Nearly Almost Somebody (36 page)

No.

Energy filled her.

Libby opened her eyes, already alarmed by the sensations rushing through her body, but what she saw had her backing away, too scared to scream. Grace sat with her eyes shut, a knowing smile on her lips and a shimmering violet haze drifting around her.

‘Can you feel it?’ Grace murmured.

‘Feel it? I can bloody see it.’ Libby stared. ‘You’re... glowing.’

‘Do you want to know what’s really freaky?’ Grace asked. ‘I don’t even have to open my eyes to know you’re glowing too.’

Libby looked down at her own hand, blinking, but it was unmistakable. The same violet shimmer hovered around her fingers. ‘Oh... My... God.’

‘Calm down. They’re just auras. You’re finally in tune with the world.’ Grace opened her eyes, smiling. ‘Blessed be, sister.’

‘You’re not actually wearing that shawl, are you?’ Zoë frowned at Libby as Jonathan helped her out of the car. ‘It’s longer than your dress.’

‘And that’s why I’m wearing it.’ Libby frowned at the Mill. It twinkled with fairy lights but the mistletoe over the door only increased her apprehension. ‘I look like a Soho stripper.’

She’d assumed her little black dress, a vintage sequined number, would be suitable without trying it on. It wasn’t. When she’d bought it for an opening night party four years ago, it had been just shy of too big, but now she could barely breathe. The strapless neckline sat far too low but if she pulled it up, the hem showed the tops of her hold up stockings. With no other even vaguely appropriate dress for a black tie event, she’d had to grin and wear it.

‘You look incredible.’ Jonathan smiled down at her. ‘You both do.’

No. In a red satin, full-length column dress, her glossy hair flowing down her back, Zoë looked incredible – a classy 1950s sex goddess. A classy 1950s sex goddess with a vast rock on her left hand.

While I look like a stripper.

‘Er… ears?’ Zoë pushed Libby’s hair aside, scowling at the diamante strands the Dick had given her for her birthday. ‘No.’

‘But–’

‘No.’

Libby took out the earrings and handed them over. She loved those earrings. Zoë hadn’t minded Libby wearing them a few months ago. As they approached the entrance, Libby slipped off the shawl and the cold night air bit at her bare skin. She was going to a Christmas Eve party on her own. Could her life get any more tragic?

But not for much longer. In five days’ time, she had a meeting with her old boss at the English National Ballet. He’d called her the day after she’d emailed, delighted to hear from her, overjoyed to learn she was dancing again and ecstatic to discover she might want to come back. That’s what she should focus on – her future.

Well, her future and bloody good hair. For some reason known only to Mother Nature, an intense conditioning treatment at the hairdressers had actually worked and her newly highlighted hair hung like a silk curtain. A Christmas miracle.

With her bravest smile plastered on, Libby carried her cashmere shawl over one arm, hoping her legs in her highest black heels would distract anyone from checking out her non-existent cleavage. Of course, if she slipped on the polished wood floor, there was a fair chance people would get to see her non-existent boobs too.

‘Hello, angel.’ Robbie waylaid her, kissing her cheeks. ‘You came. I’m glad.’

‘I don’t know why. I’d rather be at home reading a book.’ Especially since her repeated scanning of the room only confirmed Patrick’s absence. Not that she wanted to see him.

‘You’ll have fun.’ He handed her a glass of champagne before looking her over as only he could. ‘You didn’t fancy making an effort then?’

She managed a genuine laugh. ‘Don’t let your wife catch you looking at me like that.’

He shot her a wink. ‘Seriously, you look beautiful.’

Buoyed up by Robbie’s compliments, she wandered across to the seating plan, hoping she’d be sitting at Robbie’s table with Patrick on the other side of the room. She found her name and closed her eyes for a second. At table nine, she’d be sitting with six people she’d never heard of and Patrick. This was over. She headed for the door.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Robbie said, grabbing her arm.

‘Can you switch the tables around? Please?’

‘No.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s Van’s idea.’

This was a set up. A horrific, badly planned, ill-conceived set up.

Zoë appeared by her side, giggling at the seating plan. ‘Oh, come on. Just get drunk and have fun. I bet he looks hot in black tie.’

Libby had no doubt he would, but that would be the problem. He’d sweet talk her, be nice to her, somehow persuade her to be friends and then… cold. For some reason, he’d back off. She couldn’t let him do it again. She had to focus on London, on her old life.

She and Zoë wandered through to the garden, where guests mingled with glasses of champagne, but Libby came to an abrupt halt when she spotted Jack and Grace. Had the spell worked? Did they really work?

Zoë glanced around, sipping her champagne. ‘Is it me, or are you shagging men in alphabetical order?’

Libby frowned at her. ‘What?’

‘A, artist, Paolo.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘B, Tristan, the ballet dancer.’

Oh for god’s sake. ‘Let me guess, Jack is C for carpenter? And how are you fitting Robbie in?’

‘D… how about, Maitre D’.’ Zoë flashed a pleased smile. ‘Patrick could be next. Elephant doctor?’

‘Just stick with Egotist.’ Libby giggled.

‘Zoë?’ Jonathan appeared behind them, accompanied by a boot-faced Malcolm and a clearly uncomfortable Elizabeth McBride.

As Jonathan introduced them to Zoë, Libby cringed. Bitching about Patrick in front of his parents. Awesome. To make matters worse, Malcolm McBride had looked Libby over with a distinctly unimpressed frown. Clearly, he thought she looked like a Soho stripper too. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and headed for the exit.

* * *

Christmas Eve. He ought to be in a great mood, but Patrick walked into the Mill and his edginess worsened. Libby would be inside. And his parents. This looked set to be a disastrous evening. He’d pissed off Libby, he’d pissed off Robbie and his parents didn’t trust him. He’d fucked up everything and Christ, he missed being able to talk to Grace every morning.

So far, Christmas sucked. The day before, Sam and Charlotte had arrived from Spain, a surprise visit. Cue squealing mother and backslapping father. Patrick played along, happy to see his brother and sister-in-law, but when was the last time he’d seen their parents react like that to seeing him?

Hidden from the guests in the restaurant, Robbie had Vanessa pressed against the reception desk, looking over her slinky green dress. Patrick didn’t blame him. She looked every bit the hot model she used to be.

‘Put her down,’ Patrick said, sounding grumpier than he intended.

‘You’re late,’ Vanessa said, giggling.

‘Fashionably.’ Patrick scanned the seating plan. Scott and Clara were on a table with Robbie and Vanessa. Where was he… Oh Christ. He turned to Robbie. ‘Not your idea, I assume.’

Robbie shook his head. ‘And she’s not happy about it. She’s nearly bolted twice.’

‘It’s my idea,’ Vanessa said. ‘Take one for the team, Patrick.’

Could he sit through an entire dinner with Libby in front of half of Gosthwaite? Thank Christ he’d had a joint with Sam earlier. On the positive side, he’d get to hang out with Libby for the evening. Maybe this would be okay. Hell, maybe he could apologise and explain about the ultimatum. Maybe tonight could change everything.

But it was a black tie event, and he mustn’t misbehave.

The rest of the diners had taken their seats and waiters scurried around with wine. Scott gave a small salute, but Patrick’s returned gesture faltered as he spotted Libby. At a table in the corner, oblivious to the old codgers at the table, she sat writing on her napkin, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Libby was hiding her body. Why? And she was blonde again. The fringe and black crap still hid her eyes, but she’d shed the pink, the black streaks and about six inches of hair. As he approached, she glanced up, pushing her napkin under her side plate. She didn’t smile. And when did Libby not smile, not even a little bit?

‘How are you?’ he asked quietly.

‘Fine.’

‘Refill?’

‘I’ll take the bottle.’

A whole week later and she was still pissed off. Marvellous.

‘You’re in a good mood.’ He poured her a drink.

‘Not the best. You won’t have noticed, swanning in here at the last minute, but there’s the most horrific set-up going on.’

‘I had noticed.’ Why was she hiding under a blanket-sized scarf? ‘Is it horrific?’

‘What, are you thinking of hotting things up?’ Her voice was quiet, but her eyes flashed suggestively. ‘Back to your place, maybe? We could fuck in the hallway, up against the wall.’

Oh, hello. He raised his eyebrows and shifted in his seat. ‘I was going to suggest a coffee and the chance to talk in private, but we could give your idea a go.’

‘And what about tomorrow? Will you come over all apologetic and have your
reasons
again?’ The eyes lost all suggestion, instead anger, resentment and four months of hurt took over. ‘Just another opportunity for you to walk away.’

‘You were the one who walked away last.’

‘I should go home.’

‘You’ve had an hour to do that, but you’re still here.’

‘I hate you.’

But you’re still here. There’s still a chance.

‘Okay, enough.’ He stabbed an olive, holding it out to her. ‘Olive branch? It is Christmas after all.’

She bit the olive off the cocktail stick and he glanced down, hiding his relieved smile. She crossed her fabulous legs demurely under her chair, but nothing more than sheer black stockings and sky-scraper heels covered them. How short was her dress? He had to make friends with her.

‘I want to say sorry,’ he said, ‘so you need to sit nicely and just listen. Pretend we’re chit-chatting about your new hair, which looks much better by the way.’

He flashed a smile as a waitress put plates of goats’ cheese tartlet and beetroot salad in front of them and as Libby leant back to give the waitress more room, the shawl slipped but she quickly pulled it back into position.

‘Spoilsport.’ Patrick frowned her. ‘Why are you wearing this thing anyway? Not like you.’

As she sipped her wine, not answering him, he tugged a corner of the shawl. One side dropped to reveal the top half of her naked spine and he tried not to grin. That had to be a fabulously small dress.

‘You can keep your apology,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard it all before.’

‘Come on, Libs. I don’t like falling out with you.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have been such an arse.’

‘I know.’

She turned to answer back, but he was ready with a little cheese and salad on her fork, holding it near her mouth. Surprisingly, she let him feed her. He hoped it would keep her quiet for a while longer.

‘Look, I’m honestly sorry for everything, but after dinner, can we go somewhere and talk?’

As she chewed, she frowned at him then leaned a little closer, taking in a deep breath. ‘Have you been smoking weed?’

‘Might’ve been.’

She nodded towards Zoë. ‘Have you seen the future Mrs Carr? She’s turned all Stepford since he put a ring on it.’

‘That’s going to make a weird family dynamic. His sons are older than her.’

‘It’s worse than that. I think she secretly loves one of them.’

Patrick’s mouth dropped open for a second. ‘That’s got Jeremy Kyle written all over it.’

Libby laughed and he relaxed. While she told him about Zoë moving out, intentionally only taking an overnight bag so Jonathan would buy her a new wardrobe, Patrick demolished his tartlet and Libby’s leftovers. Okay, it was time. He topped up their glasses, bolstering himself to tell her about the ultimatum, but the shawl was covering her shoulders again. She might have a polite smile fixed in place, but her eyes were impassive. She hadn’t relaxed at all.

‘Shit, you just distracted me, didn’t you?’ He stared at her, confused. Why was she manipulating him? ‘Libs, I’m trying to apologise. I want to...’

‘I want to... what?’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘What do you actually want, Patrick?’

I don’t know.
‘My brother’s over. He’s looking forward to meeting you.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘Have you seen Grace and Jack?’ Libby pointed to the table in the opposite corner. ‘They’re back together and
totally
loved up.’

‘Really?’ She could do
so
much better.

‘But she’s not loving working at Haverton and she said Hannah’s cited twenty-three incidents of unreasonable behaviour on your part. Hasn’t she learned to make coffee yet?’

‘No, it’s bloody awful…’ Why were they talking about coffee? He closed his eyes, sighing. She’d used her little questioning trick to distract him again. ‘Stop it.’

Slowly, she shook her head.

The waitresses cleared their plates, the OAPs shouting about how marvellous the cheese pie was, but silence descended between him and Libby. She shifted in her seat, moving away from him and he twisted his glass around, trying to work out what to say.

Just tell her.

It all seemed so simple when he was with Scott, but the reality was, she didn’t want to listen, even to the good stuff – especially to the good stuff.

She flicked her hair back. Roses and sweet peas. What was it with that perfume?

Okay, he’d fucked this up, big style, but if she didn’t want to talk about them, or let him apologise, then fine. He wouldn’t persevere. Who the hell wanted to talk about
them
anyway?