Nearly Almost Somebody (9 page)

‘You bred him?’ she asked, rubbing the gelding’s ears.

‘The first for Lulu. She will hit you if you call her that, by the way. She thinks he’s dull.’

‘He’s amazing.’

‘I think so too, but she’s head over her half-chaps for Dolomite. Can’t handle him, of course.’

‘Yes, I can imagine. Thanks for that.’

‘I needed to know what you could do.’

‘And what can I do?’

‘I’ve no idea yet, but you’re more than capable of schooling Dolomite. I want him ready for Lulu in a year’s time. She’s struggled in the pony classes because she’s so bloody tall but at least now she can ride horses that suit her. Shakes will do for now, but I think her and Dolomite will work next year.’

‘Why can’t she get him ready herself?’

‘She’s eleven.’

‘When I was...’ Libby sipped her tea.

‘When you were what?’

When I was eleven, I’d taken control of my own life. Why can’t Tallulah?
‘It’s fine. I can school him.’

She followed him around the yard, unable to stop the comparisons with Kim. His arse was a lot nicer to start with, but he introduced her to the horses, never once calling them
nags
as he explained their life stories. Smokey, the elderly grey Shetland was Tallulah’s first pony and Ebony, the cheeky Thelwell-wannabe was Matilda’s – Dora’s had yet to be bought, but Robbie had his eye on a skewbald he’d seen near Lancaster.

He peeked down at her pocket. ‘Polos?’

Guiltily, she handed them over. ‘I only gave Shakespeare one.’

‘Meany.’ Robbie fed two to Cleo, a stunning bay brood mare, and took one for himself. ‘Max, the stallion goes in the field across the lane. He’s quite the gent so you won’t have any trouble with him.’

‘What is he?’

‘Andalusian-cross. My grandmother started the line.’

He pointed to the iPod in the tack room window. ‘Lulu’s. Bloody awful music but you’ll be on your own mostly, so you’ll probably need the radio for company. Lulu’s back at school for another couple of weeks then she’ll be hanging around, getting in your way.’

‘She’s confident for an eleven year-old.’

‘Going on twenty. She’ll have shows here and there – can you do early starts? You can have the hours back on Sundays.’

She nodded. ‘Though I should warn you, my plaiting skills aren’t the best.’

‘Fortunately, mine are. You’ll have to avoid the pub the night before.’

‘I wasn’t at the pub. What’s the dog’s name?’

‘Cromwell. The cat’s called Mittens. Don’t ask. You look knackered.’

‘Chickens?’

‘They’re Tilly’s. We’ll take care of them. Where were you then?’

‘Home. Cromwell or Mittens need anything?’

‘No. Make yourself at home in the kitchen. Tea, coffee, biscuits, toast. So what kept you awake at home?’

‘None of your business.’ She frowned at him, but realised he was trying not to laugh as they headed into the feed room at the far left of the L-shaped block. ‘Look, there’s no gossip. I had a fight with Zoë. I felt bad and couldn’t sleep.’

‘It’s mostly nuts and sugar beet but it’s all on the board. What were you fighting over?’

‘None of your business.’

He shook his head, still fighting a smile. ‘Half eight ’til five. Tuesday to Saturday, but next week–’

‘Want me to do Sunday and Monday too? First days on your own? Your mum explained.’

His teetering smile vanished. ‘Can you?’

She nodded. ‘I can’t wait to ring Kim.’

‘I can’t believe you lasted a week. I’d have told her to piss off on day one. The old mare was bragging about how efficient you are. I’d love to see the look on her face when she finds out I’ve poached you.’

‘You didn’t poach me. Tallulah did.’

‘Christ, don’t tell her. It’ll cost me another horse. Or worse, getting her ears pierced.’

‘She’s practically twelve and you won’t let her get her ears pierced? You’re the meany.’

He frowned down at her. ‘I can see you being a bad example. If she starts dressing like you, you’re fired. Now, aside from the usual stable jobs, the horses need exercising. And I don’t mean a half hour tootle. Jupiter and Storm are up for sale and I want them fit, so plenty of schooling and hour long rides over the common.’

Libby saluted him, trying not to smile. If she did, she might just cry with happiness.

Back at Maggie’s cottage, Zoë hovered in the kitchen.

‘And?’ she asked, blinking furiously, her nervous twitch.

Libby smiled. ‘I’ve got a new job. Yay!’

Zoë laughed, producing a bottle of Prosecco from behind her back. ‘And without getting fired from the previous one. Well done.’

The cork popped and Libby held a mug under the bottle as the wine overflowed. On the worktop behind Zoë sat a fat carrot cake, her usual apology to Libby. Heaven forbid she’d ever just say sorry.

‘God, I get to ride the best horses in the county. What the hell do you do when you want to quit? Can I tell Kim to piss off?’

‘Well I wouldn’t burn your bridges but...’ Zoë smiled briefly. ‘Cake?’

‘Please.’ Apology accepted.

‘I knew you wouldn’t have come here if you knew Maggie was a dancer–’

‘I know.’

‘And I didn’t want to do it on my own.’

Libby nodded. ‘Why didn’t you like her? Everyone else seems to think she was pretty cool.’

Zoë slumped against the kitchen units. ‘I bet they weren’t subjected to an hour of ballet class every day or getting smacked around the ankles with a walking stick if their turnout wasn’t
just so
.’

‘Clara said Maggie taught you both ballet.’

‘No, she taught Clara. She terrorised me. Every summer from seven to eleven. Mum and Dad packed me off here, thinking they were giving me this great opportunity, but really they were sending me to boot camp. Lesson after lesson, and when I wasn’t in class... she nagged me. You shouldn’t eat this, you shouldn’t eat that. You. Must. Lose. Weight.’

‘Surely she wasn’t that bad. I mean–’

‘One summer, a bunch of us went blackberry picking. When she found out that I’d eaten between meals, she locked me in there.’ Zoë glanced to the cupboard under the stairs. ‘I was seven.’

Libby wanted to shake her head, unable to believe it, but then she remembered the gouges on the door. ‘Oh my god,
you
made those scratch marks?’

‘With one of her fucking stilettos, trying to get out. No drink, no food, no light, just me and the spiders. Locked in.’

Who would do that to a little girl? Libby stared wordlessly as Zoë stalked off to the garden. Zoë’s anorexia had been the cause of their friendship, the initiating factor at least. When Zoë refused to eat bread at dinner that first day at school, Libby had called her stupid. Good dancers were athletes and athletes ate healthily. It’s what Darcey said. And what Darcey said was law. But no one had ever told Zoë what Darcey said. As she had fifteen years before, Libby sat next to Zoë, resting her head on her friend’s shoulder.

‘When I got into school...’ Zoë let out a long slow breath. ‘It was over. God, the amount of girls who whined about summer school. It was bliss compared to here.’

‘So why move here?’

Zoë shrugged. ‘Face some demons.’

‘Why didn’t you ever mention her?’

‘Remember our first day? Holly von Kotze kept banging on about how she’d trained with Tamara Rojo?’

Libby opened her mouth, but paused. Bragging about being mentored by one of the world’s greatest ballerinas had caused the rest of Year Seven to blank Holly for a week.

‘Are you about to tell me that Maggie was–’

‘Margaret Keeley, the ballet legend.’

Libby barely knew what to do with the information. What happened to the provincial old lady she’d first pictured Maggie to be? ‘What happened to her jewellery?’

‘Jewellery? You mean that hideous jade pendant?’ Zoë shrugged. ‘I assume Mum kept it. God, it was ugly. Like its owner.’

‘Sheila next door said it was an emerald?’

Zoë’s eyes flashed. ‘Seriously?’

‘Sheila next door reckons it’s worth twenty
grand
.’

‘Get the f–’ Zoë laughed. ‘Mum, better not bloody have it. That baby’s
mine
.’

Libby grinned, loving the return of her friend’s smile. ‘What about Mr Coffee Shop? How was your breakfast date?’

‘I’m not sure the pine cone works. He stood me up.’

No one stood Zoë up. Ever. ‘Really?’

‘I walked past. Slowly. He wasn’t there.’

‘What, but you didn’t go in?’

‘Do I look desperate?’

‘But–’

‘He had his chance.’ Zoë flashed a smile. ‘My new boss is okay though. He spent the day with me, discussing my sales strategies, my experience with high end buyers and the possibility of me managing the second home buyers with city bonuses. He’s given me three to house-hunt for.’

Libby gave the expected squeal, but she recognised a brave face when she saw one. Over the last week, whenever Zoë spoke of the coffee shop guy, her eyes... well, as cheesy as it sounded, they
lit
up. She seriously liked this guy.

‘Now,’ Zoë said, topping up their mugs after the bubbles had died down, ‘on a scale of one to fuck-me-now, where does this boss of yours feature?’

‘About a nine. He might actually be the sexiest bloke I’ve ever met. Shame he’s married to Angelina Jolie’s doppelgänger.’

‘While the cat’s away...’

‘Never.’ Libby shook her head.

Zoë raised her eyebrows. ‘Never say never.’

* * *

Michael Wray picked up his phone. ‘I like her. Get me more.’

‘She’s actually pretty dull. What about her mate? Did you get the photos of her and Jonathan Carr?’

‘Ah, forget her, the sheila’s too prim. Unless there’s a killer angle, makes it too hard to take the mental leap that she’d really do the shit we’re suggesting. Olivia Wilde though... she looks like a hell-raiser. All we need to do is hint at bad behaviour. It’s too fucking easy, mate.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Michael Wray hung up, smiling at the photo of Miss Wilde’s legs. Shame they couldn’t get away with Page Three.

The first day at work – she’d had so many first days that she didn’t usually feel even the smallest of butterflies, but arriving at Low Wood Farm a swarm appeared to have invaded her stomach. She mustn’t bugger this up. This place could be her perfect distraction.

Robbie met her at the door, giving her a blatant once-over, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought a smile. Libby didn’t bother. She’d dithered for ages over what to wear. A black polo shirt and cream jodhpurs would’ve been the sensible thing to wear, but after his mother’s
Charges by the Hour
comment, how could she resist something a little more fun?

The denim jodhpurs were bland enough, but her sleeveless
Fame
t-shirt allowed the straps of her hot pink bra to peek out and she’d layered on more eye make-up than she’d worn to the Mill. Harmless stable yard flirting? Bring it on.

‘Morning,’ he said, handing her a key, any humour now erased. ‘For the tack room. It’ll be in the kitchen, on the rack under the mirror. Just knock and come in.’

She toyed with the key. ‘Kim’s pissed off.’

‘Kim’s always pissed off.’ He held out a list. ‘That’s the usual routine. I’m taking the girls out for the day, but if you need anything, my number’s on the top.’

She nodded, a smile growing as she read the incredibly detailed list – tips on dealing with Dolomite’s fragile nerves, which horses went in which paddocks, who she should school in the morning, who she should hack out in the afternoon.

‘Tilly,’ he called into the house. ‘I’ll be in the yard for five minutes.’

‘Stay here,’ Libby said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

But he came with her, wandering through to the yard, the horses whinnying, eager for their breakfast. As if she’d worked there for years, she headed into the feed room, and flicked on the light. Robbie followed her, watching as she laid the buckets out on the floor. She leaned down to scoop nuts out of the bin but paused, smiling up at him. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d been looking down her top. He really was priceless.

‘You don’t have to supervise. Stable yards are the same the world over.’

He leant against the wall with his arms folded as she topped up the nuts with sugar beet, following his instructions perfectly.

‘It’s your first day.’

‘Feeding horses isn’t exactly rocket science. And you’ve put everything on here.’ She consulted the list. ‘Storm will be the one kicking her door.’ She paused, listing to the rhythmic thud. ‘That’ll be Storm, then.’ She went back to the list. ‘Dolomite will try to bite you when you drop his bucket in. It’s all here. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.’

But he didn’t leave. He watched her say hello to each horse, his eyes narrowing as she avoided Dolomite’s gnashing teeth by opening his half-door and nudging the bucket in with her foot.

‘Tallulah said he’d been mistreated.’

Robbie leaned against the door. ‘He was in a pretty bad way when we found him. Half-starved and terrified. Christ knows what they did to him.’

Something nudged Libby’s hand, but when she glanced down, instead of seeing the old Lab as she expected, a little girl with long black hair and beautiful green eyes stared up at her.

‘Daddy told Mummy you were a tramp, but you don’t look like the smelly man in town.’ The little girl turned to Robbie. ‘Is she a pop star like Hannah Montana?’

Libby pressed her lips together as she tried not to giggle, but Robbie laughed, finally letting go of his reserved attitude and she joined in.

‘Thanks for that, Tilly.’ He picked up his daughter, tickling her. ‘This is Matilda, she’s nearly four and the munchkin in the sandpit is Pandora, but we call her Dora. She’s two. In my defence, you do look like a tramp. Your roots needed doing a month ago.’

Libby laughed, blushing a little. ‘I look far too angelic when I don’t have roots, which isn’t the impression I want to give at all.’

He grinned. ‘I doubt you could ever look angelic.’

‘Oh, I can, but where’s the fun in that?’ She winked at Matilda. ‘Now go and enjoy your day out.’

‘Hey, less of the orders,’ Robbie said, trying to look cross. ‘Remember who’s in charge.’

‘Is Libby in charge now Mummy’s not here?’ Matilda asked.

He walked away shaking his head, telling Matilda off for ruining his attempt to be professional. Libby collected the wheelbarrow, unable to stop grinning.

And she couldn’t all day.

By four o’clock, she’d taken to singing along to the radio and an old Beyoncé track had her itching to dance. To her horror, as she hung a hay net for Smokey, a shadow fell over the stable. She turned to confirm her fears and sure enough, Robbie leaned against the door frame, trying not to laugh.

‘Oh, so you are a pop star like Hannah Montana.’

‘I dance too,’ she said, pushing a wayward purple strand off her face. ‘Have you had a nice day?’

‘Yes. You didn’t ring.’

‘I said I’d ring you if I needed you. I didn’t need you.’

He wandered around, peering into the water buckets she’d scrubbed that morning, checking the hay nets she’d filled ready for the horses coming in, but he frowned when he noticed the cobweb free ceiling in the tack room.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘but I was at a loose end so I tided the tack and feed rooms a bit. Sorry if you can’t find anything.’

‘But what about taking Storm out? I said–’

‘Oh, god, we had the best ride this afternoon. She’s awesome. And this morning, Dolomite actually did some half-decent twenty metre circles...’

She twittered on as she tied up the remaining hay nets, telling him about Max almost knocking her over, Ebony pinching the Polos from her pocket and Storm clearing the river on the common. It’d been the best day.

He studied the list. ‘You cleaned the tack room
and
the feed room?’

To her surprise, when she nodded his frown deepened. ‘Sorry, would you rather… It’s just I don’t like sitting around.’

He wandered over to the house, shaking his head. ‘I knew you’d be trouble.’

How was she trouble? She’d crossed off everything on his list. How could he be mad at her?

Oh, please don’t be mad at me.

But then he turned, almost smiling. ‘Tea?’

It had to be the best first day at work she’d ever, ever had. Ever.

‘Want one?’ Robbie asked as he wound a corkscrew into a bottle of Rioja.

Libby hung up the tack room key, stalling. Well, this was new. And surely a really bad idea.

After day one, she’d thought he was easy-going, fun, the perfect boss, but on day two, she’d turned up, wearing a
Little Miss Trouble
t-shirt, thinking it’d make him smile. It didn’t. He’d glanced up from his newspaper, taking the time to look her over, scowl and say,
the list’s on the side
. Mr Golding, it turned out, could be an utter grumpy arse at times.

At times.

Every morning for the past two weeks he would barely speak to her, a smile seemingly impossible, but when he came home just before four o’clock, he’d make her a cup of tea, steal a cigarette and they’d chat about the yard. He was definitely testing her knowledge, and she could hardly describe him as friendly, but despite being able to ride, jump and school the amazing horses she increasingly found herself clock-watching, eager for their tea and chat.

Oh, he was married and strictly off limits, but was it wrong to want him to like her, to respect her?

But that day four o’clock passed with no tea and chat. He’d called her at three, spoiling her first hack out on Shakespeare by asking if she’d pick up the two youngest of his daughters from the child-minder. He’d been desperate, he’d said please, he’d called her
Lib
– so of course, she’d said, yes. And even though the girls intimidated her to nail-biting levels, she’d even agreed to make tea for them.

When he arrived, not long after six, she’d been sitting in the sandpit, while Dora dictated how she wanted a fairy kingdom to be built. Libby had stayed in the sandpit, hoping to make her point – he couldn’t impose on her like this; babysitting wasn’t her job. But he’d scooped up his girls, kissing them on the head and apologising over and over for being late. For the last four days, she’d watched his life revolve around those two little girls – which hair band did Matilda want to wear, did Dora prefer chicken or fish for tea? He was such an amazing dad. By the time he’d held out a hand, helping Libby up from the sand, her point had gone blunt.

And now there he was, at the end of week two, offering her a vast glass of rioja rather than the usual mug of Tetley. Arse. Having a drink with him couldn’t possibly be a good idea. It was overstepping boundaries. She ought to say no; she ought to say no and leave as quickly as she could.

‘Christ, it’s been a bloody awful day,’ he said. ‘The new KP quit before they’d even finished prep and the accountant rang because ten grand had
gone missing.
Turned out he was an incompetent twat and the money’s all there, but bang goes my day. So do you want one?’

He was offering her a glass of wine, for heaven’s sake, not a dirty weekend in Paris. And she didn’t fancy him. ‘I do have a life you know.’

‘I know. Did you find something to feed them okay?’

Okay? There was half a high-end restaurant in the fridge. ‘Ham, cheese and Marmite toasties, with cucumber and grapes, followed by ice cream and raspberries. They chose the menu, not me. Look, they’re lovely kids, but I don’t get them, little kids.’

He pressed his lips together for a moment, clearly trying not to laugh. ‘Then don’t see them as little kids. Look at them like really short people. They’ll prefer it too.’

‘But they kind of freak me out. They stare. A lot.’

‘You have purple streaks in your hair. Who doesn’t stare at you?’ He smiled, offering her a vast splash in a vast glass. ‘But thank you.’

Against her better judgement, she took the glass. ‘You’re welcome, but don’t do it again. Please.’

He merely flashed his biggest smile before checking the girls were still engrossed in what Libby now recognised as
Charlie and Lola
. ‘Fag?’

‘You should buy your own. You must smoke about ten a day of other people’s.’

‘If I bought some, I’d go through thirty. How was Jupiter?

‘Awesome.’ She took a sip of the wine. ‘God, that’s nice.’

They sat on the herb garden wall, where he could keep an eye on the girls through the living room window, and merrily debated Libby’s suggestion that it was Sambuca’s back causing his reluctance to jump, not a stubborn attitude. But after a minor skirmish between Matilda and Dora distracted them, Robbie suddenly changed the conversation.

‘So this life of yours, what are you up to this weekend?’

‘Not sure,’ she’d replied, a little thrown. He
never
asked about her life outside work usually, and when he finally did, what did she have to reply with? A quiet night in. Alone. Ugh. ‘Can’t do too much tonight because I’m running with Xander tomorrow. You know he’s in training for the Lum Valley fell race? Well, he’s daring me to do it too.’

‘Christ, you know how to live. Staying in on a Saturday night so you can go running on Sunday?’

Libby cringed. ‘I know, but Jack said there was a band playing at the King Alfred tomorrow. Maybe I’ll–’

‘Jack?’ Robbie’s eyebrows raised. ‘Pulled already?’

‘Of course not.’ Was it the wine or his suggestion that had her cheeks flushing? ‘He’s seeing Grace.’

‘Never stopped him before.’

‘Well, it would me,’ she’d replied. ‘Cheating’s wrong.’

‘Ooh, you’re a moralistic little thing, aren’t you?’

Robbie hadn’t bothered to restrain his mocking smile and Libby’s cheeks had burned with mortification. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she were some dull-as-dishwater goody-two-shoes.

‘Well, be careful,’ he’d gone on. ‘There are some unsuitable types around here, totally untrustworthy.’

‘Sounds interesting.’ It was supposed to be a joke, but came out like she meant it. Oh god, time to leave.

‘At least remember to play hard to get.’

Flashing a brazen smile that Zoë would be proud of, Libby handed him her empty glass. ‘But where’s the fun in that?’

And then she fled.

‘You’re late,’ Zoë said, plastering on another layer of scarlet lipstick. ‘Boss making you work late?’

Libby’s face flushed. ‘No. Drink wine actually.’

‘Oh, hello...’

‘Not like that. I looked after his kids–’

‘What the hell? You hate kids.’

‘I don’t hate them.’ Libby picked at her nail polish, avoiding looking Zoë in the eye. ‘They just... they’re weird. But he was stuck. How could I say no?’

Zoë pressed her scarlet lips together for a moment, clearly fighting her giggles. ‘You so fancy him’

‘I do not.’ Libby shook her head. ‘So where are you going?’