Nearly Almost Somebody

by Caroline Batten

  Robbie and Tallulah arrived, perching on the high railed fence, but Libby refused to let their scrutiny faze her. She nudged Shakespeare into a canter and took him through two flawless figure-eights before Robbie whistled her over. Libby listened carefully as he explained the simple five jump course. Nothing was over a metre with the first a tiny warm-up cross pole. She stifled a yawn.

  ‘Late night?’ Robbie asked, his face betraying no emotions.

  Libby shook her head. ‘Didn’t sleep well.’

  Unwilling to discuss the matter, she squeezed Shakespeare on. Instantly, he moved into a bouncy trot, looking towards the first jump with his ears pricked. They sailed over the jumps, wiping away Libby’s fatigue and leaving her itching to do the course again, but with the poles raised another twenty centimetres.

  I love this horse.

  Slowing to a trot, she patted Shakespeare’s neck, grinning like a village idiot, but Robbie didn’t appear remotely pleased with her efforts.

  ‘Lulu, get Dolomite,’ he said.

  Tallulah jumped off the fence, but not before Libby clocked her wide-eyed moment of hesitation. Taking slow, steady breaths, Libby walked Shakespeare on a long rein, utterly aware Robbie still watched her. Minutes ticked by and Libby’s apprehension grew until Tallulah led in a beautiful dapple-grey gelding with a near black mane and tail.

  Libby spent a minute saying hello, but Dolomite side-stepped, eyeing her with mistrust from under his forelock as she prepared to mount.

  ‘He’s strong,’ Tallulah said, as she held the offside stirrup. ‘Really strong and he falls out on the left–’

  ‘Lulu,’ Robbie snapped.

  Okay, this was a test. Libby smiled down at her little friend and winked. ‘Thanks.’

  Ten minutes later, Libby’s arms burned and she needed every core muscle she’d ever developed as she fought to keep the bloody grey steam train at a steady trot through ridiculously wonky circles. This wasn’t a riding test. It was riding torture.

  ‘Same course as before,’ Robbie shouted, his eyes squinting against the sun.

  Libby relaxed her hands a touch, letting the gelding move into a canter, but instantly regretted it. He wasn’t on the bit and she wasn’t in control. They careered toward the first jump, a tiny fifty centimetre warm up, but Dolomite ducked out, shying as if she’d set him up for Beecher’s Brook.

  Libby landed on his neck, losing her stirrups and her last shreds of control. Somehow, as Dolomite bolted to the far corner of the school, she stayed on, but more though luck than anything remotely resembling ability. She swore. Okay, so he didn’t have Shakespeare’s natural affinity with jumping. No wonder Tallulah looked so hesitant.

  ‘Okay, baby. You’re okay.’ She placed a gentle hand on his neck but he flinched as if she’d shocked him with two thousand volts. ‘And, God, do I know how that feels. They’re just silly jumps. We can do this.’

  After a little more soothing, he calmed and she walked him on, remembering the nervy eventer she’d ridden under Bridget’s instruction: Don’t fight him. Work with him. You’re a team. Dolomite settled into a trot, and Libby kept up her gentle words, reassuring him while her unrelenting legs and hands kept him going forward.

  ‘You are going over this, mister.’

  Come on Good Luck spell, don’t fail me now.

  Dolomite pulled to the right, trying to duck out again, but she held him. It might’ve been as ungainly as her first lesson en pointe, but he lurched over.

  ‘Three feet. Easy-peasy,’ she said, setting him up for the second.

  Despite tensing up, he flew over and popped over the third with his ears pricked. Robbie whistled, waving her back, and Libby fought her smile, not wanting to put pride before a spectacular descent into the sand.

  Robbie turned to a beaming Tallulah. ‘Told you he could do it.’

  ‘What?’ Libby frowned but Robbie was already walking away. God, he was hard work.

  Tallulah threw her arms around Dolomite’s lathered neck. ‘That’s the first time Dol’s gone over anything higher than a trotting pole.’

  ‘You’re joking.’ Libby dismounted.

  She shook her head. ‘Dad sold him as a yearling but we heard he was being mistreated, so we got him back. He’s getting better but he’s still a nutcase. Dad must think you’re brilliant to let you ride Dol.’

  ‘Really? He doesn’t seem too pleased.’

  ‘He never does.’ Tallulah shrugged.

  With her legs still shaking, Libby led Dolomite back to his stable, unsure if she should get her hopes up. Exhausted from the sleepless night, a stressful interview and fifty minutes of schooling hell, she untacked Dolomite and leaned against his shoulder, still holding the saddle in her weary arms.

  Robbie appeared with two steaming mugs. ‘Tea? Lulu’s going to walk him around.’

  Grateful, Libby deposited the tack and collapsed onto a wooden bench.

  ‘You have the sketchiest CV I’ve ever seen,’ Robbie said sitting next to her, ‘but despite that, and my appalling interviewing skills, how do you fancy a job?’

  She laughed, resting her head against the wall behind her. ‘Really?’

  ‘Got any fags?’

  ‘You are priceless.’ But dutifully she took out a pack and a lighter.

  ‘I’d rather smoking was kept nearer the house where everything’s less flammable, but never in front of Tilly or Dora. Lulu’s seen everything. Come on, I’ll show you around.’

  He led the way to the far end of the L-shaped stable block, where Shakespeare stood with his head over the door. A little brass plaque declared his name and birth date.

  ‘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.

  Chapter Nine

  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.