Nearly Almost Somebody (42 page)

Granny? Jesus, that kid was priceless. Zoë ignored her, instead kissing Eliot and Paula a happy Christmas. Ed wandered up, his tousled dark hair reminding her of the previous day and creating a dull ache between her legs. More than anything in the world Zoë wanted to feel Ed’s dick inside her again, but she did nothing more than politely kiss his cheek.

‘Stepmother’s home,’ she whispered.

Devastation flashed in his eyes and his fingers dug into her arm, but Zoë refused to weaken. Jonathan was real control.

* * *

Knocking on the imposing blue door of Kiln Howe terrified Libby, but she held her head high as the barking of dogs grew louder. Someone was coming. She prayed it wasn’t Patrick’s father. The door opened and Patrick stooped, holding back two energetic black retrievers. She blinked. It couldn’t be Patrick; he was at the vet’s.

‘You must be Sam,’ she said, still staring.

His smile grew. ‘And you must be Libby. He’s not here.’

‘I know.’ She tipped her head to the side. Same black curly hair, same nose, same hazel eyes. ‘You two look really alike, really, really alike.’

He laughed. ‘It’s very nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Libby blushed. ‘Is your mum in? I wondered if I could borrow the painting.’

‘I can’t see why not. It’s yours after all.’

‘Well, not really. I gave it away. Patrick bought it and gave it to your mum. It’s hers.’

‘Well, I’m sure she won’t mind. Come in.’ Sam stood aside, still holding the dogs. ‘Mum!’

Elizabeth appeared, promptly followed by Malcolm McBride. Libby cringed.

‘Hello, Miss Wilde,’ he said.

‘For God’s sake, Dad, her name’s Libby.’ Sam shook his head. ‘She wants to borrow the painting.’

‘Just for a day or so.’ Libby daren’t look Malcolm McBride in the eye. He probably believed she was a prostitute.

‘Of course.’ Elizabeth beckoned her in. ‘Tea?’

Libby hesitated. Crikey, all she’d wanted was to take the painting. Sam took her arm, leading her down the hallway.

Malcolm hovered at the door to the kitchen, holding out his hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Olivia.’

Stunned, Libby shook his hand, not missing that Patrick’s hazel eyes and thick black lashes came from his father.

‘Come on,’ Sam whispered. ‘We don’t bite. But to be on the safe side, I wouldn’t take any of the ginger snaps. My wife Charlotte is likely to take you out with a teaspoon.’

Libby glanced up at him, as bemused by his similarity to Patrick as she was with his words.

‘She’s pregnant,’ he explained, ushering her into the warmth of the kitchen. ‘They stop her feeling sick.’

Libby couldn’t help laughing, and Sam’s enormous smile, so like Patrick’s, took over his face. ‘Congratulations.’

Within minutes, Libby found herself sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and a fat slice of Elizabeth’s carrot cake. Malcolm continued filling in his crossword, calling out clues to which the others would suggest answers – Sam and Elizabeth clearly competitive, while Charlotte offered ridiculous solutions.

A sudden longing overcame Libby – a need to be part of a family once again. If she went to London, if she became the Broken Ballerina, would she ever belong in a family like this?

Patrick or ballet.

* * *

After an hour of surgery, the guinea pig was recovering comfortably and Patrick sat down with a well-earned coffee. Pinning a guinea pig’s leg was possibly the fiddliest job he’d done in a long time. Thank Christ Hannah hadn’t come in – no way would she have been able to get a cannula in the tiny creature. Grace on the other hand, had inserted one in seconds.

‘Oh my God,’ Grace squealed. ‘It’s snowing. It never snows at Christmas.’

The minor flurry, against his expectations, settled and developed into a veritable blizzard over the next thirty minutes. Libby’s ancient Golf still wasn’t parked outside the house. Was she driving? Maybe he should ring her. Grace could watch the patient while he picked Libby up. But if he were alone with her, what the hell would he say? He stared at his phone. What would Robbie do? He’d tell her he loved her and everything would be fine. How did Rob do that? How could he just know a girl was right?

By five o’clock the blizzard eased off and Patrick couldn’t help feeling cheered by the snow. It changed the community. The orange glow from the street lamps and multi-coloured lights flashing on the Green’s Christmas tree added a cosy warmth. Merry drinkers spilled from the Alfred and three sets of children were building snowmen, but despite the laughter, the Green remained peaceful, muffled under its white duvet.

Creeping slowly up the Green came his parents’ Range Rover. Perfect timing. Maybe his mum or dad would keep an eye on Snuffles while he rescued Libby. The car pulled up outside and Sam jumped out, carrying
the Broken Ballerina.

‘What the hell...’

Libby climbed out of the car, jogging ahead of Sam. He took the painting into Maggie’s cottage and when he came back out Libby kissed his cheek, thanking him. Briefly, as though she knew he was watching, she glanced at Patrick. Her face as sad as it had been the morning before.

What are you doing, Libs?

She gave him the smallest of smiles. He needed to talk to her. They had to sort this out. The arrival of his parents distracted him for a moment and when he looked back, Libby had gone. He forced a smile for his mum, but the sudden intrusion irritated him.

‘Darling, Libby’s a sweetheart,’ she said. ‘How’s Becky’s guinea pig?’

He let Grace fill his mum in, Patrick turning his attention to his buoyant brother.

‘Bro, time for a pint?’ Sam hugged him, slapping his back, before whispering, ‘I love Libby.’

‘What the hell’s going on? Why’s she got the painting?’

‘She wants to borrow it. She stayed for tea and it’s fair to say Dad’s smitten. It started snowing so we gave her a lift. Left her death trap at Kiln Howe. Thought we’d take you to the pub. Seriously, Dad’s smitten.’

Patrick glanced towards Libby’s closed door. ‘Why does she want the painting?’

‘Wouldn’t say. She was more interested in your niece or nephew.’

‘She was distracting you, getting you to talk about what you wanted to so you wouldn’t pry. It’s a skill of hers.’

‘Who cares? She’d make a great sister-in-law.’

Sister-in-law? Jesus.

‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, bro, but there’s snow outside.’ Sam’s eyes glinted. ‘Fight?’

‘I get Grace. You can have Charlotte and Mum.’

‘Our mother and a pregnant woman? Thanks.’

‘As if I’d throw anything at Charlotte.’

Sam merely raised his eyebrows.

Ten minutes later, led by the two McBride brothers, the entire Green became embroiled in a snowball fight.

‘It’s like when the boys were little,’ said seventy year-old Mrs Jenkins, as she and Andrea from number twelve pelted Malcolm with snow.

Despite waging war and orchestrating his troops against Sam, Patrick didn’t miss Libby’s front door opening. She came out, bundled up in her down jacket, a hat pulled low over her eyes. Sadly, Grace had spotted her too and a white ball smacked against Libby’s woollen hat, making her shriek.

While Patrick debated high-fiving Grace or reprimanding her for friendly fire, Libby retaliated, sending a snowball flying towards Grace. She ducked and the missile landed squarely on Patrick’s shoulder. Libby’s hand went to her mouth, shocked she’d hit him.

My brother loves her, my best friends love her, even my dad is fairly enamoured...

She laughed.

He hadn’t seen her laugh, not really laugh, since Christmas Eve. Grinning, he scooped up a double handful of snow. Libby ran.

Still laughing, she dashed behind the war memorial, dodged between cars, but as they neared the surgery her hiking boots failed to grip the snow and she slipped, giving him the chance to catch her. He grabbed her jacket and dumped the snow over her head, sending the ice cold flakes down her collar. She squealed, and with one leg she kicked his legs from under him.

As he fell backwards, his fingers tightened, clutching at her jacket and pulling her with him. He thudded onto the snowy pavement and she landed on top of him. Hidden by his Land Rover from the rest of the Green, they were cocooned in their own winter wonderland and her body relaxed against his.

‘How the hell do you do that?’ he asked, laughing. Snowflakes dusted her hat, her eyelashes, her nose. Why couldn’t it be like this all the time? ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘It’s been twenty-four hours.’

Thirty-one actually. ‘A very long twenty-four hours.’

‘I hear you’re going to be an uncle.’

‘I hear you had tea with my family.’

‘You and your brother look so alike, I thought he was you when he answered the door.’

‘He likes you.’
She’d make a great sister-in-law.

Patrick suppressed a shiver and tucked her fringe under the hat, taking his time to just look at her, to breathe in her perfume. You’re not ballet, are you? Had she really meant that? Her pretty grey eyes gazed down at him. Sod it. He kissed her. Roses and sweet peas.

She kissed him back and for a few blissful seconds it was Christmas Day again. The whole world was new and they could do anything they wanted. A war cry brought him crashing back to reality.

‘We can’t do this,’ she whispered, pulling out of his arms and sitting up.

‘I know, but I was thinking... we could escape for a couple of days.’ Jesus, he hadn’t intended to throw that out there so early. In bed later, maybe.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Go somewhere. Get away from prying eyes.’

She glanced at her hands, playing with a handful of snow. ‘Come to London with me?’

‘You’re really going?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to see if... You said I should stop looking for distractions and stop pretending my past didn’t happen. You’re right. My life isn’t ruined. It just needs to be different.’

‘But why London? You can teach here.’ He sat up, sighing.

‘But what if I can have my old life back? If I use the Broken Ballerina to market myself, maybe I might just get another fifteen minutes, maybe I could get a few roles, small solos.’

‘You want to dance again?’
You’re not ballet, are you?
She did mean it.

‘Just for a few months–’

‘If you do, you won’t come back.’

‘Maybe, I don’t know.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But... I hear they have cows in Surrey.’

He stared at her. Was she serious?

‘It’s okay,’ she said, standing up and forcing a smile. ‘Whatever I’m imagining in my pretty little head, it’s never going to happen.’

‘Libs, be fair.’ He sat on his heels, leaning against his Land Rover. ‘I’m trying to hang on to my life here. I’m not going to throw it all away and move to London.’

She nodded and headed back to cottage.

‘Libby…’

She turned back to him. ‘Look, I really like you. I think you already know that, but I really,
really
like you and I don’t want, I can’t cope with the random attention you’re willing to give.’

‘Lib–’

‘Patrick, I love you.’

Why did girls have to do this? ‘Can’t we just–’

‘You might be happy with a secret fling, discreet nights out where no one sees who you’re with, but I’ve tried that and I hated it. I deserve better.’ She glanced up to the grey sky, tears shining in her eyes. ‘The thing is, I admire what you’re doing, I really do, but I don’t think this is just about the ultimatum and I have no intention of ending up like Nina, wasting four years of my life, only for you to run two hundred miles because you’re scared of commitment.’

And she walked away.

The camera flashes startled her, but Libby maintained her cool smile as Paolo helped her from the taxi. Several photographers yelled to him, asking for her name. He obliged, but told them nothing more. Together they headed toward the burly doormen, Libby striding out on her highest black heels.

‘You look beautiful. A real star,’ Paolo whispered. ‘You sure you’re in love with the vet and his rural dream? This could be us, being fabulous in London and going to all the best parties…’

She laughed, in her element. Here, she didn’t worry about not having real world curves like Zoë and Grace. Here, she walked amongst neurotic models and size zero actresses. Here, Libby blended in. Tomorrow, the cannier journalists would discover Olivia Wilde was a ballerina, a ballerina who hadn’t danced for four years. Her anonymity would be over and she’d become known as the Broken Ballerina.

Inside the Kensington art gallery, Libby and Paolo drifted around, studying the bizarre paintings and even more bizarre sculptures. Just about everyone they met air-kissed and hugged him. This was Paolo, her destitute ex-boyfriend, who’d lived in more squats than he’d held down real jobs. Now he wore a cutting edge suit and Italian leather shoes. She missed his threadbare jeans and Converse boots.

‘Some art I just don’t get,’ Libby said, frowning at a three dimensional, upside down papier-mâché representation of Van Gogh’s sunflowers. ‘So which is the artist?’

‘Danny’s the guy with the red beehive by the bar.’

Libby giggled. ‘I’m so glad your art is recognisable.’

With his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist, they looked like the cosy couple they were trying to portray. Both had little to lose from any newspaper inches.

‘You really do look beautiful,’ Paolo said, kissing her shoulder.

‘Thank you.’

She felt it. The silk top she’d once appropriated from Zoë’s wardrobe and faux leather jeans had become her favourite outfit. When she and Patrick got down and dirty in the hallway, he’d admitted that in Oscar’s, it’d taken all his self-control not to reach out and touch her, just to see if her breasts felt as good as they looked.

Libby crossed her ankles, trying to banish memories of the sex, and focussed on a painting of a lilac pony galloping through a turquoise sea.

‘Now, that I…’ she said, glancing around, but Paolo was chatting to some guy in a kaftan.

Abandoned, she took a glass of mineral water from a passing waiter and wandered over to a trio of peach cows munching yellow grass. Cute, but the lilac horse rocked more. She glanced to the price tags. Seven grand for the cows? Five for the lilac horse? Crikey. Maybe she should take up dodgy arts and crafts. Two vast, snub-nosed pigs peered down at her, one lime green, the other sea-blue.

‘Lucy, did you see here?’ said a low Irish voice behind her. ‘Do they not remind you of Portia and Prudence, Tabitha’s old Kune Kune’s?’

Libby turned. Seamus Doyle, he’d come. He stood with his head tipped to the side. Lucinda Doyle threw her head back, cooing over the painting, begging Seamus to buy it for Tabitha’s birthday. If that woman had it in her to murder Maggie, Libby would eat her faux-leather jeans. Lucinda seemed more likely to drown someone in well-meaning hugs.

‘They’re cute, but I prefer the lilac pony,’ Libby said, smiling at the pigs.

‘Ah now, you’ve a cold, cold heart if it can’t be melted by a couple of porcine beauties like these.’ Seamus Doyle laughed, his eyes twinkling.

Libby couldn’t help comparing him to Patrick – both tall, good-looking and both unwilling to offer their hearts to their broken ballerinas.

‘Libby?’ Paolo offered her a glass of wine.

She held up her water. ‘I have to dance tomorrow.’

‘It’s Paolo de Luca, isn’t it?’ Seamus held out his hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, sir.’

Paolo smiled, shaking hands. ‘This is my good friend, Olivia Wilde.’

‘Friend?’ Seamus tipped his head, studying Libby before turning back to Paolo. ‘Ah now, it’s a shameful thing, but, Mr de Luca, do you have the time to say a hello to my wife? She’s your biggest fan.’

Libby poked Paolo who dutifully gave Lucinda his biggest smile.

‘So, Ms Wilde...’ Seamus led her to the next series of Dani’s art works, vast profanities painted with tiny fingerprints. ‘Are you really a
friend
of Mr de Luca?’

She nodded.

He laughed. ‘Do you know what I’m thinking?’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘That you’d be his muse, the elusive Broken Ballerina.’

Libby glanced around, ensuring no one heard. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You carry yourself with the grace of a dancer. Or is that just a coincidence?’

She shook her head. ‘But please don’t tell. Not yet.’

He nodded.

‘Actually, I have a confession, my own shameful thing.’ She mimicked his accent, making him laugh. ‘I’m living in Gosthwaite, in Margaret Keeley’s old house.’

‘Are you now?’ He visibly stiffened, focussing on the WHORE painting in front of them. ‘They say Dani made this with the fingerprints of underage prostitutes. The world’s a dark place, Miss Wilde.’

‘My best-friend, Zoë, is Maggie’s great niece.’ Libby persevered, turning away from the disturbingly small fingerprints. ‘I was a huge fan of Maggie’s, not that I ever saw her dance, but I understand you knew her.’

Was it too soon to ask if he was with her the day before she died?

Seamus’ black eyes had all the compassion of coal as he turned to her. ‘Please excuse me, Miss Wilde, I’d hate my wife to take up too much of your friend’s time.’

He strode away. Apparently so.

Arse.

It’d changed. Everything had changed. Okay, the buildings were the same, many of the people were the same, but the staff had changed, the way they did things had changed. Libby wandered through the halls of Markova House, air-kissing old friends, smiling at familiar but less well-known faces. Nothing was the same.

She toured the school, watching rows of determined girls point their toes with precision. Few of Jane’s students were of the same calibre, but Libby suspected they had more fun. Not that the students seemed unhappy, they just... well, they wouldn’t be allowed to sit on the teacher’s knee or plait her hair between classes.

After she’d assisted in two classes, calling instruction in one, her nerves grew. Her own class approached. She hadn’t attended a professional class for over three years, and she was sure to embarrass herself in front of the other dancers.

No. If Zoë had taught her anything, it was how to hold her head high.

I’m here to teach, not dance. Right now, it doesn’t matter what the other dancers think.

Taking slow, steady breaths, she laced up her ballet shoes and removed her warm up layers, unable to ignore the suspicious and sneering glances of the girls around her. But their animosity flooded over her. A newbie stealing your place in the
corps
was horrific, but to have some
has-been
turn up...

Libby arched up onto her toes, relishing the stretch. Well, this has-been
had
turned up and the other dancers were right to be scared of her.

Because I was good.

This was like the fell race. Libby wouldn’t just finish, she’d come first, she’d be the best.

Libby sailed through class, the moves as familiar as brushing her teeth, and when she performed thirty-two immaculate fouettés even the ballet mistress cracked a smile. Libby had suspected so, but now she knew – Jane’s formidable lessons were as good as any Libby had endured in the company.

Triumphant and breathless, Libby relaxed from her final arabesque only to realise the legendary Tamara Rojo watched from the doorway. Crikey. Her idol even offered a brief smile before slipping out of the room.

Tamara Rojo had watched her dance.

Carlos, her old coach, applauded slowly. ‘I am surprised you are not creaking with rust.’

‘I’ve been taking class with Jane Knight. She was a principal with the Royal Ballet.’

‘Yes, she called me.’ Carlos tapped his forehead. ‘But you ’ave something new, Olivia. You’ve changed. Technically, you were always perfect, now you ’ave what you lacked back then. Now, you ’ave emotion. I think you be in love.’

‘I be heartbroken maybe.’

He laughed, clutching both hands to his chest. ‘Ah, you can’t know what it is to love ’til you ’ave loved and lost.’

‘I’d rather be an ice maiden,’ she said, not meaning it. Oh, to sit and eat dinner with Patrick, to simply sit, eat and talk.

‘What do you want to do, Olivia?’

What did she want to do? Have steak and dauphinoise with Patrick, knocking back red wine and laughing in the garden, or punish herself for hours every day just to dance in the Coliseum again? Both ideas were far-fetched, but only one seemed remotely possible.

‘Teach,’ she said, raising her chin, ‘and dance, as a guest soloist.’

Carlos laughed. ‘But only prima ballerinas get that luxury. We’d all–’

‘I’m the Broken Ballerina.’

He pursed his lips. ‘We supposed as much.’

‘Paolo de Luca’s a friend. We’re using the painting’s notoriety to our advantage. For a few months at least, I’ll be a name. You could sell tickets on my name.’

‘For a few months at least.’ Carlos placed his arm around her shoulders, keeping their chat private from the next class padding in on satin toes. ‘It’s a lot to ask. You ran away.’

‘At the end of the season. I didn’t let anyone down. So, can I teach and be a guest soloist?’

‘
Si
.’ Carlos kissed her cheeks. ‘We start with class, we find you a role and then we send you to the school. Welcome back,
cariña
. You need to speak to Annabelle in HR. She sort the terms. And get your blog updated. You had fans. Get them back. And maybe we should ask Jane Knight to come here too.’

She was back.

With her coat buttoned up and scarf tightly wrapped around her neck, she wandered through a snow covered Hyde Park. London. It was lovely to be back, but London meant no more fell running, no more horse-riding – no more Robbie, no more Jane, no more Patrick. Tears tumbled down her cheeks as she typed out a text.

I got the job so you can relax. I won’t be around to ruin your idyllic rural life.

Her phone rang.

‘Look,’ she said, beyond weary. ‘I can’t–’

‘Miss Wilde? Seamus Doyle. Now, how do you fancy brunch with an aging but seldom drunk Irishman?’

* * *

Christmas had started out pretty poor, but steadily it’d turned to rat-shit. Patrick had finally pulled Libby, but what happened? She ran off to London to be a bloody ballet dancer.

I got the job so you can relax. I won’t be around to ruin your idyllic rural life.

Fucking marvellous. Patrick leant on the bar, nursing the remainder of his third pint.

‘You seen this?’ Grace asked, dropping a copy of the
Daily Mail
on the bar.

Oh yes, he’d seen it. The paper lay open at a page showing several celebrities at an art exhibition in some glitzy gallery. The fourth photo was of Libby and Paolo. In the skimpy silk top and black leather trousers, she smiled at the camera oozing class amongst a page of tarted-up wannabes. Her hand held Paolo’s. The sight made him want to be sick.

‘How did you do it, Gracey? How did you come to work every day and listen to me bang on about...’

‘Who you banged at the weekend?’

He hung his head, ashamed. ‘Sorry.’

She leant on the bar, her face sympathetic. ‘Hey, at the end of the day, you’ve been a good friend.’

He bumped fists with her and drained the rest of his pint. ‘I’m still sorry.’

‘Your drinking buddies are here.’ Grace nodded behind him.

Patrick turned, just in time to see Robbie’s fist flying towards him. Oh shit. The pain shot through Patrick’s jaw as he fell backwards, toppling off his stool. Grace yelled, Robbie shouted, Scott apologised, but Patrick lay there, knowing he deserved it and more.

‘What the hell was I thinking,’ Robbie yelled, ‘asking you to keep an eye on her? I should’ve kept you a million miles from her. She’s
Off Limits
. Forever.’

Patrick closed his eyes.

‘Off Limits? You three have some messed up loyalties,’ Grace said. ‘Robbie, she’s not your bloody property.’

Robbie pulled away from Scott’s grasp. ‘She’s actually moving to London.’

Patrick could only nod.

‘I said I’d kill you if you broke her heart.’

‘And I said I’d let you,’ Patrick rubbed his chin. ‘But not here.’

Scott held out a hand, pulling him up. ‘We need a kickabout. Grace, got a bottle of something and a ball?’

‘For you, gorgeous,’ she said, adding a wink, ‘anything.’