Nearly Almost Somebody (40 page)

‘I come bearing gifts.’ She put the tray on the bedside table and knelt over him, running her fingers down his treasure trail. ‘Tea, I’m afraid. I don’t like coffee in the morning, but there is toast.’

Patrick began unbuttoning the shirt. ‘That can wait.’

‘Have you any idea how very, very pretty you are without the black crap and the fringe?’ Patrick handed her a mug of stewed tea.

Thirty minutes of breathless, intense shagging had left her hair bedraggled and her face sweaty. Pretty wasn’t the term she’d have used.

‘You might have mentioned the pretty thing once or twice, but I like the black crap. I don’t like looking pretty. I like looking edgy.’

‘You don’t look edgy. You look like seventeen year-old trailer trash.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Christ, really strong tea might actually be worth drinking. Where on earth did you find a teapot? I didn’t know I had one.’

‘I didn’t, your mum did. Ugh, it’s cold.’ She put her mug on the side. ‘Tea really has to be hot.’

‘Hang on, my mum did?’

Libby nodded. ‘She was downstairs, tidying up. She’d already done the living room.’

‘I wonder what she thought when she found your cut up dress.’

‘It was possibly the most excruciating five minutes of my life. I look awful. She must think I’m an awful tramp, but she was very blasé. Has she had many chats with girls making tea?’

‘It’s usually coffee.’ He tugged her plait. ‘No, not to my knowledge. And you don’t look awful. In fact you look cute as fuck in my shirt.’

Libby grinned. She might wear it all day. ‘She said she likes to make sure you’re still alive the morning after.’

‘Bullshit. She most likely heard we’d left together and came for a nosy. Sorry.’ He leant back against the headboard, frowning up at the ceiling. ‘I wonder if she’ll tell Dad.’

‘I know you don’t want to let him down, but you’re nearly thirty. Surely you’re not worried what he thinks about who you’re shagging?’

‘Of course, not.’ The tiny twitch in his eye was back.

Libby sat up, frowning at him. ‘Liar. He doesn’t like me, does he?’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘The way he looked at me last night.’

A huge frown took over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Libs. He doesn’t know you. He’d like you if he did.’

Libby hugged her knees. ‘Your mum asked if you’d let her know if you were still going to Christmas dinner. Are you?’

If he invited her along, she could meet his dad and hopefully win him over.

‘I thought we’d agreed.’ He ran his thumb along her thigh. ‘We’d pray my phone didn’t ring, while I sit watching crap on TV and you make dinner like a good little wench.’

She laughed, gently punching his arm. ‘You have to help. And I’m nobody’s wench.’

‘Okay, but if Zoë catches us shagging in the kitchen, it’ll be your fault.’

‘I can live with those terms.’ Libby smiled. Who wanted to go to his parents anyway? ‘Your mum also told me something else.’

‘Go on...’

‘The painting?’

‘Christ, I’m starting to look a little obsessed, aren’t I?’

Libby held her finger and thumb an inch apart. ‘Just a bit. I went to get it back the next day, but it’d gone. You weren’t even speaking to me then.’

‘Do you want it?’

‘No. Yes. Maybe one day. How much did you pay for it? I’ll pay you back.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘How much?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s between me and Haverton Animal Rescue. The irony isn’t lost on me. I already work for free on Monday afternoons, now I’ve funded the drugs too.’

One day she’d pay him back, but in the meantime he’d have to make do with a million thank you kisses.

‘Enough,’ he laughed, fending her off.

Libby sat smiling at him for a moment.
I love you. It’s absolutely official
. ‘Your mum said something else too.’

‘I’m going to throttle her when I see her.’

‘She said we’d better hope Michael Wray didn’t find out.’

‘And? I hope he doesn’t.’ Patrick stood up, pulling her with him. ‘Shower?’

Libby let him drag her to the bathroom, fully aware he was distracting her. ‘Why does it matter?’

‘If we have a shower? I’ll smell a lot better.’ He opened the vast glass door to the shower, turning on a deluge of water. ‘You still smell of roses and sweet peas, but come on.’

‘I’ll have one at home. I need ridiculous amounts of conditioner.’ And industrial make-up remover or she’d look like Alice Cooper. Roses and sweet peas?

‘Spoilsport.’

She leaned against the wall, blatantly perving at his naked body. Crikey, he was confident, but then, he had no reason not to be with his long muscular legs and perfect arse. Maybe she could dive in with him.

‘What does it matter if Michael Wray finds out?’ she asked. ‘We have nothing to be ashamed of. Let them read all about it. Hell, we really should send him a photo.’

The glass steamed up, hiding all but his silhouette. He washed his hair, scrubbed his skin, but still didn’t answer her. What if this was a one night stand? A Christmas fling. What if he’d got cold feet?

‘You’re doing it again,’ she said. ‘You’re ignoring me.’

Again, the silence descended, this time magnified as he shut off the shower. She wrapped her arms around herself, the wait unbearable.

‘This isn’t a scandal,’ she said.

‘But he’ll make it a scandal and I can’t afford for that to happen.’

‘Why?’

Finally, he came out, tying a towel around his waist. A wet Patrick, droplets running down his flat abdomen, down to the dark hair half covered by the towel was more distracting than the naked one. Oh god, she should’ve showered with him. Maybe she should stop wearing the black crap.

‘You had your chance, princess,’ he said, flashing a cheeky grin.

She gave a little laugh, but couldn’t ignore the dread building inside. ‘What didn’t you tell me last night?’

He swore quietly, as he leaned against the shower door. ‘The Miss Haverton story, did you ever see it?’

She shook her head.

‘Front page, shagging in the park. My mum actually said she was ashamed to call me her son. I’ll never forget the disappointment in her eyes. Libs, they’ve already tried to make out that you’re a prostitute. What will they say if I’m involved?’

‘But it’d be made up nonsense.’

‘But it’d still hurt my parents.’

‘So…’ She dared to look up at him. ‘Is that it? You’re protecting your parents? Don’t get me wrong, it’s admirable, but they are grown-ups. They could handle the truth.’

‘It’s not just that.’ He let out a slow sigh. ‘I can’t break the rules.’

‘Why? What happens if you do?’ She closed her eyes, not wanting to hear the answer.

‘They’ll kick me out. Disowned. Sacked. Bye-bye house, car and my life in Gosthwaite.’

No. Tears stung her eyes, but she hung her head so he couldn’t see. ‘Do they mean it?’

‘My name being linked to your escapades on Halloween cost me two weeks wages. They mean it.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.’ He gave a brave smile and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. ‘Look, so we can’t go out in public, but we’ll work it out, Libs.’

‘How? I know what it’s like to lose your job and your family. You can’t risk it.’ Her cheek rested against his damp shoulder as she inhaled his fresh-from-the-shower scent.
I love you and I won’t ruin your life.
She glanced down, spotting the smudge of mascara on his towel. ‘I got the black crap on your towel, sorry.’

He gave a small laugh, relaxing his hold on her as he glanced down.

She darted out.

By the time he yelled her name, she was already running down the stairs. She dashed past their neatly folded clothes, an excited Isla and out the back door, hoping no one saw her leave. Who would see her? The rest of the world would be checking under the tree to see what Father Christmas had left them. For a brief moment, she’d thought all her Christmases had come at once, but in reality, she’d spent six months earning her place on the naughty list.

The bitter winter air ripped through the shirt, but Libby ignored it as she ignored the stones cutting into her bare feet. They were her penance for betraying her better judgement. She should never have even remotely flirted with Jack and god, did she need another reason to regret her affair with Robbie?

She strode into Maggie’s garden, wiping in vain at the tears falling down her cheeks, the white shirt cuffs now streaked with black. London was her only option. She’d book a ticket on the first train south.

‘Libby, stop,’ he called from behind her.

She did, but only to put an end to their odd relationship once and for all. He crossed the gap between them, still pulling on his sweatshirt, his nine toes as bare as her ten. Before he could speak she lifted a hand and laid it on his forehead.

‘Whatever influence I hold–’

‘Don’t give me that bullshit.’ He knocked her hand away, and pulled her to him, wiping her tears with his sleeve. ‘Please, don’t cry.’

‘It’s not worth it, Patrick.’

‘Isn’t it?’ He still held her face.

‘I don’t want a half-arsed, secret fling.’

‘It’ll be fun.’

‘Fun?’ Seriously, did he say
fun
? ‘I’ve done secret. It’s not fun. It’s horrible.’

‘It’s just for six months.’

‘I want more.’

His hands fell away. ‘What do you mean, more?’

I love you.
‘You know what I mean.’

Patrick took a step back. ‘What are you expecting? We haven’t even been out on a date.’

‘And with your genius plan, we never will.’ Libby folded her arms, shivering against the cold wind. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘I knew you’d do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘Run away.’

‘I’m not running away.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I have a meeting with the English National Ballet on the twenty-ninth. I’m going to discuss going back to work. I arranged it after you messed me around yet again at Xander’s party.’

Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘And were you planning to tell me, or just fuck me then fuck off?’

‘Of course I was going to tell you.’

‘What about teaching ballet to the little kids?’

‘London would be better.’

He stared at the ground. ‘And us?’

She mustn’t cry again. ‘What us? You want a fuck buddy who’s not going to get in the way of your idyllic life in the country. You might be a bloody good distraction, but let’s face it, you’re not ballet.’
And I won’t ruin your life.

His forehead creased as he looked up, his eyes blazing with hurt, anger, frustration. ‘I guess not. Happy fucking Christmas, princess.’

And he walked away.

The Cartier watch on Zoë’s left wrist, her best Christmas present
ever
, sparkled as she padded down the stairs to say goodbye to Jonathan. He and his family were off on their annual trudge to the next village for mulled wine and mince pies at his brother’s house, but Zoë opted to stay at home, citing culinary reasons. Really, she wanted an hour or two away from his bloody family.

The eldest son Eliot and his drippy wife Paula clearly despised her, while their two feral kids, Harriet and Joshua, had no concept of the word
no
. Twice Zoë found six year-old Harriet rummaging in her handbag, the last time pulling out cigarettes, tampons and using her Chanel lipstick to draw a picture of Granddad. But if they made her life hell, they were nothing compared to Ed.

His vitriolic attitude at the funeral hadn’t abated and he used every opportunity to snipe at Zoë. The evening before, when she’d excused herself to get ready for the Mill party, Ed had poured her a glass of champagne, his cold eyes glaring into hers.

‘But surely someone like you,’ he’d said, ‘only needs to throw on an old rag, a little lipstick and the latest diamonds my dad bought you.’

He’d become an obnoxious little prick. How had she ever fancied him?

Smiling, she slipped her arms around Jonathan and kissed him. ‘Enjoy the walk.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ he asked.

‘Too much to do.’

‘Actually, dad,’ Ed said, wandering down the hall. ‘I thought I’d stay and give Zoë a hand.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ Zoë flashed a smile. What the hell was that bastard up to? ‘Enjoy your walk.’

But Jonathan slapped his sons back. ‘Good man, Ed.’

Zoë clenched her fists, barely restraining her fury as Ed headed back to the kitchen. ‘I don’t need his help.’

‘It’s a gesture, Zoë,’ Jonathan ran his hands down her arms, trying to pacify her. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed the tension between you two. I know it’s difficult, but why don’t you take some time to get to know him? You’ll like him.’

All she could do was smile sweetly.

In the kitchen Ed was leaning on the island, waiting for her, his hands in his pockets, his dark hair contrasting fabulously with his Arran jumper, his blue eyes glittering with contempt. It was all too tempting to throttle him.

Or fuck him.

You’ll like him.
And wasn’t that the problem. He was his father’s son. Zoë strode past Ed, hating that his aftershave made her want to tie
him
to a four-poster bed. Ten o’clock, time for Buck’s Fizz.

‘What do you really want, Ed?’

‘I’m just keen to help my wonderful step-mother-to-be in the kitchen. I’m one hell of a cook, you know.’

‘Bite me.’

He looked her over, as though he were contemplating just that. ‘Oh come on, I just want to talk and you’ve been avoiding me since I got here.’

‘I wonder why. I notice you haven’t told your dad about... us.’

‘There is no us. And you haven’t told him either. Why?’

She opened the fridge, needing the cold air to cool her flushing cheeks, and took out the champagne. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘I’ll have one.’ He leaned against the island, his eyes narrowing. ‘Coincidences.’

Zoë raised her eyebrows as she filled two glasses. Bollocks to the orange juice. ‘Coincidences?’

‘A few months ago I came to see Mum. She had this amazing skunk. I know she used to score it off your aunt–’

‘Great aunt.’

‘Your
great
aunt, but Maggie was dead, so who was the new dealer, I asked. Your father’s latest whore, she replied.’

Zoë smiled over her glass. ‘I considered it a good deed. Your mum had needs and your dad had needs. I’m a facilitator.’

‘Oh, come on, you’re fucking him for the money, for the Cartier watches.’

‘I’m fucking him because he’s an amazing man.’

Ed stepped closer, invading her space. ‘Is it a coincidence that the whore who supplied my mother with skunk happens to live next door to the vet’s where the ketamine that killed her was stolen from?’

‘Yes.’ Zoë refused to back off. ‘Yes, it’s a massive bloody coincidence. Is this how you want to spend Christmas Day, accusing me of supplying the ket?’

‘Did you supply the ket?’

‘The night it was stolen, I was shagging your dad at a boutique hotel overlooking Grasmere.’ Zoë tried not to smile when Ed flinched at her words. He was jealous? ‘And the night your mother received the ket, I was dressed as the Queen of Hearts, surrounded by half of Gosthwaite. The police thoroughly checked my story after you suggested I was her dealer. Thanks for that.’

Ed leaned in, putting his lips next to her ear. ‘Thing is,
stepmother
, I think you’re a liar.’

He stood so close she could feel his semi and Zoë turned her head so her lips hovered an inch from his. ‘What are you really after, Ed? To play with your daddy’s toys?’

His lips curled in a mirthless laugh, his semi growing and pushing against her hip. ‘You’re a gold-digging whore.’

‘What a shame you don’t have any gold to dig.’

Their lips met in a hot, breathless kiss, his hands holding her face, and Zoë throbbed, her pants already soaking. Jesus, even Jonathan had to do more than just kiss her. She pulled away, staring at Ed.
I want you, not him.

He stared back. ‘Oh Christ.’

‘We can’t do this.’ She begged him, but her fingers were in his hair. ‘We can’t do this to him.’

‘But you and me?’ Ed’s eyes burned into her.

‘It can’t happen.’ Zoë shook her head, though she pressed her body tight against his. ‘I honestly swear I’m not just after his money.’

‘It’s wasted on him, Zoë. He fucked around on my mum for years. He’ll do it to you too.’ Ed’s hand reached down, slowly hitching up the hem of her jersey dress. ‘You can’t marry him.’

Zoë wanted to be sick, repulsed by how much she wanted Ed. She couldn’t cheat on Jonathan. She couldn’t prove everyone right. But she did nothing to stop his hand. ‘You just want revenge. To prove a point.’

‘This isn’t revenge and you feel the same.’ His hand ventured further, gliding across the silk of her knickers. The damp patch had him groaning into her hair. ‘Oh God, Zoë.’

She kissed him, sucking on his bottom lip, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans as he pushed her knickers to one side. A finger slid over her clit and she leaned into him, encouraging him, needing him to go further.

‘Jesus.’ He closed his eyes as his finger slipped inside her and her muscles squeezed, begging for more. He obliged. ‘I want to fuck you.’

As she nodded, caving in, he spun her around, bending her over the breakfast bar. Or maybe he wasn’t his father’s son. Ed pushed up her dress with one hand and pulled her knickers to the side with the other. She ought to hate it, the lack of control, the submission of power, but the thrill of him wanting her so badly had her pushing back against him. She’d never needed anything like this before.

He entered her, muttering the things he’d wanted to do to her since they’d met. Fucking her like this was only the start, he said. They belonged together, he said, and they always would.

Zoë knew he was right.

Ed’s fingers teased her clit and his teeth bit into her neck. He marked her, owning her, and she didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. Her body shuddered, coming around his dick, against his hand and ten seconds later, he cried out, pumping himself inside her.

Zoë collapsed, resting her forehead against the cool marble worktop. It was the first time she’d had unprotected sex in ten years. How had she let that happen? How?

‘Sorry,’ he whispered, still inside her. ‘I’m so sorry, but I had to.’

You can, whenever you want.
Her weakness scared her, but the thought of Ed never fucking her again, scared her even more. ‘I forgive you.’

‘Did you supply Mum with the ket?’ His words were murmured against her hair.

She turned, facing him with honesty as his come dripped from her. ‘If I had, I… I wouldn’t feel bad. She was in so much pain. Your dad said she was smiling when he found her. Maybe she thought it was time to let go.’

Ed kissed her, his mouth gentle and sweet. ‘For fifteen years, my mother was a zombie in the living room. Her choice, Zoë. My life’s better without her. It’s good to admit that to someone.’

Zoë held his face. ‘You can tell me anything.’

‘I don’t mind dad finding someone new. Fuck, he deserves to be happy after nursing her for fifteen years, but if he does have a new wife, I’d like one who’d make a half decent mother, not one who brings out every oedipal bone in my body.’

In his bedroom, one cluttered with sports trophies and writing awards, Zoë sucked Ed’s dick while he told her to move to London, and when she lay on her back with him slowly sinking into her, she agreed. There was only one man for her, and it was Edward Carr. To prove his point, Ed made her come four times in the hour they had. The final time, Zoë broke down, sobbing, but Ed held her, whispering he loved her.

What the fuck was she going to do? This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was destroying her.

Libby’s text came at the perfect moment.
Need you, Emu.

Zoë replied,
I’ll be there, Koala Bear
.

Ten minutes later Zoë sat in her BMW, Ed’s come still soaking her knickers, and screamed. That obnoxious little prick had ruined everything.

* * *

Curled up on the wicker sofa in the garden, Libby pulled a hat over her wet hair and sipped her tea. Half-twelve. Where would Patrick be now, at his parents? Would his dad give him a hard time for going home with her? For the eightieth time that day, tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘Hi,’ Zoë whispered as she crept out with a bottle of champagne and two mugs. ‘I figured you mustn’t be in the mood for celebrating, but it’s bloody good stuff. The mugs will stop it feeling like a party.’

Libby tried not to sob. ‘Thanks for coming. I’m sorry to drag you away from Jonathan.’

Zoë filled the mugs. ‘Honestly, I was glad of the chance to escape. Eliot hates me, the grandkids are the spawn of Satan and don’t get me started on Ed. They can cook their own bloody dinner. Let’s get shitfaced.’

‘Have you got cigarettes too?’

‘That bad?’

In the grey, frosty light, sipping a mug of vintage Veuve Cliquot and chain-smoking Marlboro Gold, Libby explained about the twelve hours she’d spent with Patrick.

‘Zo, I’d give up anything,
everything
for him. I really do love him, but I can’t risk him being disowned by his parents. And what if when I go to London... what if I still love ballet more? He won’t come with me.’

‘He might.’ Zoë’s hand shook as she took a long drag on a cigarette. ‘He loves you, Lib. I saw it the day he came to ask me for Hyssop. He’s scared. Give him a break.’

‘I don’t want to sneak around for six months.’

‘Do you really want to go back to the company?’

‘If I can’t have him, definitely. If I can have him... I don’t know, but I have to find out.’ Libby wallowed in her own misery until she realised Zoë’s furrowed brow hadn’t eased. In fact, her nervous blinking had increased, as had the rate she was knocking back the champagne. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s after one, there’s a chicken in the fridge and you’ve not made a move to cook it.’

Zoë lit another cigarette. ‘Not hungry.’

Libby’s own worries waned as concern for Zoë took over. If Zoë didn’t want to cook, it meant she didn’t want to eat. This is how it would start; this is how it always started. Black tea and chain-smoking would come next. She’d start obsessively checking the calorie content on wrappers and packets. Then it’d be the gym, punishing herself on a cross-trainer for an hour at a time.

Libby put her arm around her. ‘Six months on and we’re more miserable than when we left Manchester. I’m leaving for London so I don’t ruin my not-boyfriends life, but you, young lady, with your fabulous new fiancée, you look more depressed. What happened?’

‘I fucked up, Lib.’ Zoë cried like she had the day she met Libby fifteen years ago. ‘Please don’t hate me.’

‘As if. We’ve survived too much.’

Zoë’s hands shook as she lit another cigarette. ‘This morning… I fucked Ed. I’ve never known anything like it. I couldn’t stop myself.’

Libby bit back every lecturing word on her tongue. ‘Do you love him?’

‘Obsessive lust maybe, some physical and emotional bond. I lost control and I need it back.’ Zoë took a long deep breath. ‘What the hell do I do?’

‘Surely, if you find something this powerful, you jump on it.’

‘Not with him.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a fucking penniless writer, a waiter to pay the bills.’

‘Zo, it’s not about money. It doesn’t make you happy.’