Nearly Almost Somebody

by Caroline Batten

  ‘Don’t you get the Haverton Eye emails in Spain?’

  He shook his head. Grace knew he hadn’t paid any attention to that trash since they’d posted the pictures of him and the Cumbrian Businessman of the Year’s wife, but when she dug a copy of the Gazette out of the recycling box and showed him page five, he had to smile. Xander was messing around with some blonde that wasn’t Daisy?

  ‘I’m guessing from the quote,’ he said, ‘there’s no love lost between you two.’

  ‘Payback.’ Sighing, she showed him a photo from the blog on her phone.

  Jack had been shagging around again – what a shocker. Patrick peered at the image, focussing on Olivia Wilde, who was wearing a tiny red dress. Nice arse.

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Zoë, Maggie’s niece, the one who inherited the house? It’s her mate. Six weeks ago she was in the paper getting up close and personal with Xander, next minute she’s all over Jack.’ She tried to sound as though she didn’t care, but her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Gracey, you’ve always been too good for Jack.’ He held her face and kissed her forehead. ‘You need to move on.’

  Blushing, no doubt at persevering with Jack for so long, Grace nodded. ‘Lynda’s pulled up outside.’

  In a blur of activity, Grace comforted a sobbing Lynda, while Patrick opened the back door. Boadicea lay whimpering, blood seeping from a gash across her side, her two front legs clearly broken and her face an unrecognisable mush. Shit. With Grace’s help, he carried the dog into the surgery, gently laying her on the table.

  ‘Hey, Boadicea,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re supposed to chase cats, not cars.’

  ‘It’s not like her,’ Lynda said, ‘but she just ran out into the road. Brenda from Inglenook couldn’t stop in time.’

  Once he’d sedated Boadicea, Patrick did a gentle but thorough examination. It wasn’t good news and he frowned at Grace, an unspoken communication she’d understand: the dog needed to be put down.

  ‘Will she be okay?’ Lynda asked.

  He hated this part of his job. ‘I’m afraid she has two broken legs and from the sounds of her chest, a punctured lung.’

  ‘But you can operate?’

  Patrick gripped the table. ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘Then do it. Please, just make her better.’

  ‘Lynda, she’s sustained a nasty head injury. I’m not sure there’s anything–’

  ‘Please?’

  Grace put her arm around Lynda. ‘You’re talking about expensive–’

  ‘She’s my baby. I don’t care about the money.’

  ‘…and invasive surgery,’ Grace went on. ‘You have to think what’s best for Boadicea.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s in her best interests, Lynda.’

  Lynda looked up at him, her eyes pleading, tears tumbling down her cheeks. ‘She’s all I have, Patrick. I can’t lose her.’

  Jesus Christ. When did he become a soft-touch? ‘I’ll treat her, see what we can do, but by six o’clock, if I think we’re prolonging her suffering... I won’t have her in pain if it’s not going to make her better.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Lynda,’ he said, his voice grave. ‘I’m serious. At six o’clock, I will make that call.’

  Grace led her away. ‘Why don’t you go home, have a cuppa, Lynda? There’s nothing you can do here. I’ll ring you when we know more.’

  With a sobbing Lynda gone, Patrick set to work. ‘Grace, make some coffee and get me the cat back.’

  The green track beneath his wheels improved Patrick’s mood with each passing minute. Biking in Spain had been challenging, but the brown, dusty trails weren’t a patch on his familiar route across the common and down through woods. It had to be the only good thing about coming home.

  Get the cat back.

  It wasn’t a lot to ask, but at six o’clock after he’d informed Lynda that Boadicea was moderately stable, Grace reluctantly admitted that Olivia Wilde wouldn’t answer her calls. Irritated, he kept an eye on Maggie’s cottage, planning to ask for Hyssop back himself, but he saw no sign of Zoë or her friend. In the end, he’d gone home to an empty house. And it sucked.

  Patrick stood up on his pedals, punishing himself up the hill towards the woods, but already smiling in anticipation of the next descent – the best downhill for miles around. Pedalling hard, he turned into the woods, his knees soaking up every bump in the track. He flew over a bank, turning hard right to avoid a vast Douglas Fir. He still had it. The first time he’d taken the jump, he’d ploughed straight into the trunk, dislocating his shoulder, but never again.

  Trees flew past. He ducked to avoid a low branch, but kept his eye on the track, lining up the next bend, spotting the apex, mentally preparing for a brief burst of effort before a huge rolling left–

  Shit.

  Someone was on the track.

  He yelled as he swerved, but his back wheel clipped the runner and Patrick slammed into a branch. The bike fell away and he slid down the hill, dirt and stones dragging against his bare arms and legs.

  Jesus Christ.

  Winded, he sat up, the skin on his arms and legs stinging, but looked for the runner. She was lying under a tree, holding her right leg in the air. He ignored the stabbing pain in his knee as he jogged up the hill, hoping she wasn’t badly hurt.

  ‘Are you okay?’ He crouched next to her, waiting for his sunglasses to react to the dim light in the shade of the tree.

  ‘I think I’ve twisted my ankle, nothing serious.’ Not a local girl. She sounded posh, not upper-class posh, but well-spoken. She touched her face, flinching.

  Finally, his sunglasses adjusted and he turned her chin, examining the graze on her cheek. Was this Olivia Wilde? Pretty. And her skimpy, skin-tight running gear covered little, but showed off how toned she was. No wonder Jack had been tempted.

  ‘It’s a wee graze,’ he said. ‘You won’t be scarred for life.’

  She winced as she sat up. ‘Are you okay? You’re bleeding.’

  He lifted a hand to his forehead and frowned at the drop of blood left on his finger. That explained the axe ripping his skull open. ‘I’ll live.’

  He held out a hand and helped her to her feet, watching as she tentatively put her right foot on the ground. She swore and he tried not to smile. Was this fortuitous? Olivia Wilde needed his help and she had his cat. One good deed...

  ‘Oh god, that bloody hurts.’ She closed her eyes for a second, before taking a deep breath. ‘Old injury. It’ll be okay, just needs a couple of days to recover.’

  ‘Think you can walk?’ He hoped not. Helping Ms Wilde would hardly be a hardship.

  She frowned, peering down the track, then shook her head. ‘But it feels a bit melodramatic to ring the Mountain Rescue for a swollen ankle.’

  ‘Wait here.’ He scooted down to collect his mercifully still intact bike.

  Her frown grew as he returned. ‘I don’t like bikes.’

  ‘It’s this, or walking.’

  She swore several times, but perched on the crossbar and clutched the inside of the handlebar. ‘Please, be careful.’

  Instead of going down, he pushed the bike back up the hill, detouring out of the woods as soon as he could onto the smoother, grassy bridleway down to the village. He couldn’t help smiling. Despite his banging head and the burning coming from his grazed arm and leg, the morning was already a hundred times better than the day before. He had a damsel-in-distress on his crossbar.

  ‘Okay, hold tight and… just don’t do anything stupid.’ He climbed on the bike, trying not to grin as he put his arms either side of her to take hold of the handlebars.

  ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, cowering into him.

  A pretty damsel-in-distress who smelled of… roses. How could she smell of roses when she’d been running? As he changed gear, his face next to hers, he took a deep breath. Not just roses, roses and sweet peas, like the roses and the sweet peas his mum grew. She smelled like a god-damn flower garden, a W
ilde flower garden. And this flower garden would owe him a favour.

  Like giving me my cat back.

  He peeked round at her, trying not to laugh. ‘Why’ve you got your eyes shut?’

  ‘Because this is terrifying. I haven’t ridden on a crossbar since I was about twelve.’

  ‘You run half-naked through the woods at seven in the morning and you think this is dangerous?’

  He laughed, loving the way she leaned against him. Should he seize the opportunity of a captive audience and ask for Hyssop back? Plenty of time for that.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ he said, his lips brushing her ear. ‘It’ll be less scary. We’re really not going that fast.’

  She opened her eyes and squeaked, cowering against him even more, her head against his shoulder. ‘Oh god, we are. I really hate bikes.’

  ‘Tough, I’m not carrying you back to the Green.’

  He took another sneaky peek at her as they coasted down the track. Christ, she was small, skinny small, and he didn’t think legs like that existed outside of air-brushed adverts – long, trim and very toned, the body of an athlete. Okay, her tits were underwhelming, but better that than the fake things Ms Haverton had stuck to her chest. Overall, Ms Wilde was a very nice package.

  ‘How do you know where I live?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re Olivia Wilde, aren’t you? The girl who’s been misbehaving with Jack and Xander.’ He regretted his piss-taking when she straightened her back, putting an inch or two between them. ‘Sorry. I don’t really know anything. Just rumours.’

  But she didn’t relax, making it a very bad time to ask about Hyssop. She might say no, just to be obtuse. He leaned forward to give his most sincere smile, to show her he wasn’t a bad guy, but she looked away, her eyes shining. Why did girls always cry?

  ‘Don’t worry about the paper,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows they make up half of what they print.’ Unless it was about him, then it was usually true.

  She didn’t speak for the rest of the ride down, though after an unavoidable cattle grid made her shriek with pain, she did at least lean against him again.

  Roses and sweet peas.

  Carefully, he stopped outside her house and helped her off the bike. ‘Do you need a hand to get into the house?’

  She turned, hopping on her left foot, and smiled.

  And when she smiled, pretty became angelic.

  Jesus.

  * * *

  In the woods, with his back to the light, all she knew was he looked tall, had curly hair and a slight Scottish accent. On the bike, she’d discovered he was fit. She’d ogled the thigh muscles, admired the arms, and couldn’t resist leaning back against his shoulders, but the rest was a mystery. A mystery until she turned around and he lifted his sunglasses.

  Ohmigod.

  A mop of black curls, hazel eyes, great cheekbones... Crikey, he even had an adorable smattering of freckles across his nose.

  ‘I’ll be fine, thanks,’ she said, trying not to stare.

  He flashed a smile as he held out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Olivia–’

  ‘I only get called Olivia when I’m being fired,’ she said, shaking his hand. Rough hands, nice. ‘It’s Libby the rest of the time.’

  ‘Then it’s nice to meet you, Libby. I’m Patrick.’

  Patrick? She glanced to the corner house next to hers. ‘You’re Patrick, the vet?’

  He nodded, still smiling, but preparing to leave. ‘I’m Patrick, the vet.’

  Aware she was definitely staring, but too bemused to do anything else, Libby watched him peddle away, heading for the lane between their houses.

  ‘Oh, and Libby?’ He paused. ‘I want my cat back.’

  Bemusement vanished. ‘He’s not your cat.’

  Smiling up at the sky, Patrick circled around, cycling back to her. Crikey, he had something about him and not just a fit body. The irritating thing was she knew from his easy-going smile he only wanted one thing: her cat.

  ‘How is Hyssop?’ he asked.

  ‘Healthy. Happy. At home.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘I want him back.’

  ‘Not happening.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘As much as I’d like to debate this now, how about we discuss it tonight? Seven o’clock, the Alfred? I’ll buy you a drink to say sorry for nearly killing you.’

  Libby faced up to him, with her hands on hips. ‘The Alfred’s a bit tricky. As I’m sure you know, Grace and I don’t get along.’

  ‘Yeah, she mentioned why.’

  Libby folded her arms, desperate to flee. She had to walk away. Now.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve been telling her to dump him for years.’ Patrick leaned on his handlebars, his eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Grace won’t say anything if I’m there. Tell you what, I’ll call for you on the way then you don’t even have to walk in on your own.’

  ‘Wow, you’re almost making it sound like a date. Will you bring flowers? I adore peach roses.’

  ‘It’s not a date.’ He grinned, blatantly looking her over. ‘It’s a custody battle.’

  ‘Planning to ply me with booze until I say yes?’

  ‘Will it work?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then I won’t rely on booze.’ He shot her a wink then pedalled away again. ‘Seven o’clock.’

  Seven o’clock. She had a… custody battle with Patrick the vet. It wasn’t a date, but guilt swamped her as she hopped into the house. Hyssop, as ever, padded down the stairs to meet her, mewing a hello. She sat on the bottom step, stroking his head.

  ‘Do you want to go back to Patrick?’

  He mewed again. Was that a yes or a no?

  ‘I mean, because, if you want to, then I’d understand. You’ve probably known him for longer, but...’ I don’t want you to go.

  Hyssop rubbed his head against her chin before plodding back upstairs to curl up as he usually did, on her bed. It was as if he’d said, don’t worry, I’m staying. No way was Patrick taking him, no matter how much he fluttered his fabulous eyelashes.

  She’d tell Robbie, of course. When she got to work, she’d tell him. It wasn’t a date after all. He wouldn’t mind.

  But despite plenty of opportunities, she hadn’t told Robbie. He’d come back in the afternoon and helped her round the yard, good-naturedly telling her off for over-using her ankle. After work, he poured her a glass of wine, but when he asked if she was coming round later, she’d lied. She’d told an outright lie and said Zoë wanted to go out for a drink. He’d nodded, his disappointment clear. Why hadn’t she told him the truth?

  It wasn’t a date.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Libby checked her cheek in the hall mirror. The graze wasn’t too bad and an icepack had taken the swelling down, but even copious layers of concealer couldn’t hide the bruise. Not exactly the best look for a non-date. She glanced down at her multitude of bangles and pushed them off, not wanting Patrick to think she’d made an effort. Bugger, why was she so worried?

  Okay, she’d admit Patrick was good-looking. Not at Robbie’s supermodel level, but certainly an eight out of ten, maybe a nine. What was he, about thirty? Plus he was a vet and being a vet made him good with animals. To cap it all he didn’t have brown eyes. Hazel eyes couldn’t be classed as brown, could they? But was he single and was he honest with decent morals? Could he be the one she’d summoned?

  ‘Is it me,’ Zoë said, pausing as she painted her toenails her usual scarlet, ‘or are you a little nervous about your date with the vet?’

  ‘It’s not a date. It’s a custody battle.’

  ‘There’s no battle. He can have the flea-bag.’

  Libby stroked Hyssop’s head. ‘Don’t listen to her.’

  ‘I’m allergic to him. I have to take Clarityn every bloody day.’

  ‘You get hay fever. You’d take it anyway.’ Libby checked her watch.

  ‘Why are you so twitchy? Worried he’ll stand you up?’

  ‘No. He wants Hyssop
too much.’ Libby kissed the cat’s head. But he’s not having you, mister.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Patrick McBride. I must’ve been ten when I saw him last. He was always nicking Maggie’s weed and she used to call him the Wee Scots Beastie. I used to fancy him, of course. God knows why. He was this gangly fifteen year-old. What’s he like now?’

  ‘Oh, you know… fit.’ She’d forgotten the Scottish accent. ‘And it’s not a date.’

  ‘Fit, as in mountain biker fit, or fit as in…’

  ‘You would.’

  ‘Miss Wilde, is that why you’re so twitchy? Wow, what if he’s the one?’ Zoë turned to her, wide-eyed. ‘The one you summoned.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘He’s not.’

  ‘But he could be.’

  ‘He’s not. He’s Scottish.’ To avoid summoning Paolo, she’d added English to her list of desired traits. ‘Bugger, he’s here. You sure I don’t look too try-hard?’

  Zoë frowned at her. ‘You’re wearing a denim mini-skirt and black t-shirt. You’re as bland as can be.’

  Bland wasn’t good. Libby pushed several bangles back on and hopped to the door.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Christ, it’s good to see you.’

  Libby blinked in surprise, but Patrick wasn’t speaking to her. He crouched down, reaching out to pick up Hyssop. After a thorough examination, accompanied by several chin rubs, Patrick set Hyssop down, then slowly straightened. He fought a smile as his gaze travelled up her legs, but when he reached Libby’s face, his eyes widened and he recoiled, laughing.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Didn’t expect–’

  ‘What?’ She folded her arms.

  ‘Aren’t you a little old to be dressing like a misunderstood teenager?’ He headed back down the garden path. ‘You coming?’

  A misunderstood teenager? Libby straightened her back a little more. This wasn’t a date. It was a custody battle. Grabbing her bag, she followed Patrick, deliberately hobbling slowly. If she’d aimed not to look too try-hard, he’d outdone her. His jeans looked threadbare through use rather than some designer’s whim, and that faded t-shirt would be rejected by the homeless. But crikey, he looked good.