Nearly Almost Somebody (13 page)

‘OMG, I totes love your t-shirt.’ Tallulah bounded into the room. ‘
Puh-lease
can we go riding today?’

‘I’m not sure...’ Libby glanced to Robbie. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. ‘You’re not going to work?’

He shook his head. ‘I have three days with her before she buggers off to Pony Club Camp. Thought I’d make the most of it.’

‘I’ll do the feeds.’ Tallulah dashed off.

‘Oh.’ Libby shifted awkwardly. ‘Do you still need me here then?’

‘Hell yeah. Your job is to show Lulu that horses are cool. It’ll keep her away from boys for another few years.’ Robbie looked her over again, shaking his head and fighting a smile. ‘Just remember...’

‘If she dresses like me, I’m fired, I know.’

‘Lib?’

‘What do you want?’ It was always
Lib
when he wanted something.

‘A favour. Pick the girls up tomorrow night?’

She groaned.

‘I know, I know. I had asked Daisy, but they really want you to do it.’

‘Fine. Just don’t expect me to finish the bloody list tomorrow.’

‘I never do.’

‘What?’ Libby stared at him, but he merely looked back, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. ‘God, you never expect me to do it all, but I always do. That’s why the lists get longer and longer, to see how much you can get me to do? You, you...’

She ought to be cross, but how could she be? She loved working at Low Wood Farm. For the first time in three years, she didn’t wake in the morning, wishing she were going to class, auditioning, rehearsing.

‘You arrogant bastard,’ she joked. But to her surprise, instead of smiling at her joke, the muscle in his jaw twitched away. ‘What’s up?’

‘Van’s coming back for the weekend.’

‘Okay.’ So she’d finally meet Vanessa Golding. But why wasn’t Robbie looking remotely pleased at the idea of his wife’s return?

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I think it’d be better if…’

‘I’m not here?’

‘I’m taking the weekend off. Family time.’

‘Want me to do Monday and Tuesday instead?’

‘You can’t do seven days in a row again.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You really are a godsend.’

She struggled to keep her blushes under control. ‘Is that why you vastly overpaid me?’

‘For the babysitting, the cigarettes.’ He tugged her plait. ‘And because this place has never looked so good.’

Her blushes were beyond control. ‘Can I take Shakespeare out on Saturday, if Tallulah doesn’t mind? I’ll stay out of the way.’

He nodded as he took a CD from the table. ‘Track seven is noteworthy. It’s what you should be looking for instead of inappropriate, untrustworthy types.’

She studied the CD, Depeche Mode’s
101
. Track seven was
Somebody
.

That evening, she put the CD into her laptop and skipped straight to track seven.
Somebody
. The track, recorded live, featured nothing more than the singer, Martin Gore, playing piano as he sang about what he looked for in a partner. Libby pressed repeat four times, captivated.

This was what she needed, what she wanted. She wanted somebody to share the rest of her life, know her innermost thoughts, her intimate details. She wanted somebody to put their arms around her and kiss her, tenderly.

I want my ‘Somebody’.

Strains of Verdi’s
String Quartet in E-minor
drifted across the yard as Libby slipped off Shakespeare’s saddle. The muted notes Vanessa coaxed from her cello sparked memories of Libby’s first professional role for the English National Ballet and the inevitable tears fell. There had to be thousands of classical pieces Vanessa could play, why that one?

‘For Christ’s sake, Tallulah.’ Robbie’s voice, loud and angry, obliterated the music.

Libby ran to the tack room, the saddle over one arm as she wiped at her eyes, no doubt smudging her make-up. She couldn’t let him see her crying. It sounded as if he was in the garden. She could escape unnoticed.

‘Five minutes,’ he yelled. ‘I asked you to keep an eye on Dora for five minutes, but you’re too busy texting Chloe. Go and check in the Wendy house.’

Dora was missing? Libby dried her eyes on her t-shirt, hoping she didn’t look too Alice Cooper, and peeked out onto the yard. Dora sat in the sandpit, merrily upending a bucket to create a perfect little castle. The cello music never stopped, so Libby reluctantly broke her promise to stay out of the way.

‘Libby!’ Dora leapt up, hugging her leg.

Libby took her hand, leading her to the garden. ‘Rob? She’s here.’

He sprinted over, his face pale as he picked up Dora, kissing her head over and over. He mumbled to his daughter that she wasn’t to run off, his relief palpable but doing nothing to diminish his frown.

‘Are you okay?’ Libby asked, unused to seeing him with stubble or shadows under his eyes.

‘Why are you here?’ he snapped.

‘I took Shakespeare out. You said… What’s wrong?’

‘Oh piss off, Libby. It’s nothing to do with you.’

He stalked away, leaving her with tears once again looming.

The first, distant rumble of thunder filled the valley as she plodded into the village. All she needed now was for god to smite her down with a thunderbolt. The humid air stifled her, like she was breathing through a hot rag. Robbie hated her. She’d interfered, over-stepped the mark. He wasn’t her friend; he was her boss. Why did she always cross boundaries at work?

The first drops of rain fell as she walked into the Green. A few fat blobs hit her bare arms, and then the deluge started, but she didn’t have the energy to run. Why did Vanessa have to play the Verdi? She’d danced to it at Covent Garden. The
Guardian
had laid praise at her feet, promising a long and world-class career. But here she was, about to be sacked from the only job that had made her happy in three years.

Her t-shirt and jodhpurs were drenched by the time she’d reached the cottage, but she didn’t care. Just another disaster to add to the shambles she called her life. Her tears mingled with the rain. A glass of wine. She deserved a vast glass of wine.

As she opened the door, Zoë trotted down the stairs, in a scarlet linen shift, ready for a date with some bloke from work. Why did Zoë find dates so easily while Libby’s life was filled with unsuitable types?

‘You’re dripping all over the tiles.’ Zoë peered in the hall mirror, smoothing a hand over her immaculately straightened hair. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’m going to get fired.’

Zoë stopped her preening. ‘Why?’

Libby explained, slumping against the wall.

‘But he can’t fire you for that. He should apologise.’ Zoë applied a coat of her usual scarlet lipstick, but didn’t let up on the inquisitive frown. ‘It’s not just a lust thing, is it? You really like him, don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Liar.’

‘What does it matter? He’s married. I couldn’t have him, even if he didn’t hate me.’

‘So move on.’

‘Who with?’

‘Jack?’ Zoë suggested, nodding to the drill down the hall.

‘Jack’s
here
?’ Libby hissed. ‘Why?’

‘He’s sorting out the cupboard under the stairs, putting a new door on.’

How could she complain about that piece of DIY? ‘It looks done. Why’s he still here?’

‘He’s fixing the dodgy hinge on the pantry door, and pretty much taking all day over it. I’m guessing he’s waiting for you to come back.’

Arse. Libby pushed her soaking hair back. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

‘Because he’s single and he fancies the pants off you.’

‘He’d shag around the minute my back was turned.’

‘Personally, I’d take the risk. Have you seen his arse?’ Zoë checked her watch. ‘I can’t believe it’s pissing down. My hair’s so going to frizz.’

‘You can’t look worse than me.’

‘This is true.’ Zoë frowned at her. ‘Okay, for one, Robbie can’t sack you because you’ve done nothing wrong. And two, there’s a rather single, very fit joiner next door, dying to see you. I’m off.’

Libby sighed. ‘Later ’gator.’

‘While ’dile.’ Grabbing her umbrella, handbag and a bottle of red, Zoë headed out into the rain.

Wine. What a great idea, even if she did have to deal with Jack. Libby headed into the kitchen, pointedly ignoring him. Crikey, but he made it hard. In a black sleeveless t-shirt and a toolbelt slung around his hips, he looked straight off the cover of some erotic romance. The fridge was bare. No white wine. She glanced across to the wine rack. And no red. Awesome.

‘Hi,’ he said quietly.

‘Not a good time.’ She refused to look at him. She must have mascara halfway down her cheeks by now. ‘Bloody Zoë’s taken the last of the wine.’

‘Sorry,’ Jack said, leaning on the kitchen island.

‘Why? It’s not your fault.’ She regretted her snappy tone the second the words came out. ‘Sorry, I mean, it’s not your fault.’

She wasn’t wrong there. He ticked her boxes: good looks, twenty-nine, green eyes, English, single and surprisingly honest. She’d summoned him. This was all her fault.

‘Libby–’

She shook her head. ‘I’m going for a shower.’

The thunder rolled as she climbed out of the shower, now accompanied by flashes of lightening, some lighting the sky, some forking down to the ground. She stood in her bedroom, wrapped in a towel, watching the storm, Hyssop on the dresser next to her. The black clouds seemed endless. The wrath of the Earth Goddess. You had to admire the power.

There was a knock at her bedroom door. What the–

‘You decent?’ Jack said from the other side.

She tightened the towel. ‘No.’

The door opened a couple of inches and his hand appeared through the gap, holding a glass of white wine.

‘It was in the pantry,’ Jack said. ‘It’s Mum’s elderflower wine.’

Libby took the glass and hovered by the door, unsure what to do. Well, being polite was a good start. ‘Thank you.’

‘You didn’t fancy starting a fire,’ he said, his voice a little further away. ‘You know, to see me in the uniform?’

Libby grinned and leaned against the wall. She couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see her. Sweet that he respected she was practically naked in her bedroom. ‘Are there many fires around here? Or is it all dashing off to save kittens from trees?’

‘I reckon I’ve cut more people from wrecked cars than I’ve carried from burning buildings, but I’ve never rescued a kitten. There was a tortoise on the church roof once.’

Libby took a mouthful of the wine. The elderflower tasted so crisp and fresh, the acidity level perfect. ‘Why on earth was it up there?’

‘Well, it had gone up there for the tomatoes.’

‘The tomatoes? Why were there tomatoes on the roof?’

‘Mrs Barratt at number seven had a greenhouse, one of those plastic Wendy house things. The first decent wind and it ended up on the church roof, tomato plants and all. Stan fetched it down, but he didn’t bring all the plants.’

‘But how did the tortoise–’

‘Ah, well,
Mr
Barratt won the tortoise in the school gala…’

The storm raged while Libby drank her wine, listening to Jack’s tales, letting his easy-going charm obliterate her misery over Robbie. Crikey, he was funny. Thunder boomed and her heart fluttered as she pictured Jack’s mouth, his tousled sandy hair... running her fingers through his tousled sandy hair, kissing his... Wow, where had that come from and what was he talking about? She shook her head, struggling to pay attention to his words, her vision blurring with a million pixelated lights as she glanced at the empty glass in her hand.

The elderflower wine was potent stuff.

And yet she buzzed with confidence. Okay, her hair had part dried into a bedraggled mess, and she hadn’t a scrap of make-up on, but the towel only covered about two feet of her – her legs looked awesome. As she opened the door, his latest story about rescuing old Mr Jenkins from a portaloo faded away. God, he was so cute. Cute, funny, twenty-nine, with lovely green eyes, English, single and honest – he
was
the one she’d summoned. This was meant to be. And wasn’t it the perfect time while the Earth Mother was venting her wrath at the world...

‘Hi,’ she said, her skin tingling with anticipation.

Jack pushed his hair back, quickly glancing away, before taking a deep breath. ‘Libby, I know you don’t think too much of me, but I’m trying to do the right thing. I think you’re... well, I think you’re pretty fucking cool, so I told Grace because I’ve always been honest with her. I just want the chance to show you I’m not–’

Libby kissed him, her lips lingering against his, but Jack pulled back, surprised. It was a momentary reaction and when she kissed him again, he didn’t hesitate. His hand slipped around her waist, pulling her closer. Robbie who?

Lightning cracked and they staggered into the room, tumbling onto the bed. A flicker of doubt flashed in her head, but with Jack kissing his way down her neck, along the edge of the towel, Libby ignored her nagging conscience. She grabbed his t-shirt, pulling it over his head and Hyssop padded out, sending her a disapproving meow.

Jack tugged the towel free and Libby focussed on his sandy brown hair, suddenly seeing it two shades darker, his green eyes turning the colour of molten chocolate. God, she’d wanted this for so long. To kiss her way down Robbie’s –
Jack’s
chest. She blinked, refocusing on Jack’s perfect six-pack. Jack.

His hands trailed up her leg as she ran her fingers through his hair, her tongue toying with his and as his fingers reached the apex of her thighs, she closed her eyes anticipating his touch. It didn’t disappoint. Bolts of pleasure shot through her, stronger than she’d ever known. She was as electrified as the storm outside. Every kiss, every caress, sent delicious shivers surging over her skin, making her beg for more. In a blur of kissing, stripping off his clothes, she somehow managed to find a condom in her bedside drawer.

‘Your eyes…’ He let out a deep groan as she unrolled the condom. ‘They’ve gone all dark and sexy as fuck.’

Libby knelt over him, feeling more alive than she had in years. She was about to have sex with Robbie Golding and he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

‘Libby… wake up,’ said a girl beside her. ‘Libby?’

A sneeze startled Libby. What? As she opened her eyes the light in the room blinded her and her ears hummed with the blood rushing around her head.

‘Libby, you need to drink this,’ the girl said.

Libby blinked, struggling to comprehend why the girl looked so much like Grace. Oh, because it was Grace. What was Grace doing? She held a mug to Libby’s lips. Coffee, really strong coffee. ‘I don’t want it.’

‘Libby, do as she says,’ Jack said.

The coffee was warm, not hot, but the acrid flavour made her wince.

Jack. She’d had sex with Jack. They hadn't even been out on a date, never mind the five date rule she usually stuck to. She’d had sex with Jack, so why the on earth was Grace in her bedroom? Libby gulped the coffee, hoping it’d help her think. Her brain was a mess.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, finally able to focus.

Jack sat on the bed, a frown creasing his forehead as he nibbled at his thumbnail.

Grace knelt by her side, urging her to drink more. ‘The elderflower wine you had. It was laced with belladonna – you know, deadly nightshade.’

‘You poisoned me?’ she said to Jack, wishing she had the energy to move away.

‘No.’ He sneezed.

‘He might’ve saved your life.’ Grace refilled the mug from a cafetière. ‘The more you have, the better you’ll feel.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Well, after you were done fucking my boyfriend–’

‘Grace,’ Jack snapped, ‘not now.’

Grace pouted for a second.

‘What happened?’ Libby struggled to sit up, wrapping her still naked body in the duvet. ‘Why was it poisoned?’

‘Poison to one is medicine to another,’ Grace said. ‘Maggie used to lace her drinks with belladonna to help with her migraines. I doubt one glass would’ve killed you, though shagging probably pumped it around your blood a lot quicker. That would’ve been an ironic way to go.’

‘After…’ Jack sneezed again. ‘You went all weird, mumbling nonsense about work, and your pupils were huge so I got Grace.’