Nearly Almost Somebody (2 page)

‘What would I do up there?’

‘Well, you’d be rent-free. You could do what you liked. Just think about what you really want to do.’

‘Where is this cottage of Great-aunt Maggie’s? I’m not sure I can do living in the countryside. I haven’t lived anywhere remotely green since I was eight.’

‘This is the good bit. It’s in a place called Gosthwaite.’ Zoë opened her laptop. ‘It’s a village on the east side of the Lakes so handy for the M6.’ Zoë panned around the Google Streetview of a village green. ‘There’s the King Alfred pub and that’s the war memorial in the middle of the green, and that’s my new cottage tucked in the corner.’

In a cobbled green mostly edged with smart Georgian places, Maggie’s house was the last in a row of small houses. Libby’s mouth gaped.

‘That’s not a cottage. Cottages are cute. That has grey pebble dashing and it’s at the end of a terrace. Look at it, it could have been built in the sixties.’

‘It’s a double-fronted nineteenth century workers cottage and it’s directly across from the pub.’ Zoë elbowed Libby. ‘Well?’

‘I can’t picture you in the countryside.’

‘Me neither, but think how amazing it’ll be. Big fish, little pond. We’ll be the most fabulous things the village has ever seen.’

‘How medieval are we looking? Emmerdale in the Eighties?’

‘Gosthwaite’s quite cool. There are five pubs, a post office, greengrocer, butcher, baker, arts and craft candlestick maker, two cafés and a couple of restaurants.’

Zoë flicked through Google Images, flashing over pictures of walkers, mountains, and pub interiors. Libby stopped her at a photo of a young girl and pony clearing a jump.

‘Horses?’

‘You know I hate the stinky creatures, but I think there’s a livery yard in Gosthwaite and a riding school in Haverton, that’s the nearest town.’ Zoë tempered her smile. ‘What do you think, ready for a change?’

‘I have BHS stage two, but I might need stage three to get a decent job. For the first time I’m actually glad Mum made me go to Pony Club Camp every summer.’ Libby didn’t take her eyes off the pony. ‘That’s what I can do next. I’m going to live in the countryside and work with horses. Awesome.’

* * *

The next morning Libby woke to find Paolo gone. On the pillow lay a sketch of her smiling as she stood
en pointe
with her hands on her hips. In his beautifully expressive handwriting, he’d written a dedication:
To my Broken Ballerina, I’ll love you forever. Px
.

It was going to take some man to distract her from Paolo.

At Low Wood Farm, Patrick McBride wandered through the garden, barely registering the borders overflowing with foxgloves or that the lawn needed scything rather than mowing. Like he cared if the Golding’s usual quintessentially English standards were slipping – it was a sunny June afternoon and at their annual barbeque the booze supply would be endless. For that alone, Patrick couldn’t be more thankful. His pallor matched the grass as he made his way towards the gazebo bar. Hair of the dog time.

‘Now then, Vet’nery.’

Bollocks
.

The owner of Manor Farm, Tom Ellwood, stood between him and the bottle of Becks that would offer salvation. While Tom rocked back and forth on his heels and remarked on the perfect haymaking weather they were enjoying, Patrick took slow, steadying breaths, trying not to inhale the fumes from the other man’s glass of whisky. That really was the animal that bit him on the backside.

Tom moved on to the latest over-officious DEFRA legislation and Patrick scanned the other guests, looking for an escape route. Gosthwaite’s social set milled around, clutching glasses of Pimm’s – the majority, especially the crag-faced farmers, fidgeting uncomfortably in their smart-cas ensembles. Two of the grooms from the riding school, both layered in fake tans, nails and ponytails, gazed with blatant longing towards the large wooden picnic table where a couple of Patrick’s friends lounged around looking infinitely more relaxed in shorts and t-shirts.

Patrick pushed back his mop of black curls as Robbie Golding beckoned him over with an icy bottle of Beck’s. Okay, to hell with being pleasant to Gosthwaite’s answer to landed gentry.

‘Tom, I have to go. Rob needs to talk to me about his new mare.’ And without waiting for a response, Patrick pushed past him, collapsing into an oak chair between his two best and oldest friends.

‘Liar, liar, pants are on fire. I haven’t got a new mare.’ Robbie laughed.

Patrick sat down, watching Gosthwaite’s hottest blonde, Daisy Golding, saunter across to the gazebo bar. She might look like an angel with her cloud of white curls, but the way she held herself, her pale blue mini-dress clinging to her perfect tits, he bet she’d be absolute dirt. Patrick swore as Robbie’s younger brother, Xander, joined her. Why was she married? And worse, why she was so adamant about being faithful?

‘She’s absolutely wasted on him,’ Patrick mumbled.

‘That’s my brother you’re dissing,’ Robbie said, gently punching his arm.

Patrick raised a hand as a sincere apology.

‘You know you’d kill her if you had to spend a day with her,’ Scott said cracking open a bottle. ‘Too high maintenance.’

Doesn’t stop her being hot
.

‘Beer?’ Scott offered.

‘Cheers, fat boy,’ Patrick joked, referring to Scott’s increasing waistline and earning himself another faux punch on the arm.

With several mouthfuls of cold lager easing his hangover Patrick relaxed, planning to enjoy getting drunk with his friends – a rare occurrence. These days, he had to play with new acquaintances while they went home, walking adverts for married with children. Well, they would be if Scott didn’t stifle a yawn every two seconds and Robbie wasn’t clenching his jaw in anger. Following his line of sight, Patrick watched Robbie’s wife, Vanessa, blushing as a tall, dark-haired guy kissed her cheeks three times.

‘Who the hell’s that?’ Patrick asked. And why was Vanessa tipping her head to the side. Was she flirting?

‘The viola player from the bloody string quartet she’s in.’ Robbie slugged his beer. ‘Jason Benoît. French twat. The Argonauts are in tow.’ He nodded to a middle-aged man whose girth appeared to exceed his height and a teenager with hair marginally greasier than his skin. ‘Those two play the violins while that wanker...’ he tipped his bottle in Jason’s direction. ‘...makes a play for my wife.’

‘She’s playing the cello, not him.’ Scott stretched. ‘He’s got a ponytail, for Christ’s sake. As if she would.’

But Robbie still scowled.

Looking for a change of subject, Patrick studied the dark circles under Scott’s eyes. ‘I went to bed at four. What’s your excuse for looking like shit?’

‘Work. A telecoms buyout. And Will likes to party as late as you. He’s his mother’s son.’

‘Don’t blame your son, or me. You were watching the cricket.’ Scott’s wife, Clara, joined them, setting a baby monitor on the table. ‘He’s finally gone down. If he wakes up, it’s your turn.’

Patrick slugged his beer, happily eyeing Clara’s long lean legs, capped by tatty denim cut-offs. If only all primary school teachers were five-nine, blonde Scarlett Johansson lookalikes. Fit as, but been there, done that and now she was Scott’s wife, strictly off limits.

‘Got any paracetamol?’ Patrick asked her, praying she would.

Clara perched on Scott’s knee and delved into her vast bag, pushing aside nappies and baby wipes as she frowned at Patrick. ‘You look like crap.’

‘I love you too.’ But he meant it when she produced a pack of Anadin Extra.

‘And how’s my favourite Musketear?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Robbie with exaggerated innocence. ‘Ready to whisk me away from all this?’

‘You’d run a mile if I asked.’ Robbie gave her a wink.

Patrick knocked back two pills with a mouthful of lager. He hadn’t heard anyone call them by the old nickname in years. Scott must’ve confessed. The Musketears – infamous for watching each other’s backs and leaving broken-hearted girls in their wake. Those were the days.

Out of habit, he evaluated the females at the party. Amongst the usual village faces, only a few fit the twenty to thirty-five demographic, but he wouldn’t want to see any of them in the morning – although, a pretty blonde over by the pond had potential. She seemed a little austere in her prim white dress with her hair in a severe bun, but the way she toyed with her straw, rolling it between her dark plum lips, had him take a second look.

‘Who’s Grace Kelly?’ he asked Robbie.

‘Rachel something. She’s with Jonty.’

‘Don’t be fooled by the respectable exterior,’ Clara said. ‘From what I’ve heard, she’s a ho-bag. She was last year’s Miss Haverton.’

‘A ho-bag beauty queen?’ Patrick nodded. ‘I could go for that.’

‘What you should go for,’ Clara said, giving him her stern, school-teacher frown, ‘is a single sexy blonde, not Jonty’s or anyone else’s. Get a girlfriend of your own. You might like it.’

The hypocrisy of Clara nagging him was almost amusing. She’d spent most of her life shagging around but the minute she got married, she expected him to do the same. Sod that. Patrick concentrated on last year’s Miss Haverton as she glanced around, double-backing when she spotted him already watching her. A smile played at the corner of those perfectly pouty lips.

Hello, princess. You might be with Jonty, but maybe I can have you too.

‘I bet she would though,’ he said to Clara.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s with Jonty.’

‘And?’

‘You think she’s going to ditch him for you? Jonty’s twenty-four, a celebrity chef and a millionaire. You’re a vet. You shove your arm up cows’ bums.’

‘And?’ Patrick smiled as Clara cast a disdainful eye over his ten year old t-shirt, threadbare, ripped at the knee jeans and battered shell-toes.

She shook her head. ‘Jonty looks like he’s climbed out of a Dolce and Gabbana ad. You look like a… homeless skateboarder. Honestly, are you so hard up you can’t afford a new t-shirt, or is this your tight-arsed Scottish side coming out?’

‘He’s not even slightly hard up,’ Robbie said. ‘He just spends it all on mountain bikes. Give it up. You know he’s right.’

‘Jonty gets his hair cut.’ Clara tugged Patrick’s hair. ‘Have you even brushed yours today?’

Patrick looked her in the eye, smiling. ‘And?’

‘The only respectable thing about you is your t-shirt has actually been ironed.’

‘And?’ He raised his eyebrows expectantly. ‘Money, table.’

‘I’ll put twenty on Miss Haverton being a gold-digger.’ Scott had his chin resting on Clara’s shoulder. ‘She’ll stick with the twenty-four year-old with too much bloody money.’

Patrick gave a derisory laugh. ‘Bitter words from a
very
nearly thirty year-old with too much bloody money. But I’ll take your cash.’

‘He was born into it. I’ve earned mine.’

Clara leant away from her husband, her eyebrows raised in mock-astonishment. ‘You’re a six-figure corporate lawyer who earns immoral bonuses. It’s people like you that’ve brought this country to its knees and stop people like me getting pay rises.’

‘Come on, Clara.’ Patrick prodded her. ‘Who’s she going to go for?’

She sipped her wine, refusing to comment.

‘Rob?’

‘If she is a ho-bag, my money’s on you.’ Robbie touched fists with Patrick, their old school-yard handshake.

‘Clara?’

‘Okay, okay. If she has
any
sense, she’ll dump him. He’s far too slick and you’re... well,
you
.’

Patrick glanced at Scott, hoping no inappropriate messages were being assumed. Too much water had almost washed away that bridge, but Scott was smiling; clearly he knew where Clara’s loyalties lay.

Over by the pond, Jonty kissed his date and headed into the house, foolishly leaving her unattended. Better still, Miss Haverton wandered to the gazebo, looking to top up her empty glass. Game on.

She innocently inspected the spirits lined up on the groaning trestle table, smiling a polite hello as he joined her.

‘You look awfully hung-over,’ she said, picking up a bottle of Jose Cuervo. ‘Kill or cure?’

He nodded and as she filled two shot glasses, he gave her a once over, not bothering to be subtle about it.

‘You do realise I’m here with Jonty?’ She sprinkled salt onto the back of her hand and picked up a slice of lemon.

‘We all make mistakes.’

Patrick seized her wrist, pulling her towards him. He slowly licked the salt from her hand then downed a shot, never dropping his direct eye contact with her. She would. Her smile grew as he took hold of her other wrist, bringing it to his lips to gently take the lemon from her fingers. Definitely would.

Ten minutes later Patrick returned to the table, where Clara and Scott were still relaxing in the sun, and opened a fresh beer. He sat next to Clara and showed her his phone, displaying Miss Haverton’s name and phone number.

‘Jonty looks very pissed off,’ Clara said, giggling.

Miss Haverton had one hand on Jonty’s chest, the other smoothing his shirt as she no doubt tried to explain where she’d been and Jonty shot an accusatory glance in Patrick’s direction.

‘Are Miss Haverton’s tits as fake as they look?’ Clara asked, frowning at the beauty queen.

‘How should I know?’ Patrick asked. ‘I just took her to see the horses.’

‘Are they fake?’ Scott asked.

Patrick nodded, unable to hide his grin.

‘Copping a feel behind the stables… d’you remember those days, Scott?’

Scott shook his head. ‘They’re nothing but dim and distant fantasies that keep me entertained when I’m working away.’

Clara squealed in protest but Scott shut her up with a kiss. Patrick wanted to dislike their loved up PDA but he couldn’t. Scott was happy. Knackered but happy.

‘Hey,’ Clara said, turning to Patrick, her eyes glinting. ‘Did you hear you’re getting new neighbours?’

Patrick laughed at Clara’s blatant gossip-mongering. ‘And here’s me assuming Maggie left the house to the cat.’

‘Can you imagine a worse way to go?’ Scott asked. ‘Breaking your neck and the only way anyone knows you’ve died is because your cat pesters the neighbour?’

‘Yes,’ Clara said, resting her bare feet on the table. ‘Bagpuss eats your rotting corpse.’

Patrick didn’t laugh along with them. He’d put down hundreds of animals, each time knowing it was the right thing to do, but the sight of Maggie’s broken body at the bottom of the stairs… He drained his beer. The least he could do was look after the cat.

‘Poor Hyssop.’ Scott frowned. ‘If Will wasn’t so rough, we could–’

‘Hyssop’s fine with me,’ Patrick said, hoping to end the conversation.

‘Someone to share the bachelor pad with?’ Clara suggested and he threw a cork, aiming it perfectly to land down her cleavage. ‘But you might not get to keep the cat. Sheila next door told me the house was left to Margaret’s great niece, Zoë.’

‘Holiday home?’ The last thing the village needed was another holiday home, but if it was they wouldn’t want a cat to look after. Patrick picked at the label on his bottle, waiting for Clara’s response.

‘Lynda from the post office said the niece is moving up here with a friend. Do you remember Zoë? Apparently, these days she’s this tall, glamorous brunette. She’s going to work at Young & Carr, the estate agents.’

Would she want Hyssop? ‘And the friend?’

‘Another girl,’ Clara replied.

‘Hot lesbians moving to the Green?’ Patrick asked, flashing Scott a grin. ‘Ace.’