Nearly Almost Somebody (45 page)

Oh, she’d sign the contract. Crikey, even if Patrick hadn’t saved her life, she’d do anything to protect him, but what did it mean, him asking her to do this? She glanced across to him, but he stared resolutely at the floor. If the coast were clear, could they have a real relationship? She uttered a silent, prayer, as Scott asked for Wray to come in.

And there he was. Michael Wray.

He was a small grey-haired nothing of a man, the kind of man she’d walk past on the street and never notice, but God, did his eyes burn. They were alive, taking everything in. And wasn’t that his gift – being able to hide in his own skin but witness everything you did.

‘My wife’s a huge fan,’ Wray said, offering his hand. ‘Loves the painting.’

She shook it, but only through ingrained politeness. ‘Do you mean it? You won’t write about him?’

‘I only want stories, Miss Wilde. You’re the biggest story right now.’

Libby looked to Scott. ‘You’ve got his back, right?’

Please, promise me you do.

‘Always,’ Scott said, before his six-figure corporate lawyer eyes focussed on her. ‘And you?’

Libby took the pen and signed, but as she did a niggle popped into her head. If Patrick knew he could go out with Libby without worrying about the paper, then why had he panicked when Katy uttered the word boyfriend? Was this the return of Cold Patrick?

As Michael Wray left, a photo-shoot and interview set for two days’ time at Jane’s studio, Scott fastened the contracts back in his briefcase. ‘The police are waiting. They’ll ask Patrick to leave while they question you, but would you like me to stay? I’m no criminal defence expert, but–’

‘Yes, please,’ Libby said, truly grateful.

‘Lie down,’ Scott instructed her. ‘You may as well play up the weak and vulnerable angle.’

For twenty minutes, the two officers asked endless and largely pointless questions. The ones concerning Patrick were easy. Libby could remember little, the little she could remember was fragmented and the bits she could make sense of, she didn’t intend to share with the police in case it implicated Patrick in some wrong-doing. The questions regarding Zoë proved trickier. Libby knew she ought to tell them about Maggie, but she kept picturing a seven year-old girl, starving in the cupboard under the stairs.

‘Miss Wilde, do you have any idea why Miss Horton might have given you the deadly nightshade?’

‘She’s my best-friend. I doubt she did it on purpose.’ Libby crossed her fingers underneath the sheets, ignoring Scott’s valiant effort not to look astonished. ‘Her great-aunt would lace elderflower wine with belladonna, maybe there was a bottle of it in the house. Do you know where Zoë’s gone?’

Both officers shifted uncomfortably.

‘Mr McBride said she sounded like she was at an airport,’ one said, ‘but there’s no Zoë Horton listed on any flights.’

What were the bets that Zoë had a new passport, a new passport using her birth certificate? They’d need to look for Zoë
Keeley
, her original birth name. Libby struggled not to smile and hoping for a distraction, she pressed the tube in her hand against the bed, sending a bolt of pain up her arm.

‘Libby, you’ve gone grey,’ Scott said, leaning on the bed. ‘Are you okay?’

She turned her head, smiling. ‘I’m just a little tired.’

With that, Scott stood up and the police officers thanked her for her time. Libby barely listened as the officers said it sounded like a genuine accident, but when Miss Horton returned from her holiday, they would like to speak to her. Libby nodded, staring out of the window, guilt lying heavily on her shoulders. She should’ve told them the truth – not just about the belladonna, but about Maggie and Fee. She hadn’t just distracted them or omitted a few details, she’d lied. Why?

Because I’ve got her back.

‘You’re quiet,’ Patrick said.

Libby frowned. ‘Says you. That’s the first thing you’ve said to me in an hour.’

He turned the Land Rover into the Green, his jaw twitching. ‘You were too busy turning down offers for places to stay.’

A fair point. Her morning had been one steady stream of visitors. Grace had been the first, with a bag of clean clothes for Libby and a repeated offer of a room in her house, swiftly followed by Robbie and Vanessa, who’d brought Patrick’s car. They begged Libby to move in with them – an idea Libby laughed off, claiming they only wanted a babysitter.

‘So are you leaving?’ Patrick asked as he pulled up outside his house. ‘Gosthwaite, I mean.’

‘Would you want me to stay?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what would happen?’

‘We’d go out.’

‘And then what?’

He sighed. ‘Why does there have to be a then what?’

Nothing had changed. Libby went to open the door, too tired to cry, but her hand stopped on the handle. Outside Maggie’s cottage, sitting on the bonnet of a silver Jaguar, was Seamus Doyle.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Patrick asked.

Libby closed her eyes. How could she tell Seamus that his illegitimate daughter murdered the love of his life? ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Patrick laughed. ‘Ooh, Olivia Wilde used the F-word.’

Despite everything, she smiled. ‘I think I’ve used it once or twice before.’

‘Like on Christmas Eve?’ He raised his eyebrows with fake innocence.

She swatted his arm. ‘Look, I really need to talk to him.’

‘You really need to talk to me.’ He leaned on the steering wheel. At least his twitching jaw had gone if his concerned frown hadn’t. ‘Should I wait?’

She shook her head. ‘Go and put the kettle on. I won’t be long.’

Libby climbed out of the car, wishing she could follow Patrick into his house. Maybe he was right, maybe there didn’t have to be a
then what
.

‘Hello, Miss Wilde,’ Seamus said.

She sat next to him, steeling herself. Seamus deserved to know the truth and maybe he’d be the one person who could help Zoë. ‘She’s not here, I’m afraid.’

Seamus glanced around the Green, not looking remotely disappointed. ‘Do you have my photograph, Olivia?’

‘The photo?’ Libby stared at him, crossing her arms. ‘Is that why you came here? You travelled three hundred miles for the
photo
?’

‘It means a lot to me.’

‘And your daughter? Doesn’t she mean a lot to you?’ Libby’s skin crawled. He didn’t deserve to know a damned thing about Zoë.

‘It’s the only photo I have left of Maggie and me. Lucinda burned the rest.’

‘But you have another daughter, right?’

Seamus frowned. ‘Zoë has two perfectly good parents.’

Libby stood up, shaking her head. ‘She also has the photo. I’d watch my back if I were you, Mr Doyle.’

* * *

Patrick slumped against the front door, nausea taking over his body. Why the hell did there have to be then what? He couldn’t do this. He really couldn’t. A meow from the living room pulled him back to reality and Patrick went to see Hyssop who sat curled up in front of the fire, where he’d spent most of Christmas.

Crouching down, Patrick stroked him, letting the rhythmic purr relax him. For hours, Patrick had watched over Libby, praying she’d be okay. He loved her. Christ, the day before, he’d seen Paolo’s painting,
the Fixed Ballerina
, and come to terms with moving to London, so why did
then what
send him running? He just had to persuade her to stay.

‘And I expect you to help, pal.’

After he’d let Isla out into the back garden, Patrick peeked out of the window, checking on Libby. She was still chatting to Seamus Doyle, so he dashed upstairs to brush his teeth. He toyed with the idea of a shower, but made do with swapping his jumper for one he hadn’t been wearing for the last twenty-four hours – he had to talk to Libby sooner, not later. He had to make this right.

Doyle’s car had gone. Why hadn’t Libby come in?

Downstairs, Hyssop sat in the window, tapping his claw against the glass, something he only did when Libby was in the cottage. In the dim light of the cold December day, Patrick could just make out a forlorn figure sitting in the bay window. She shouldn’t have gone in there by herself. Whistling for Isla to follow him, Patrick picked up Hyssop and headed over to Maggie’s cottage. The door was ajar, but he knocked gently.

‘Libs?’

‘Come in.’

She sat, hugging her knees, a photo frame in one hand and tears rolling down her cheeks. Even Isla jumping up to say hello didn’t raise a smile. Patrick sat beside her and handed her Hyssop. If anyone could cheer her up, it’d be the cat. Patrick took the photo – it was one of her and Zoë, in their teens, both in tutus, stood on their toes, an arm around each other’s waist.

‘What chance did she have?’ Libby said, her voice muffled as she hugged Hyssop. ‘Her mother gave her away, her parents ignored her pleas to let her spend summers at home, and her father couldn’t give a damn. He came here to get a photo I had, not to see Zoë.’

‘He’s her father? Do you mean–’

‘Maggie was Zoë’s mother.’

It all made sense. Why hadn’t he seen it? They looked so alike, for Christ’s sake. ‘Libby, what did Zoë do?’

‘It’s better you don’t know.’ Libby kissed Hyssop. ‘I didn’t tell the police. I lied to them. I said it was an accident.’

‘Poisoning you, or pushing Maggie down the stairs?’

Libby didn’t answer.

‘The thing is,’ Patrick said, ‘I think you told me last night. About Fee?’

She nodded.

Jesus Christ.

‘But it’s not just black and white, is it?’ Libby let Hyssop jump down. ‘Like when Grace gave me the emerald pendant. She nearly ruined your life, but you forgave her.’

‘This isn’t the same. Zoë nearly
killed
you.’

‘I know, but not intentionally.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘She murdered Maggie, or at least assisted in her death, and she sold the ketamine to Fee.’

‘But you’re protecting her?’ What happened to his moralistic Libby, the one who wouldn’t turn a blind eye?

‘What difference would it make if I told the police? Nobody forced Fee to take the drugs and Maggie… well, let’s be honest, this is all her fault.’

‘How is it Maggie’s fault?’

‘She did this. She damaged Zoë years ago. When our flat was broken into last Christmas, Zoë needed her birth certificate to get a new passport.’

‘And she found out Maggie was her mum?’

Libby nodded. ‘Can you imagine what that did to Zoë’s head? This was the woman who cultivated an eating disorder in her, who used to hit her around the ankles with a walking stick and lock her under the stairs. After you went blackberry picking that time, Maggie didn’t let Zoë eat anything for
two
days.’

Patrick leant against the window. Zoë had been seven. It was child abuse and her parents wouldn’t listen.

If I’m ever a dad...

Libby looked around the room. ‘I used to feel sorry for Maggie. I thought she was this lonely old lady who’d been forgotten by the world. The truth was she was a total bitch. She slept with her friend’s husband, she wouldn’t help a friend in need and instead of showering a little girl with love, she twisted her until she snapped.’

‘You reap what you sow.’ He reached into his pocket and took out the letter addressed to Libby. ‘Zoë left this for you.’

Libby’s hands shook as she ripped open the envelope and while she read, fat tears splashed onto the paper. Patrick put his arm around her shoulders, resting his head against hers as she let him read the letter too.

Lib, I’m so sorry. I never, ever wanted to hurt you, but you wouldn’t have let me leave. You’re too good, too honest, too right – just what I’ve always needed in my life. I wish I had your strength.

I never meant to do any of this. Please don’t hate me. I really don’t want you to hate me because you’re the only person who ever cared about me. Jonathan didn’t. I loved him, truly loved him. I could’ve been happy with him, I really could, but let’s face it, I don’t deserve a man like him, not after the things I’ve done. But he didn’t care, not really.

The oddest twist of fate is Ed might love me. And you’ll love this. He’s not some penniless writer. He’s worth a fortune so the spell worked – a good shag with money. Be careful what you wish for!

But I don’t deserve to live happily ever after. You do. Let Patrick make you happy.

I love you.

Zx

Ps. I’ve sold the cottage. Got £350k for it, but if you look behind the painting, I left you a gift. Later,
’
gator.

‘In a while, ’dile,’ Libby whispered.

The Broken Ballerina stood against the wall and Libby knelt beside it, feeling behind the frame. A smile wavered as she produced the emerald pendant, but she sat twisting the stone between her fingers.

‘I want to hate her for what she’s done,’ Libby said, wiping her cheeks, ‘but I can’t. She’s never been able to rely on anyone, except herself. I tried but even I can’t help her now. I’ve lost my best friend.’