Nearly Almost Somebody

by Caroline Batten

  No.

  Patrick slowed, glancing back at her. ‘Hyssop looks well.’

  ‘He said, begrudgingly.’

  ‘His eyes have been okay?’

  ‘I got Zoë to get the drops from Grace.’ Oh god, the Alfred. Please don’t let Grace – or worse Jack – be inside.

  For the first time, Patrick gave her a smile. ‘Don’t look so worried. Yes, Grace will be in there, but honestly, she won’t dare say anything in front of me. Grab the table over by the window.’

  ‘Can’t we sit outside?’

  ‘I’d prefer to sit inside.’ He held the door open for her.

  ‘I might want a cigarette.’

  ‘Feel free to go outside for one. It’s a disgusting habit. Drink?’

  ‘The white Rioja,’ she said, already wishing she hadn’t agreed to the non-date.

  Grace didn’t hide her displeasure at Libby’s arrival, and Jack sat at the bar, staring straight ahead. Why had she let Patrick boss her around? She didn’t want to sit inside. She didn’t want to be sitting in the same pub as Jack or Grace.

  She darted to the left, taking refuge in the window seat hidden from the view of the bar. Her ankle started throbbing again. She could be getting ready to go and see Robbie. What had she been thinking? She could just leave. Walk out. Longingly, she glanced across to the cottage. Hyssop was sitting on the war memorial in the middle of the Green, watching her. Keeping an eye on her?

  Her chance to flee passed as Patrick sat opposite, pushing a bath-sized glass of wine towards her.

  ‘Sorry for almost killing you this morning.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’ She took the wine, trying to force a polite smile.

  ‘You really don’t want to be here, do you?’

  ‘Nope.’ She took a mouthful of the wine. ‘So you’ve been away. Nice tan.’

  ‘My brother has a practice out in Spain.’

  ‘Practice?’

  ‘He’s a vet too, family thing.’ He had his head tipped slightly, studying her. ‘My dad’s a vet, my mum’s a vet, my big brother’s a vet. Why was Xander hugging you?’

  ‘Trying to unearth a little scandal you can use in the custody battle?’

  ‘Maybe. You didn’t answer me.’

  ‘He’s my running buddy.’

  ‘And he was hugging you because…’

  ‘He’s nice like that?’ Libby grinned. ‘He hugged me because I said I’d think about doing the fell race.’

  Patrick sipped his beer, leaning further back in his seat. ‘Why’d you come here?’

  ‘The irresistible lure of a free drink.’

  He glanced out of the window, trying not to smile. ‘To Gosthwaite, I meant.’

  ‘Zoë and I were sharing a flat in Manchester. She inherited the cottage and moved here to avoid capital gains. I came too.’

  ‘What really happened with Xander?’

  ‘We’re just friends.’

  ‘Can I have the cat back?’ he asked, looking her in the eye.

  ‘His name is Hyssop. And no, you can’t. He’s settled.’

  ‘He’s not yours.’

  ‘He’s not yours either.’ She kept up eye contact, fascinated by the odd mix of green and brown in his irises.

  ‘Maggie said that if anything happened to her, I should look after him.’

  ‘I’ve seen her will. Your name wasn’t mentioned.’

  ‘He was happy with me.’

  ‘What, until you buggered off and left him? He needs a home, not someone who lets him down.’

  ‘And you’re going to stick around forever? Grace said you and Zoë were planning to move on when the renovations are done. At least I own my house.’ He glanced up to his right.

  ‘Liar,’ she said, without thinking.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t own that house, you’re lying.’

  He frowned at her for a second, before shaking his head. He was clearly irritated, but his eyes were twinkling. ‘Okay, okay, so my parents own it. That’s not the point.’

  She sipped her wine, trying not to smile. ‘Ding, ding, end of round one.’

  ‘Bitch.’ He gently kicked her ankle under the table.

  Libby winced. ‘Ow.’

  He sat up, his eyes wide. ‘Christ, sorry.’

  She couldn’t stop her huge smile. ‘It’s okay. It was the other ankle.’

  ‘I’m really starting to dislike you.’ He threw a beer mat at her, his smile growing.

  ‘Careful, some might call that flirting, like pigtail pulling in the playground.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. You look like seventeen year-old trailer trash.’

  ‘Crikey, you know how to charm a girl out of her cat.’

  He knocked back several mouthfuls of beer, never taking his eyes off her. Robbie had some serious competition for the sexiest bloke she’d ever met.

  This isn’t a date. Don’t get carried away. He only wants Hyssop.

  ‘I hear you used to pinch Maggie’s weed,’ she said, trying to keep things a little less flirty.

  ‘She gave me permission to help myself when I was eighteen. Can I still?’

  ‘You just said smoking was a disgusting habit.’

  ‘Weed’s different.’

  ‘Hypocrite. I don’t think being a regular drug-user is going to help your custody case.’

  ‘And inflicting second-hand smoke on Hyssop is helping yours, is it? Ding, ding, end of round two.’

  Libby pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Maggie?’ He turned to the cottage. ‘She used to be ferocious. Christ, the amount of times she whacked me with her walking stick. She changed though, softened up in her old age. I liked her.’

  He still stared at the cottage, his frown growing. Libby could feel his sadness. She wanted to comfort him, hold his hand. Hold his hand? Run her fingers through his hair, more like. She gently nudged his ankle.

  He turned to her, smiling. ‘Ow.’

  She smiled back, glancing up at the cut that was showing from under his curls. ‘How’s your head, by the way?’

  ‘Fine, but my helmet’s knackered and my bike’s scratched to hell.’

  ‘That was the scariest twenty minutes of my life.’

  He laughed, leaning forwards, his elbows on the table. ‘You were hilarious. I can’t believe you had your eyes closed.’

  Libby blushed as he smiled and his legs stretched out under the table, accidently brushing against hers. He did fancy her. A bit at least.

  ‘Isn’t he a bit single for you, Libby?’ Grace said as she wiped down a nearby table. ‘You want to watch yourself, Patrick. Her reputation’s worse than yours.’

  Libby clutched her glass, mentally screaming at Grace’s departing back.

  ‘Turns out, you were wrong,’ she said, looking up at Patrick, hoping for some reassurance, willing him to reprimand Grace.

  He didn’t. He stared back. ‘I’ve got to go, sorry.’

  ‘You are not walking out on me in front of her.’

  He stood up, abandoning the last quarter of his pint. ‘I’ll try not to run you over again.’

  Her cheeks burned with mortification and anger. ‘Damn right. That was a public footpath, not a bloody cycle route.’

  He left.

  Libby downed her wine before hobbling to the bar where Grace stood with her arms crossed, grinning.

  ‘You want a war?’ Libby said, keeping her voice low. ‘You’ve got one. You have no idea what I can do. I will take you on in the fell race and I’m going to win.’

  Grace blew her a kiss and Libby strode off across the Green, refusing to limp. She wouldn’t give Grace or Mr McBride the satisfaction of watching her suffer.

  ‘Matilda, can’t you play in the bloody house?’ Libby manoeuvred the wheelbarrow around the collection of teddies having a picnic in the middle of the yard.

  ‘Tilly, take the bears nearer the sandpit, please.’ Robbie waited until Matilda was out of earshot. ‘And
you’re in a bad mood because?’

  ‘None of your business.’ Libby dragged a half-full bag of shavings to Max’s box.

  ‘Libby?’

  She stopped, looking up at him.

  ‘Don’t ever take your bad fucking mood out on my daughter again.’

  He headed back to the house and she kicked the shavings bag, sending a bolt of agony into her ankle.

  ‘I went for a drink with Patrick the vet last night,’ she said, flopping onto the bench. ‘I shouldn’t have said yes. I feel bad.’

  Robbie looked up at the sky for a moment before joining her on the bench. ‘Lib, if you want to go out with someone… Not that I want you to, but under the circumstances, it’s not fair to stop you.’

  ‘I lied. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You did. Why?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘And what happened when you went out with Patrick the vet last night?

  ‘The utter bastard walked out on me.’ She pulled a face then braved looking up at him. You’re ten times the person he is.

  ‘Sounds like you got off lightly.’ Robbie ran a hand though his hair. ‘He’s my best-friend but–’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t realise? Have I not mentioned him?’ He laughed. ‘I suppose there’s some irony there. Look, I wouldn’t trust my sister with him, if I had a sister.’

  ‘Why on earth are you friends with him?’

  ‘I’ve known him since I was nine and… he reminds me of who I used to be.’

  Oh. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ He glanced across to the girls who were merrily feeding the teddies sand, before dropping a kiss on her head. ‘Just promise me, if you do meet someone else, don’t lie.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And stay away from Patrick.’

  Happily.

  * * *

  Zoë sipped her tea, watching as Libby walked up the garden path. ‘She’s not going to be happy.’

  Patrick didn’t respond. He rubbed Hyssop’s head, showing no emotion.

  ‘Is it wine o’clock yet?’ Libby called. She stopped and stared when she stepped into the living room but then turned, glaring to Zoë. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to take my cat–’

  ‘He’s not your cat,’ Libby said, her voice a vicious hiss.

  Zoë sat back, nursing her mug, intrigued by the drama unfolding in front of her. Patrick had rocked up, casual, confident and utterly persuasive. Not that he needed to persuade her. Hyssop had trotted down the stairs to meet him, hissing at Zoë along the way. The cat hated her and she hated the mangy fleabag right back. She hadn’t said as much to Patrick, but she’d already decided it made sense for Hyssop to move next door.

  What she hadn’t appreciated was just how attached to the furry lump Libby was. Hyssop jumped off Patrick’s knee, sidling up to Libby, purring away, and Libby’s eyes filled with tears. She was crying over something that wasn’t ballet. How very interesting. And even more interesting, Patrick had sat forward, frowning, his casual confidence crumbling. But was he concerned over Hyssop’s defection, or Libby’s tears?

  Libby scooped Hyssop up, kissing him. ‘Can’t you get another cat?’

  ‘Look,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘I know you like him, but he means a lot to me–’

  ‘He does to me too.’ She looked at Patrick, tears pooling again. ‘Hyssop’s my friend.’

  Zoë almost choked on her tea. Patrick and Libby both glared at her. ‘What? It’s just a cat.’

  Patrick shook his head before turning back to Libby. ‘He’s not just a cat.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’ Libby shook her hair back, composing herself. ‘But anyway, he’s Zoë’s cat officially and she’ll let me keep him. Won’t you?’

  No. I don’t want the bloody cat here.

  ‘Zo, come on.’ Patrick turned to her, flashing that terrific, flirty smile. ‘We’ve known each other for years. We used to go blackberry picking. Remember when your tutu got stuck in the brambles?’

  ‘And for mentioning that, Libby gets full custody.’

  Patrick swore, taking a few moments to stare at the floorboards, but finally he stood up, towering over Libby, to say goodbye to Hyssop. Libby looked up at him, her eyes apologetic and Zoë again struggled not to laugh. These two were bonding over a stupid cat.

  ‘Look after him,’ he said, his voice quiet.

  ‘I promise,’ Libby whispered.

  Oh, this was fabulous. Patrick’s jaw twitched away, but he spent more time gazing into Libby’s big blue eyes, now framed by smudged mascara, than he did looking at the cat he so desperately wanted back. He was as smitten with Libby as Libby was with him. Priceless.

  He headed for the door, glancing one last time at Libby.

  ‘But…’ Zoë said, stopping him. ‘You can have visitation rights.’

  ‘What?’ Patrick and Libby asked.

  ‘Feel free to visit on weekends and evenings. You know, to make sure he’s okay.’ And let’s see what develops between you two. Zoë pottered through to the kitchen, leaving them to it, but hovered outside the closed door, listening in.

  ‘I might take her up on that,’ he said.

  ‘I hate you. Get out.’

  ‘You won, princess. I’m not too fond of you either.’

  Zoë grinned. A match made in heaven. And if she wasn’t mistaken, Patrick fulfilled every single one of Libby’s Summoning Spell criteria. But she’d let Libby discover that for herself.

  * * *

  Annoyed, irritated, and coming home to an empty house, Patrick slammed the door, cursing girls who cried. How could he fight back and persuade Zoë when Libby had got all… weepy. Christ, why did girls cry so much?

  His phone rang. Robbie. Thank you. It was Saturday night. He could go round there, drown his misery. ‘Hi Rob–’

  ‘Stay away from Libby.’

  ‘Fucking hell. Droit du seigneur?’

  Robbie hung up.

  Jesus. He’d broken his parents rules by drinking on a work night to win that girl over, and for what? Still no cat. He’d lost Hyssop and now Robbie was pissed off with him. Libby Wilde was quickly ruining his life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Trundling his bike down the Low Wood Farm drive never failed to cheer Patrick. The place almost felt like home. Shame he’d had to waste a day’s holiday so he could drink on a Sunday – no booze when he was working the next day had been the hardest rule he’d agreed to. It ruined his usual Sunday bike ride with Robbie, but there was no way Patrick could endure a four year-old’s birthday party without a beer or five.

  In the yard, Cromwell the fat Lab lay in the sun, the cat spread out next to him. Nothing had changed. Except the place was a damn site tidier. Not that Robbie kept a sloppy yard, but the stable doors gleamed under a coat of fresh stain, the windows sparkled and hanging baskets filled with petunias and nasturtiums hung from the roof beams.

  Would Ms Wilde be here? Yes, she was. Patrick paused by the yard gate as she led Harmony, Tallulah’s old gymkhana pony, out of a stable. Jesus, Libby looked more like seventeen year-old trailer trash than she had when they went to the Alfred. Her pale blue eyes, what you could see of them under her fringe, were caked with more black eye shadow than he’d seen most girls wear on a night out in Haverton and what was she wearing? Denim jodhpurs and a purple ACDC t-shirt that hung off one shoulder displaying a turquoise bra strap. He much preferred the girl he’d crashed into. He much preferred angelic.

  As he opened the gate, Robbie came out of the house. Patrick approached him, offering an apprehensive handshake, but it quickly evolved into a back-slapping hug. Christ, it really was good to be home.

  ‘This place looks good,’ Patrick said. ‘Van’s been busy.’

  ‘She’s still away. Libby’s done all this.’

  Robbie smiled in her direction, but she was too busy grooming Harmony to notice, and unless Patrick was mistaken, there was a definite edge to Robbie’s voice. Was he still
worried about Vanessa and the bloke from the quartet?

  ‘How’s Van getting on?’

  ‘She’s in Yorkshire, at some music festival.’ Robbie led the way to the garden. ‘So how come you buggered off to Spain? You didn’t call, you didn’t write...’

  Robbie was clearly passing idle chit-chat, settling the ground after the terse phone call the previous week, but how much should Patrick tell him? As they passed Libby, she didn’t look round but brushed Harmony’s tail, humming to herself.

  Robbie smiled. ‘World of her own.’

  More like she’s snubbing me. Patrick shook his head. She was still pissed off. He couldn’t see why. She’d got the cat.

  ‘Spain?’ Robbie asked again.

  ‘Dad blew up after the Miss Haverton story,’ Patrick explained. ‘Had to keep my head low for a while, let him calm down.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. Shagging in the park?’ Robbie shook his head, trying not to laugh. ‘You’re lucky you weren’t arrested.’

  ‘Seemed a good idea at the time.’

  ‘If you ever fuck anyone in my restaurant again, I’ll have you arrested.’

  Patrick swore, his stomach bottoming out. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘We have cameras.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Yes. Laurel saw you go in.’

  And this is what he got now, why he didn’t need any rules. The days of pulling stunts like that were long gone. That wasn’t who he wanted to be.

  Patrick stalled at the garden gate. ‘Jesus.’

  If Vanessa had planned Matilda’s party, he might’ve expected bunting hung around the garden, a bouncy castle at one end and pass-the-parcel at the other, but the bouncy fairy palace, vast paddling pool filled with bubbles and a giant rabbit performing magic tricks to one of Matilda’s enthralled friends seemed way beyond the usual Low Wood Farm soiree.

  ‘Did Libby do all this too?’ Patrick asked, eyeing up a stilt walker dressed as a ballet dancing fairy. ‘Where the hell did you find her?’

  Robbie laughed. ‘Fantastic, isn’t she?’

  Without question, Patrick knew they were both referring to Libby not the fit as girl on stilts who’d given them a cheeky wink.