Nearly Almost Somebody (11 page)

Zoë waved the idea away. ‘He doesn’t count. I don’t need a spell to pull him, but Jonathan couldn’t be less interested and look at Mr Coffee Shop.’

‘Zo?’ Libby nervously tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’

She promised no such thing and did indeed laugh out freaking loud when Libby told her about keeping Maggie’s box of witchcraft and the spells she’d done.

‘Fuck me, you’re a dark horse at times, Ms Wilde.’ Zoë stood up. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘The Summoning Spell. I’ll summon my dream guy, and you can summon... well, someone who isn’t Jack or Paolo.’

‘Really?’ Libby wandered, frowning, to her bedroom. ‘Well, there’s no messing around and you have to do the Grounding thing first.’

Although she was amused by how earnest Libby sounded, Zoë soon found herself sitting cross-legged in the middle of the back garden, no longer worrying if anyone could see them. The whole Wicca thing was nothing more than superstition and fantasy, utter mumbo-jumbo, but under the moonless black sky, the only light coming from the shining band of the Milky Way, Zoë frowned at her blank piece of torn wallpaper, nibbling the end of a pen.

‘What are you putting?’ she asked Libby.

‘Good looks, 25-35, nice eyes, English, honest and single. That should rule out Paolo
and
Jack. Why don’t you wish for someone with blue eyes who likes coffee?’

Grinning, Zoë shook her head and wrote:
A great shag with plenty of money.

* * *

Michael Wray put down his knife to answer his phone, ignoring the disgruntled diners around him.

‘Wray.’

‘I’ve got her. In the green.’

‘You ripper. Who with?’ Michael Wray asked. ‘Xander again?’

‘No. Jack.’

Wray sighed. ‘Not good enough, mate. I want someone that’ll rock the local community. Try the blog.’ He ended the call and refilled his glass.

‘Who’re you talking about?’ asked the former Miss Haverton, picking at her
foie gras
.

Wray grinned. ‘The new you.’

Outside the cottage, splattered with mud and exhausted from running, Libby doubled over, gasping for breath.

‘You just couldn’t resist, could you?’ Grace came down the steps outside the vets surgery, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘We’ve been going out for ten years. Ten years. He’s shagged eleven other girls that he’s admitted to me.’

‘But I haven’t–’ Libby panted, with her hands still on her knees, and glanced at the cottage. Would her legs get her there?

Grace’s eyes were puffy, red and filled with hatred as she stood, hands on hips, her foot tapping. ‘Usually, he gets wasted, shags them then buys me flowers to say sorry.’

‘But I haven’t shagged him.’

‘No, you wouldn’t, so what does he do? He splits up with me. Why couldn’t you just shag him, get it out of his system?’

Jack had split up with Grace? Libby’s head swam as she straightened. ‘Grace–’

‘Don’t you dare. He told me about last night. Jack might wander every now and then, but he tells me everything. And he told me about the little red silk bag you carry everywhere with you.’

Libby blinked, the corner of her mouth twitching. ‘But how do–’

‘Who did you summon, Libby? My boyfriend?’

‘No. I...’ Her words were a whisper, mortification rising from her toes. She hadn’t meant to summon him; she’d deliberately tried to exclude him.
Honest and Single.
Only now it turned out Jack was unfailingly honest and thoroughly single. ‘It’s just a silly spell. It’s not even real.’

‘You’ve got Maggie’s book, haven’t you? You’re messing with something you don’t understand. You’ve come here, a bloody off-comer with your hoity-toity accent.’

‘I didn’t–’ Libby held her cramping thigh. She needed to stretch.

‘Look at you. You’re knackered. And you think you can do the Lum Valley fell race. In your dreams. You’re a middle distance runner at best. You haven’t got the stamina for fifteen miles.’

Libby’s back stiffened. Stamina? Grace dared question her stamina. She had no idea what Libby could run through, dance through. ‘I can do the race. Xander reckons I could go for the women’s record.’

Grace laughed. ‘I’ll see you at the start line and I’ll be waiting for you at the finish.’

Libby frowned, looking over Grace’s curves. All the fell runners she’d seen had zero body fat.

‘You’ve picked the wrong person to make an enemy of,’ Grace hissed. ‘You’re going to regret this.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘You keep telling yourself that.’ Grace stomped back into the vets, leaving Libby unsure whether to cry or scream.

‘Libby?’ Jack called from his mum’s front doorway.

‘This is your fault,’ Libby snapped, striding up to him. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? You’re an unfaithful arse. Do you honestly think I’d go out with someone who sleeps around like that?’

He folded his arms, scowling. ‘I don’t remember anyone asking.’

‘Just leave me alone.’

‘Yeah, well, just so you know, she’ll kick your arse in the fell race. She holds the women’s record and wins every year.’ He ducked inside Sheila’s house, slamming the door behind him and Libby fled.

How could everything go so wrong? All she’d wanted was a fresh start, but somehow she’d ended up inciting a feud with Grace and destroying a relationship. Flopping onto her bed, Libby’s heel hit the plastic storage box containing Maggie’s Wiccan trove.

She pulled out the box and threw in the symbolic candles she had stationed around her room, the sleeping charm from under her pillow, the little red summoning spell pouch and finally the spell book. Maybe it was hocus pocus or maybe it was more real than she’d ever imagined, but either way, Grace was right. Libby had no idea what she was messing with.

As she rammed the lid on, Hyssop padded across the bed to her. He rubbed his head against her hand then batted something shiny with his paw. Libby picked it up. The little silver amulet showed a naked woman holding an offering over her head. It supposedly promoted new beginnings, and as Hyssop’s purr soothed her frustration, Libby closed her hand around it.

* * *

‘Well, this is different,’ came his voice, from the coffee shop as usual.

Zoë didn’t stop walking.

‘Not the killer staccato beat, or the chill-out tune.’ He fell into step beside her. ‘You’re not late, or not-that-early. You’re something else.’

Yeah, struggling to walk, thanks to Sparky
. Zoë kept going, refusing to look at Mr Coffee Shop.

‘You’re not even talking to me?’ he said.

Sod it. She stopped, wheeling around to face him. Jesus, he was cute, and those eyes... ‘Do you know how many times I’ve been stood up? Once. By you.’

His eyes flickered, a moment of doubt flashing, but he replaced it with a smile. ‘Guess I set myself out from the crowd.’

‘No. You blew your chance.’ But his lips were ten levels of kissable, despite the fact he’d undoubtedly taste of skanky roll-ups.

‘Look, I’m sorry. I got offered a job that I couldn't say no to. If you’d have gone into the shop, Amy would’ve given you the note I left.’

Zoë folded her arms. ‘You’re not forgiven.’

‘How about you make me pay for it? You can play hard to get until I’m on my knees if you like?’ His eyes twinkled as he teased her and Zoë struggled not to smile.

‘Sounds like something I’d do.’

‘Fancy starting today? Five o’clock when you finish work?’

‘Today?’ She slowly shook her head. ‘Today wouldn’t be playing even remotely hard to get. Tomorrow.’

‘See you then, beautiful.’

Really, she didn’t give a crap about playing hard to get, but she’d promised to be home by six with takeaway pizza and a bottle of Jack Daniels – a depressed Libby’s poison of choice. And if she were truly honest with herself, going on a date when she was still saddle sore from shagging Sparky the night before felt... dirty. The odd thing was that, by Zoë’s standards, that ought to make it more fun.

So why was it different with Mr Coffee Shop?

* * *

By five o’clock, Libby was still sweeping the yard, her list of jobs far from finished. When Robbie came out of the house, she leant on the brush handle, barely able to look at him. This was it, the moment she’d lose her perfect job. She’d arrived twenty minutes late that morning, hung-over to hell after way too much Jack Daniels and exhausted after a largely sleepless night, most of it spent throwing up takeaway pizza. Since Robbie was usually so bloody grumpy in the morning, she’d expected him to sack her on the spot, but he’d closed the Land Rover door, merely frowning at her as he drove away.

‘The yard’s clean,’ he said quietly. ‘Come on.’

The fact he was carrying two glasses of wine suggested he wasn’t sacking her – at least, no one had handed her a glass of red with her P45 in the past. Taking a deep breath to summon a little bravery, she hung up the yard brush and followed him.

He bypassed their usual seat on the herb garden wall and led her round to a small, perfectly idyllic, if a little unkempt side garden. Robbie sat on the chair-swing beside the French doors into the living room where he could keep an eye on his daughters who were watching TV and eating berries. One day, Libby would live somewhere like this. Although she’d mow the lawn and the scarecrow wouldn’t be at forty-five degrees to the weeds he protected. One day.

Robbie patted the swing beside him and handed her a glass. ‘Okay, out with it. What’s up?’

She curled up, hugging her knees. ‘Boy trouble.’

‘Who?’

‘None of your business.’

He stretched out his long legs. ‘Who?’

‘You’ll only say he’s inappropriate and not to be trusted.’

‘Been playing hard to get?’

‘I don’t play. I am hard to get.’ She paused to sip her wine. ‘Jack.’

His face darkened with blatant disapproval and the little muscle in his jaw twitched. Why did he look like he wanted to yell at her? Was he protecting her like a daughter? He shouldn’t; he was only five years older than her. Or was he... she gave a little shake of her head, dismissing the stupidest of ideas. He was looking out for her. That was all.

‘What happened to his girlfriend stopping you?’

‘He broke up with her.’

‘To go out with you?’

She nodded. ‘She laid into me yesterday. She’s devastated.’

‘Understandable. You’ve been messing around with her boyfriend.’

‘I didn’t mess around with him. I told you. Cheating’s wrong.’

‘But, if you didn’t do anything wrong, it’s not your fault.’

‘I still feel guilty.’ A fat tear fell down her cheek.

‘Why?’

‘Because... I caused a problem in their relationship.’

‘If they had a decent relationship, he wouldn’t be chasing you.’ He fiddled with her lighter, frowning again. ‘Now will you listen when I tell you to stay away from unsuitable, untrustworthy types?’

She wiped her eyes. ‘Know any suitable types?’

He laughed a little, but didn’t offer any suggestions.

‘You don’t have any single friends?’ she asked.

Grinning into his glass, he shook his head.

‘Really, not any, half-decent single friends? No chefs at the restaurant?’

‘All completely unsuitable and untrustworthy.’

She swatted his arm, smiling for the first time that day. ‘Sorry for being late this morning.’

‘Obviously it’s never to happen again, but under the circumstances, I’ll let you off.’

She lit another cigarette and sighed. ‘Life must be so much easier when you’re married with kids.’

He laughed, but with no humour.

‘What?’ she asked. ‘You have the perfect life.’

His smile fell as he leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. The silence grew, but Libby refused to break it. What the hell was wrong? She sipped her wine.

‘I think Vanessa’s shagging the viola player in the string quartet. And if she’s not, then it’s only a matter of time until she does.’

Libby took a slow breath. ‘And why do you think she’s shagging the viola player in the string quartet?’

‘How come you took Shakespeare out today? I asked you to take Storm out.’

‘Shakes cheers me up.’ She shifted to sit cross-legged, her knee an inch or so from his thigh. ‘You’re avoiding my question.’

‘I am.’ He still stared at the grass.

‘Hey, misery adores company. Out with it.’

And then he did something that surprised her. He sat back and told her everything. He explained how Vanessa had taken up the cello again, twelve years after she’d stopped playing, and seemed to lose interest in everything else around her. First, the garden suffered, then her friends, and eventually, her family. And when she landed a place in the string quartet, the constant practice, the frequent evenings at rehearsals and the never-ending calls to
Jason
for advice, drove her further and further away.

‘The worst of it,’ Robbie said, lighting yet another of her cigarettes, ‘is how happy she is. It’s as if I bore her and only that wanker who plays the viola can make her smile.’

‘Have you spoken to her about it?’

He gave a derisory laugh. ‘Argued about it? Yes.’

‘Then why did you let her go on tour?’

‘It’s her dream. I’m not going to stop her.’

‘But you have no evidence, just paranoia?’

He nodded.

‘You should trust her,’ Libby said. ‘She must be trusting you.’

He turned to face her, his frown growing, and Libby’s cheeks burned. Crikey, she hadn’t meant herself. Surely, he must know loads of beautiful women. He could have his pick of the single women. And probably most married ones too. The moment passed and he resumed his study of the grass.

‘I’m not sure she cares anymore,’ he added quietly.

‘What’s he like, the wanker who plays the viola?’

‘One of those talented, good-looking, charming sorts. And he’s French.’

‘Sounds awful.’

‘Yeah well, he has a ponytail.’

‘Is it a very long ponytail? Do you think he’s compensating for something?’ She elbowed him and to her delight, he laughed.

How the hell could his wife be even considering playing around? Robbie was… well, he was perfect. Libby drained her glass, wishing there were another tall, dark, funny, sexy guy in the village – one just like Robbie, but single.

‘I should go,’ she said, her mood sinking as she handed Robbie her glass. Wouldn’t it be lovely to stay and polish off a bottle, drowning her sorrows with him? But they both stood up, the moment over. ‘Thanks for the shoulder.’

To her astonishment, he wrapped his arms around her and Libby fought the urge to hug him back, scared it might be taken the wrong way. Wrong way? He was being friendly, not trying anything on. Now, why did that idea depress the hell out of her?