike ride.’

Libby shook her head. ‘I don’t like bikes.’

‘Tough.’

‘I don’t even have a bike.’

‘You’re right out of luck because Daisy has a bike she’s used once and clothes she’s never worn.’ Xander handed her a bag. ‘Go and get changed.’

‘But I hate bikes. I haven’t been on one in years.’

‘It wasn’t that long ago,’ Patrick said as he pulled up. ‘Challenge yourself, Libs.’

Oh god, he was coming too? What was the lesser of the two evils, looking like a chicken in front of Patrick, or a turkey when she fell off the bike?

Bugger it.

Ten minutes later, she headed back outside, looking every bit a pro-biker in Daisy’s clothes. All the gear and no idea. To her horror, Robbie, Vanessa, Clara and Scott were all standing around, chatting excitedly in their biking gear. They offered raucous Happy Birthdays, Vanessa even gave a cheery wave, but Libby’s trepidation grew. She’d look like an idiot in front of them all. How would Patrick ever like her?

‘Xand, I’m not sure I can do this,’ she whispered as he tinkered with Daisy’s bike.

‘You’ll be fine, Wilde. You can ride mental horses and run the socks off me so you’re pretty fearless and fit. It’s easy.’

She fiddled with her plait. ‘I’m not–’

‘Seriously, this is what Rob and I used to do before the restaurant, take people out doing extreme sports. We know how to look after people. We’re not going anywhere tricky.’

‘Do I have to put my feet in the clippy pedals?’

‘Yes, but you’re going to have a quick lesson with the best instructor in the world. Rob taught Daisy and she’s a pain the arse to teach anything. She acts like a three year-old when she can’t do something. It’ll be fun, Wilde.’ Xander handed her the bike. ‘Rob?’

Robbie beckoned her towards the lane at the side of the house and Libby followed reluctantly, shooting Vanessa a nervous glance.

‘I don’t want to do this,’ she muttered, dying to run away.

Robbie smiled, taking hold of her handlebars. ‘I didn’t think you did scared. Besides, it’s definitely easier than riding Dolomite. In fact, it’s a lot like riding cross-county. Your knees and ankles are your suspension, your arms too. You just need to stay loose.’

‘Cross country?’ She took a deep, confidence-soothing breath. ‘I’m listening.’

While he patiently explained how the gears, brakes and clips on her shoes worked, she tried to pay attention, but no matter how much theory she took in, the thought of having her feet trapped, tethered to the pedals, terrified her. As they completed lengths of the lane, up and down like a swimmer, Robbie jogged alongside, reassuring her, talking her through everything, holding her up when she slowed but couldn’t release her feet quickly enough.

‘I can’t do this.’ Frustrated with failure, she struggled not to cry.

Robbie held her face with both hands. ‘Do you trust me?’

More than anyone she’d ever known. She stared into his reassuring brown eyes and nodded.

‘Here’s the thing, Lib. You’re going to fall off. It’s half the fun of the ride. You’re going to forget about your feet being clipped in and you’ll fall over. We all do it. Just enjoy it. I’d never let you get hurt.’

Galvanised, she pushed her reticence to the side and they practised stopping and starting several more times, until finally, she got it. Her foot hit the ground and he didn’t need to catch her.

She paused at the end of the lane. ‘Rob, please look after me?’

He kissed the top of her head. ‘I promise.’

* * *

Libby and Robbie were friends. Just friends. Rob was just showing her what to do. He knew it was nothing more, but Patrick stood astride his bike, leaning on his handlebars, wondering what was taking them so long. Beside him, Vanessa watched the lane between the houses, just as anxious as he was.

‘Libby is absolutely terrified,’ Xander said, pulling up the other side of Vanessa.

Really? Patrick stood up. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to this ride out. Maybe he should tell her to forget it. ‘Will she be okay?’

Xander grinned, that smug fucking grin. ‘Of course, because you’re going to look after her.’

‘Why isn’t your wife here? I’d look after her.’

Vanessa swatted them both. ‘Play nicely, you two.’

Patrick opened his mouth, but then Robbie and Libby appeared. Finally. He relaxed. He relaxed for three seconds until Rob kissed Libby’s head.

Vanessa gave a little squeak.

‘Van, stop it,’ Xander said, putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘It doesn’t mean anything and you know it.’

‘Yes, well it’s not nice to see.’ She looked up at Patrick. ‘Is it?’

Patrick bent down, pretending to adjust his brakes.
No, it’s not.
‘I’ll look after Libs and keep her away from Rob.’

Libby’s face was set with determination as she slowly cycled over, wobbling a little as she took her feet out of the pedals.

‘If I die,’ she said, ‘you get full custody of Hyssop.’

Patrick laughed. ‘Told you I wasn’t going to rely on plying you with booze.’

And the grim determination fled. She smiled. ‘I hate these shorts. It feels like I’m wearing a nappy.’

‘You’ll appreciate them later.’ He leant over, tightening her chin strap. ‘Come on, you’ll get nervous waiting for this lot to arse about. They can catch up.’

She swore under her breath, but followed him tentatively down the road. ‘Don’t go too fast.’

‘Speed is your friend.’ He slowed, pottering next to her. ‘And stay away from Rob. You’re making Van nervous.’

She frowned underneath her helmet. ‘I hardly think looking like a four year-old learning to ride without stabilisers is a fabulous seduction technique.’