‘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?’
‘Drunken Duck. Nikki-two-ks-and-an-i has arranged to meet up with some of the blokes from the Kendal office. She says a couple of them are fit as.’
‘What about Mr Coffee Shop? Have you been back there?’
‘Nope. Are you sure you don’t want to come out?’
‘Yep.’
‘At least go to the pub and say hello to Jack. Wind Grace up as payback for her quotes in the paper.’
Facing up to Grace was the last thing Libby intended to do. She had a better idea. The second Zoë disappeared in a taxi, Libby reached under her bed, feeling for the spell book. Would Maggie have a charm or incantation, something stronger than the pine cone that would have Zoë’s Mr Coffee Shop devoted in no time?
The bookmark, a quarter of the way through, marked the point she’d reached with her reading. Chocolat she’d devoured in days, but the spell book was heavier going, sometimes requiring Google translations to even begin to understand what the Latin pages contained.
Using random luck to guide her, Libby flicked through the remaining three quarters, landing at a retribution charm. It might be tempting to use against Grace for the newspaper quote, but it wasn’t Libby’s style and the Wiccan motto was: If it hurt none, do what you will. She skipped forward a handful of pages. Summon Your True Love. Oh, hello. The spell looked easy enough, a bit of candle burning, some flower petals, a little bag and make a list of your ideal man’s traits. Easy. She could do a practice run on herself. At the top of the page, in what she’d come to assume was Maggie’s handwriting, was a note: Imp! Grounding a must before performing.
Grounding? Hadn’t she read about that a few nights ago? Marking the page, she flicked towards the front of the folder, searching for the lengthy Wiccan meditation instructions. If she was going to do this, she ought to do it properly.
Libby showered and changed into a cotton vest and linen trousers then, wearing no make-up, perfume or jewellery, she stood barefoot on the lawn and closed her eyes, recalling the instructions she’d tried to memorise.
Her toes wiggled in the grass and she shifted her weight, focussing on sending her breath down into the ground beneath her, spreading it like roots amongst the bugs and worms. As she mentally reached the core, to the Earth Goddess, she sent down the feelings she wanted rid of – her longing to be a professional dancer again, her attachment to Paolo, her anger at Grace, then she imagined feeling the energy from the Earth coming back up, past the worms and bugs in the soil, rising through her body.
Feeling faintly ridiculous but justifying it as no different to yoga she’d been doing for years, Libby sent her energy up to the sky. And after a similar ritual swapping energy with the Sun Star, she found herself part of an unending chain. With each in-breath she sent energy from the Earth Goddess up to the Sun Star, and on her out-breath, the energy fell from the sky back through her body and down to the Earth.
A few breaths later, Libby’s feet started tingling. Had she hyperventilated? She crouched down, touching the ground, closing her eyes and taking a moment.
‘Blessed be,’ she whispered.
Well, that was weird. She studied her feet, all fine now. Actually, she felt fine too, but then meditative breathing had always relaxed her. The Earth Goddess part might be a little out-there, but then again, the good luck spell had produced some pretty awesome results.
Assuming she was suitably grounded, Libby sat cross-legged on the grass, in the same central spot on the lawn, and lit a red candle. Okay, ideal man traits: good looks, 25-35, honest.
She wrote them on a torn piece of chintz wallpaper – more parchment-like than A4 notepaper, she’d decided. That should do it. She burned the list with a handful of red rose petals, tipping the cooled ashes into a small red silk pouch she’d found in Maggie’s magic box. Molten wax sealed the bag and the spell.
‘Blessed be,’ she whispered, again touching the ground.
Hyssop watched from the patio and, if she didn’t know better, she could’ve sworn he was smiling.
Chapter Ten
‘Well, this is it, Lib, as good as life gets in the countryside.’ Zoë strode across the Green, an amenable but utterly fake smile pasted to her lips. ‘Sunday afternoon watching a tribute folk band. Yee-ha.’
Grinning, Libby took off her denim jacket and tied it around her waist. ‘Oh, come on. The sun’s shining. It’ll be fun.’
‘Fun?’ Zoë raised her eyebrows. ‘Mumford and Dad, really?’
‘Give them a chance.’ Libby elbowed her. ‘And we might meet some hot guys...’
‘You just want to prove you don’t fancy your boss.’ Zoë’s smile turned ten times more real as Libby’s cheeks turned cerise.
‘I don’t fancy him.’
‘Liar.’
‘I just think this might be somewhere we can meet decent guys.’
‘Decent?’ From the rag-tag mix outside the King Alfred, the only blokes ranking over a sev
en were sitting with their significant others and the below sevens were clearly single for a reason. ‘You mean nice, don’t you?’
‘You want more blokes grabbing your boobs?’
‘Jesus, no.’ Zoë pouted. The night before, her night out with Nikki-two-ks-and-an-i, had started okay when the Kendal boys picked up the tab for dinner, but they quickly expected payment in kind. One arsehole, Adam, had sidled up behind Zoë and copped a feel of her tits. Without asking. The temptation had been to punch him in the face, but she made do with ramming a metal-tipped stiletto heel into his limited edition shell-toes. ‘Nice might be doable.’
‘Oh God.’ Libby wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Grace is working. She’ll spit in my drink.’
I’d like to see her try. Hell would have to freeze over before Zoë would let some yokel like Grace bully Libby. ‘I’ll get the drinks. You get–’
‘Libby!’ Clara strode over, her smile huge. ‘Daze and I are child free. We’ve got pink fizz. Come and join us. We’re in the beer garden out the back. The band are just getting ready.’
Libby’s delight couldn’t be more apparent. ‘Zo?’
‘I’ll be there in a sec.’
‘Why?’ Libby’s eyes narrowed and she scanned the bar. ‘Or who?’
Fighting a conniving smile, Zoë glanced towards Mark #1 – Sparky. The twenty-one-year-old was way below her usual baseline, but he was the only electrician she could even get to come look at the wiring. His six-week time-frame was simply unsatisfactory.
Libby shook her head. ‘Don’t eat him alive.’
‘Never say never.’
Zoë stood for a moment as Libby all-but skipped away with Clara, waving to Sheila from next door and Lynda from the Post office. There was never any doubt Libby would make friends in the village, but Zoë had never expected her to embrace the lifestyle quite so easily. Until a couple of years ago, Libby’s world was studded with artists, models and dance megastars; she’d lived in London, Moscow and New York. Was she really happy with this provincial life?
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