Nearly Almost Somebody

by Caroline Batten

  ‘But where has the pendant gone?’

  ‘Maybe Maggie lost it at the Ostara festival. I’ll ask Grace on Tuesday.’

  ‘Why would Grace know?’

  ‘Because she went with Maggie to the Ostara festival.’

  ‘Are you telling me–’

  ‘Grace plays witch too.’ He smiled down at her, loving her bemused expression. ‘Nuts, isn’t it? Grown adults believing in magic.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s anything in it?’

  ‘Of course not. I mean, okay, some of the herbal remedies Grace knocks up are pretty effective, but spells and amulets? Whatever.’

  ‘What about fate and luck?’

  ‘I prefer to control my own life.’ He studied her, watching as she nibbled her thumbnail. ‘What, do you believe in all that crap?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She shrugged and he’d bet his life that if the light were better, he’d be able to see her blushing. ‘Just sometimes it’s like everything happens for a reason.’

  ‘Bullshit. That’s just what people say to excuse their own crappy behaviour.’

  She stopped, her face looking up at him, unsmiling. ‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

  Bollocks. He hadn’t meant that. Then again… ‘Is your affair with a married man for a reason?’

  ‘No.’ She set off again, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘And I hate myself for it.’

  Oh, so everything happens for a reason, does it? And what possible reason could fate have for making Libby hate herself?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Why the hell did the weather have to finally break on her lunch hour? Mercifully, Zoë’s heels had a centimetre platform that shielded her toes from the puddles. Jess had offered to pop to the bakery down the road for ham and egg rolls, but Zoë would rather stick pins in her own eyes than sit in the office with them all as they flicked through Heat and Grazia, wittering on about the latest celebrity reality show. Instead, she claimed the need for fresh air and a trip to Boots, but then headed the opposite way, to the coffee-slash-bookshop.

  It was ridiculous. It wasn’t like she owed him anything. He’d stood her up first. Yet she scurried under the awning, shaking out her umbrella. This was Libby’s fault. Or Patrick’s – the way he’d looked at Libby... The windows were steamed up but the door was open, and from the buzz of voices inside, it was clearly busy. Would Mr Coffee Shop be there? Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  He wasn’t there.

  Fuck.

  A table at the back was free. She could sit and read at least. After shedding her mac and taking out her book, Zoë folded herself onto an oak chair and sank back against a purple velvet scatter cushion. All credit to Mr Coffee Shop, the place was a little oasis of boho class. Zoë smiled at the three blackboards hanging side by side on the wall: Eat, Listen, Ponder. Under the first were the day’s specials, under the second was a playlist of the eclectic music they’d be playing, and under the latter a quote:

  We accept the love we think we deserve

  – Stephen Chobsky

  ‘What can I get– oh, hi.’ The waitress held up a finger, as if Zoë were about to dash off. ‘I have something for you.’

  She returned from the counter with an envelope. The one Mr Coffee Shop had left two months ago no doubt.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen him since then,’ the waitress said, ‘but it’s still here. What can I get you?’

  ‘Coffee, American, black and...’ Zoë glanced up from the envelope to the specials board. ‘The morello cherry and chocolate fondant, please. With vanilla ice cream.’

  The envelope was thick, quality and he’d written her name in blue ink. It’d smudged under what looked like coffee.

  I have Jonathan. I don’t need this guy.

  But then there he was, coming in from the side door marked Staff Only. He didn’t say a word, but sat down at her table, looking her in the eye. What was it with him? And why after six weeks of walking the long way round to get to work, had she suddenly decided to go and see him? Okay, she itched to rake her fingers through his hair, to push it out of his stupidly blue eyes and drag him to bed, but he was a waiter in a bloody coffee shop-come-bookstore. He wasn’t her type. She liked corporate men in suits; he had a silver chain holding a bow and arrow hung around his neck, and three leather thongs on his wrist.

  And why did he look so familiar? Someone famous, an actor maybe? Whoever it was, it wasn’t the man of her dreams as Libby suggested. Zoë didn’t buy into that true love bullshit.

  Yet here she was about to utter the one word she aimed never to say. ‘Sorry.’

  His eyes twinkled as he stretched out his legs. ‘What was it, payback?

  ‘No. Something came up at work that I couldn’t say no to.’

  ‘Cocktails with Jess and Nikki?’

  ‘Friends of yours?’ And which had he shagged?

  ‘Nikki,’ he replied, answering her mental question. ‘A long time ago.’

  Zoë’s coffee was placed on the table and Mr Coffee Shop ordered a double espresso, but the whole time, they never dropped eye contact with one another. Obviously he wasn’t too pissed off with being stood up. Eventually, he smiled and glanced away.

  ‘Virginia Woolf?’ he asked, nodding to her copy of Orlando on the table. ‘You’re a lipstick feminist?’

  Refusing to rise to his mocking tone, Zoë smiled back. ‘Not particularly. It’s a waste of time in this world.’ She turned the book in her hands. ‘But it’s good to see the world through other people’s eyes.’

  ‘I’m Ed.’

  ‘Zoë.’ As they shook hands her heart rate increased. How good would it feel to have those hands undoing her blouse, slipping her bra straps off her shoulders? ‘So, Ed... you work here?’

  He shook his head, his eye contact again unwavering. ‘But I help out since I’m here all the time.’

  ‘Why are you here all the time? Don’t you have a job to go to?’

  ‘I’m a writer.’

  Penniless, no doubt. ‘What do you write?’

  He shrugged. ‘Whatever needs writing. Exposés of oil companies leaving wildlife to die on a beach, a novella about date rape, a four hundred page sci-fi tome decrying heartless capitalism.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a do-gooder journalist.’

  ‘And you’re a soulless estate agent.’

  ‘The most heartless of capitalist occupations.’ She tipped her head, unable to hide her grin.

  ‘Good job I’m a ghost writer then. I write whatever I’m paid to. I’m as soulless as you. We’ve still got a chance, beautiful.’

  Zoë blushed. Blushed. When had that last happened?

  For forty minutes, over coffee and a side order of palpable sexual tension, they discussed her move from Manchester, his desire to move to Paris, her penchant for chocolate puddings, his disgust over Amazon deforestation.

  ‘Ah, so you are a do-gooder.’

  He grinned. ‘You got me.’

  ‘Do I?’ She leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the table, mirroring his pose so there faces were merely inches apart. She could smell his aftershave, the coffee he’d drunk, the cigarette he’d had earlier.

  ‘You do.’ He brushed a strand of her hair off her face. ‘Hooked.’

  Her chest rose and fell with each increasingly unsteady breath. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone in my life. Surely, if he looked down, he’d be able to see her heart hammering in her chest. If he looked down? The whole time they’d been talking, he never so much as glanced at her tits.

  Five past two? Shit. She’d totally lost track of time.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. What would she give to stay? ‘Walk me out?’ And kiss me goodbye?

  Laughing, he stood up and grabbed a paperback from the shelf behind the counter. ‘Here. So you can see the world through my eyes.’

  She took the book, unable to see the title, or the cover image. All she could see were the two wo
rds proclaiming his name: Ed Carr. Bile rose to her mouth, her stomach contracting. This couldn’t be happening. She needed to dissolve into a shrieking puddle like the wicked witch of the west.

  ‘You’re... Jonathan’s son.’

  ‘I’m Jonathan’s son.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Bye.’ She dropped a twenty on the counter and fled into the rain.

  How could he be Jonathan’s son? How? How could she look him in the eye ever again when the previous night she’d tied his father to a bed and sucked his dick, tormenting him but never letting him come?

  ‘Zoë?’

  She struggled to put her umbrella up, the rain now torrential. Stupid, bloody–

  ‘How long have you been fucking him?’ Ed stood before her, his white shirt already turning transparent.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit. I knew it. I knew it the minute I saw you. You look just like that bitch.’

  Zoë abandoned the umbrella, blinking away the water coating her eyelashes. ‘I look like who?’

  ‘Why else would he give you the job?’

  ‘Because I’m good at selling houses?’

  Ed laughed, but any of his early eye twinkling was long gone. ‘If Dad believed that, he’d have you in the Kendal branch with his real sales team. Face it, he employed you to be his latest whore.’

  Her hand struck his cheek before she even knew she wanted to hit him.

  Twenty minutes later, Zoë’s hands were still shaking with barely restrained rage as she pushed open the door of Carr & Young’s Kendal office. Somehow, after leaving Ed standing in the rain, his cheek red, she’d got into her car, letting out a scream of frustration before she’d calmly pulled her hair into a neat bun and repainted her lips the most Chanel of red.

  The real sales team?

  What the fuck was she? Okay, it was weird the Haverton branch only employed women, mostly ineffective ones at that, and the Kendal branch appeared manned by the go-getting boys. But she merely assumed the boy branch would be as lazy-assed as the girl branch. Although, when she met a few of them on that night out with Nikki, they did seem to be pretty on top of their game. And her tits.

  Was Ed right?

  The second she’d seen the glass and steel front of the Kendal office, the cutting edge monitors on the sleek wooden desks, Zoë knew he was. She’d been sectioned in some façade of a Head Office, shuffling paper, sweet-talking the tricky high-end customers and letting the Kendal staff handle the bulk of sales, earn the real commission.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the girl on reception asked.

  ‘It’s Casey, isn’t it? I’m Zoë Horton, from the Haverton office. I’m here to see Mr Carr.’

  ‘Oh, okay, but he said–’

  ‘He’s expecting me,’ Zoë lied.

  ‘Oh, I guess you should go on back. Last door on the left.’

  Stupid girl.

  Zoë stalked to the back of the office, smiling pleasantly at the real sales team. Jonathan’s door was open and he sat on his desk chatting to Adam, the one who’d copped a feel of her tits. Without asking.

  ‘Mr Carr?’ she said, smiling for Adam’s benefit.

  ‘Excuse us, Adam.’

  The second Adam did as he was told, Zoë kicked the door shut with her heel, glaring at Jonathan.

  ‘Maybe I should have explained this a little clearer, Miss Horton. There’s a time and a place for you to–’

  ‘My name is Zoë and this is the time and the place to discuss my job. I want to know why I’m rotting with those dimwits in Haverton, using past-it PCs while your little boy’s club here has touch screen monitors and bloody iPads?’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘To work here. To be treated as an equal. To be a genuine member of the sales team, not just your god-damned mistress.’

  ‘Are you my god-damned mistress?’

  ‘That depends on how the rest of this conversation goes.’

  Jonathan nodded. ‘It’d be a longer drive to work.’

  ‘I’ll set my alarm clock that little bit earlier.’

  ‘The sales quotas will be higher.’

  ‘I’ll deliver them.’

  ‘I still want you to do the searches for customers.’

  ‘Happy to.’

  ‘Then it’s a deal. Martin is leaving at the end of the month. You can take his desk.’

  Two weeks. Survivable. Slowly, she walked towards him. ‘And you’d better re-evaluate my pay. If I discover any of the misogynistic arseholes out there earn a penny more than me, I will take you to the cleaners.’

  ‘You really are absolutely magnificent,’ he gently held her chin before he kissed her.

  Jesus, she loved this whole dom/sub thing. The control it gave her. The power. It radiated from her skin.

  ‘I know.’ She gently bit his bottom lip, just how he liked it. ‘Now, why don’t you introduce me to my new colleagues?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  From across the street, Zoë could see Ed sitting at a table in the window, his laptop open. She glanced at his book in her hand. The Orphan. She adored the sketch of the cuckoo, but then she adored the typeface used to show his name and every single word he’d written inside. Ed, it seemed, held more thought, could wield more compassion with a mere word, even one as seemingly insignificant as the, than anyone she’d ever met. But this was over.

  His brow furrowed when she walked in, but he sat back and looked up at the Quote of the Day.

  Mistakes are the portals of discovery

  – James Joyce

  ‘How apt,’ she offered.

  ‘I picked it. Yesterday’s was a little more bitter and Thursday’s... it pretty much offended everyone. How are you?’

  Still shagging your dad.

  She dropped his book on the table. ‘You have serious issues with your parents.’

  He nodded, his burning gaze never leaving hers. ‘And you haven’t even met my mother.’

  Seriously, why did he never check her out? She’d worn her favourite red dress, a sleek bodycon number that pulled in her less favourable bits and showed off her curves. What was the point if he never looked?

  Slowly, he slid the note he’d left her across the table. ‘You never read this.’

  What was the point now? ‘I’ve been relocated, to Kendal.’

  He nodded again, folding his arms. ‘What did you have to do to earn that?’

  ‘Stay away from me.’

  Most definitely over.

  She strode away, bouncing between wanting to hit someone and bursting into tears. Time to get shit-faced. But as she reached her car, her mobile lit up. Jonathon. Was he changing his plans for the night? He was supposed to be going to some tedious golf club soiree with his frigid wife, leaving Zoë to watch a village bloody football match with Libby.

  ‘Hello,’ she purred.

  ‘Is that Zoë Horton?’ asked a posh woman.

  Oh, holy... Was that Jonathon’s wife? Had she found out? Had Ed told her? ‘It is.’

  ‘This is Fee Carr, Jonathan's wife.’

  Shit, shit, shit.

  ‘Is awfully unprofessional to call out of the blue, but I was a friend of your great-aunt...’

  Didn’t see that coming.

  ‘...thought it would be lovely to say hello. Would you like to come for lunch next Thursday?’

  Or that.

  She’d said yes partly because she couldn’t think of a genuine excuse not to, but wouldn’t it be interesting to understand why the hell Jonathan didn’t just divorce the woman. And why her son hated her so much.

  * * *

  The village football match, a grudge game between the two Kings, the Alfred of Gosthwaite and the George of Haverton, was an annual fixture, which the Gosthwaite Eleven had lost 1-0 for the last two years. This year, Robbie had informed Libby, they were determined to win – Scott had even rallied the troops for three training sessions.
Libby had her doubts. Scott, Xander, Patrick and another six guys stood in the beer tent, pints in hand. Not a winning attitude in her book.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Libby said, frowning up at Robbie. With her holding Matilda’s hand and him carrying Dora, they looked exactly what they weren’t – a happy little family. ‘People will talk.’

  ‘Stop worrying.’ Robbie set Dora down, smiling as she and Matilda skipped off to the bouncy castle stationed in the corner of the field. ‘Half the people here know anyway.’

  ‘And the half that don’t know think I’m shagging your brother. I’d rather be at work.’

  ‘I’d rather you were here. I’m half-tempted to kiss you right now.’

  She elbowed him, knowing he was teasing her. ‘Where the hell’s Zoë? She promised me she’d be here for moral support. Oh God, there’s Jack.’

  ‘Relax.’ Robbie placed a hand on her back, guiding her towards the bar. ‘Drink?’

  She smiled hello to his friends, the people she knew, but pointedly ignored Grace. ‘And it’s fair to say your mother knows.’

  ‘She does not. What do you want, jug of Pimm’s?’

  ‘Please. Your dad was looking at me very suspiciously before we left.’

  ‘My dad was checking you out.’ He dropped a twenty on the bar, looking over her denim shorts and silk halter neck top. ‘Understandably.’

  ‘Oh, there it is.’ She took four plastic cups from the barman and walked away.

  ‘Oh, there what is?’ Robbie lay out a rug at the side of the pitch nearest the bouncy castle.

  ‘The look.’ She smiled at his raised eyebrows. ‘Like you’re about to bend me over the sofa, whether I like it or not. You’re infamous for it, but for the record, you can and I would.’

  ‘Takes the fun out of it, if I have permission.’ He dropped to the rug, glancing over to his daughters bouncing merrily away. ‘But that’s not what I was thinking.’

  She sat cross-legged, holding out her cup for him to fill. ‘So what was it?’

  He popped a strawberry from the jug into her mouth. ‘I want to wake up with you tomorrow.’