Nearly Almost Somebody (26 page)

Taking a deep breath, he leaned away, making sure she was paying attention. He wanted no misunderstanding between them. ‘Libby, you need to leave. Please.’

It took every ounce of restraint he had, but he gently pushed her away and put his hands back in his pockets, closing his eyes while he took control of his senses.

‘Are you really on call?’ she asked, her voice quiet.

He looked her in the eye and, knowing the reaction it would have, that the lie would make her leave, he shook his head. ‘No. Now please go.’

It was her sharp intake of breath that made him regret it. She straightened her back and shrugged, putting on a brave face, but he’d hurt her and he felt sick for doing it. He wanted to hug her, kiss her until she smiled again, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be seen with Libby Wilde and he certainly couldn’t party with her. If he did, he may as well write the article and email the photos himself.

She mumbled goodbye and he watched through the window as she walked with an arrogance he knew she was faking. Surely he could join the party. Surely he could have one drink. He didn’t have to get wasted or end up in bed with her. They could just have fun. Okay, maybe one line. He almost caved in, about to run after her, when the phone rang.

A sow with six dead piglets saved him from making a very big mistake.

Monday afternoons sucked. Four hours of unpaid do-gooding in the Haverton surgery. Hannah, the RVN, made appalling coffee. Fee, the practice manager, could simper for England. And the clients... Christ, this was penalty enough for the Miss Haverton story.

Patrick pushed open the office door, having already ignored the people in the waiting room, and scowled at Grace who was sitting at Fee’s desk, working on her PC. She didn’t look up, but from her reddening cheeks, she obviously wasn’t comfortable. He’d given her a bollocking for being late that morning, still coming down from the party. Hannah hovered beside him, smiling, giggling, making it patently obvious what she wanted. He ignored her. Twenty-two year-old veterinary nurses weren’t his cup of tea. He didn’t even like tea.

A fresh pot of coffee sat on the machine and he helped himself, giving Grace the chance to explain her presence in the Haverton surgery on her afternoon off. She didn’t. He added a drop of milk, scowling at the pale brown colour.

‘Hannah,’ he said, ‘electricity and water are precious resources. So you shouldn’t waste them on piss-poor coffee.’

‘But that’s how Fergus likes it,’ she said, her argument weaker than her coffee.

‘Is Fergus working this afternoon?’ he asked.

Hannah’s face turned an amusing shade of red as she found the staff notice board suddenly fascinating. He’d have felt guilty, but she’d almost managed to kill a dog the previous week because she’d been too busy fluttering her eyelashes to check the sedative dose. The ruder he was, the quicker she’d get the message. Not interested, so get on with your job. He never had any of this crap from Grace. Christ, he hated working at the Haverton surgery.

‘It’s Monday,’ he said, perching on the desk beside Grace. ‘It’s your afternoon off.’

‘It is.’

‘So what are you doing here?’

‘Wages,’ she replied, not looking up. ‘Fee’s off sick again.’

‘But why are you doing them?’

‘Because I want to get paid and that prescription drug junkie hasn’t been fit to do the payroll for months. But no one here...’ Grace glanced over at Hannah. ‘Knows how to do them, or has the balls to tell you or your dad that Fee’s a liability. I’ve been doing it for five months.’

He took a slow breath, trying to control his building anger. ‘We’ll talk about this tomorrow and you can explain why you haven’t had the balls to tell me that Fee’s a liability. Now, show Hannah how to make a pot of decent bloody coffee.’

He strode through to the treatment room, his hands on his head so he didn’t lash out at anything. If Fee was screwing up and had been for months, why had no one said anything? For Christ’s sake, Grace didn’t normally hold back. If he couldn’t trust her, who could he trust? He slumped against the door, trying to calm down.

‘Ohmigod,’ Hannah said, her voice muted from the other side of the door. ‘Have you seen the paper, about the orgy in Gosthwaite?’

‘Are you having a laugh?’ Grace replied.

‘There was this mental party in the Green–’

‘I was there, but it wasn’t an orgy. Libby’s too uptight for anything like that.’

‘Who’s Libby?’ Hannah asked.

‘Blonde cow who lives in the Green.’

‘Is this her?’

Patrick frowned at the pause in conversation, unsettled by the rustling of paper.

‘Oh my God,’ Grace whispered. ‘Yes, that’s her.’

‘Is she really a prostitute?’

What the... He strode back in. The two girls were leaning over the table, eyes wide at the
Haverton Gazette
in front of them. He grabbed the paper, meaning to scowl at Hannah, but his mental vow to make her life a living hell every Monday afternoon vanished as he read the headline.
The Libertines
. Christ, poor Libby.

He took in the first picture, of her in her Alice in Wonderland costume, sat on Jack’s knee. Or maybe not poor Libby. She’d copped off with Jack?

‘Grace, coffee!’

He couldn’t read fast enough. The general insinuation was that Zoë and Libby were running a brothel from Maggie’s cottage. The paper had churned out the old photos of Jack, Xander and Robbie, plus a new face – Zoë’s silver fox, Jonathan Carr. Not only was he Zoë’s boss, the owner of the estate agents, but he was also Fee’s husband. No wonder she’d called in sick. But Libby a prostitute? Utter crap. That said, there was no denying she’d got up to some pretty out-of-character behaviour with Jack. In one shot, he was doing what looked like a line off her cleavage, and in the next they were laughing, utterly wasted, as they walked out of the Alfred after being
barred by the landlord for behaviour reminiscent to that of Patrick McBride and Rachel Holloway six months ago.

Shit.

And there was an old photo of him and Miss Haverton being evicted from the Weir Wine Bar in Haverton.

‘I’m going out,’ he said.

‘But surgery’s due to start in–’ If Hannah finished her sentence, he didn’t hear it as the door slammed behind him.

Monday afternoon, she would be at work. Still holding the newspaper, he almost ran down the road to Oscar’s Bar and Bistro. Through the window, he could see Libby behind the bar, restocking shelves. The place was deserted except for her and a couple of women drinking at the far side of the bar. He threw open door, his jaw aching from clenching it so tightly.

Libby turned, her initial welcoming smile faltering as her eyes flared under her fringe.

‘Go away,’ she snapped and went back to restocking the fridge with Smirnoff Ice. ‘I’m busy.’

He leaned against the bar, watching her, waiting for her apology. It never came. He held up the paper. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘Well, apparently, I’ve been shagging all the men in Gosthwaite for money. Why, are you looking for mates’ rates?’

He swore, mostly under his breath. ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse what you get up to, but don’t drag my name into it.’

‘Not my fault.’

‘Yes it is. What the hell did you think you were doing, Libby? This is pretty much what happened with Miss Haverton and I’m guessing you know it. Jack, for f–’ He shook his head. ‘Have you forgotten the night he threatened you?’

‘This was on my terms.’

‘Can you stop for a minute?’

‘I’m at work. No.’ But she paused, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s my life.’

‘Well, don’t involve me in the mess you’re making of it.’

‘Please, piss off.’

The desire to slap her grew, but he merely shook his head and watched as she walked out from behind the bar with a cloth. The tables were already clean, but she wiped them anyway, probably to avoid facing him.

He strode over, grabbing her arm. ‘Just stop it, Libby.’

For a second she gazed up at him, her face teetering between anger and tears. From her pale skin, red nose and constant sniffing, he guessed Jack hadn’t been the only one doing lines at the party.

‘I thought we were friends,’ he said.

She snatched her arm away. ‘Whatever.’

‘Fine, but next time you want rescuing, ring someone who gives a fuck.’

‘I don’t remember ringing you anyway.’

‘No, you risked Rob’s marriage to save you from someone you’re fucking again. I’m sure Rob’s over the moon.’

‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘You’re right, but you’ve no idea what this might cost me.’

She folded her arms, refusing to face him. ‘Get out.’

‘I’m going, but don’t you ever turn up at my house like that again. Whatever you’re imagining in that pretty little head, it isn’t going to happen.’

‘I hate you,’ she whispered, her cheeks turning red.

‘Right now, princess, the feeling’s mutual.’

He strode out, kicking the door open, but stopped outside. Shit. He watched as she hung her head, her shoulders shaking, but he couldn’t relent. She’d done this, not him. After a minute or so, she dried her eyes and went back to wiping the tables. He took out his phone as he walked back to the surgery.

‘Dad?’

‘If you’re ringing to ask if I’ve seen the paper, the answer is yes.’ Malcolm clicked his tongue, his standard pause before a telling off. ‘This is the same wee lassie that nearly destroyed Robbie and Vanessa’s marriage, is it?’

‘Yes, but it’s not–’

‘More than a dram of trouble in that one.’

‘Dad, half of the article is made up. Libby’s not–’

‘It’s not about what’s true. It’s about what people read.’

‘But this doesn’t count, right? I mean, I’ve not done anything. I can’t stop Wray digging up old stories.’

‘Let’s class it as your first and last warning. You’ll be docked two week’s pay.’

‘That’s not in the rules.’

‘Strictly speaking, there’s a newspaper article about you. That’s in the rules.’

‘Fine, two weeks.’

Patrick managed a polite goodbye, before hanging up. He had to stay away from Libby. He had to, absolutely. No more popping round to see how she was, no more shoulder to cry on, no more Olivia Wilde. He returned to the surgery in a worse mood than when he’d left. That coffee had better be ready.

* * *

Libby sat curled up in an armchair with a mug of honey and lemon, staring at the TV. She hurt. Her bones ached, her head throbbed, her skin tingled. Flu was taking over her system, but it was nothing compared to the pain she felt thinking of Patrick’s disgust. He was right. They were friends.
Were
. Past tense.

Whatever you’re imagining in that pretty little head, it isn’t going to happen.

Mortification burned through her. She’d thrown herself at Patrick and he’d turned her down. If he turned her down when she’d looked hotter than she’d ever done before, how had she deluded herself into thinking he’d want her on a normal day?

And Jack. She cringed, curling up a little tighter. When they were kicked out of the Alfred, had she really just laughed as he gave her a piggyback across the Green? Had she really just shrugged when the police turned up at the cottage, telling them to turn the music down? It seemed untrue, too unlike her, but there was that stupid newspaper, reporting exactly that.

What the hell had she been thinking?

Patrick’s rejection, that’s what she’d been thinking.

More guilt surged through her when Zoë came home from work and dinner hadn’t even been thought about.

‘The beef’s still in the fridge.’ Libby sipped her tea as Zoë flopped onto the sofa. ‘Don’t come too close, I think I’m coming down with flu.’

Zoë kicked off her heels, sighing. ‘It’s okay. I’m fasting today.’

‘Fasting?’ Oh god, no. This is where it would start, where it always started. First the fasting, pretending to herself as much as Libby that it was part of some 5:2 fad diet, but then would come the obsessive calorie counting, the weeks of eating rock all but coffee and celery. ‘What’s going on?

For a minute, Zoë stared at her hands, picking at her nail polish.

‘Zo?’
Please, don’t stop eating.

‘Apparently, we’re prostitutes.’

‘I know. I’ve never been more proud. But there’s no reason to... react to it.’

‘I had two sellers ask to switch to Adam and... Jonathan’s totally pissed off.
“I don’t need this kind of exposure, Miss Horton”
.’

‘Patrick hates me.’

‘Where’s Paolo?’

‘Gone home.’

Zoë nodded. ‘The minute I’m out of tax exile, we should get the hell out of here. Maybe we’re not cut out to be country folk. Where do you fancy next?’

Libby was about to say anywhere, when the cat flap rattled. Hyssop had finally come home. He padded in, mewing hello as he jumped on her knee. Leaving Gosthwaite meant leaving Hyssop and being able to run on grassy bridleways.

I like it here.

No matter what had happened, Libby wanted to stay in Gosthwaite. She wanted to be happy and she had an odd feeling that this is where it would happen.

‘I don’t want to leave,’ she said, her face resting against Hyssop.

‘Me neither.’ Zoë thumped the sofa. ‘Jonathan’s far too good a prospect to give up just because of a little scandal. I’m going to have to make it up to him though.’

‘Isn’t his wife going to have something to say?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Complicated?’

‘She’s weird. The other day, I was shagging Jonathan and she stood in the doorway, totally perving.’

‘How? Where on earth were you?’

‘One of their many guest rooms.’

‘Zo!’

‘He gets off on doing it in his house.’

‘That’s so wrong.’

‘No. Her watching is wrong. Seriously, she’s weird, totally out of it on prescription drugs and weed most of the time. Jonathan reckons it’s only a matter of time before she loses her job at the vets.’

‘She works for Patrick?’

‘Not really. At the surgery in Haverton.’