Libby stared at him and he stared back. ‘Really?’
‘Mum and Dad are there to look after the kids. It won’t make any difference to them.’
They could go to bed, fall asleep, wake up. Talk, kiss, shag whenever they liked. Unrushed. Turning away, Libby watched the other players jogging onto the pitch. Why wasn’t she thrilled at the idea? Because she knew he really wanted his wife back? Was he closing his eyes and thinking of his wife? Had he always been doing that?
‘You’re really going to stay the night?’ she asked, her cheeks flushing with shame as Patrick ran by.
‘I hope you’re not planning to get much sleep.’
‘OMG, Daze, look. A picnic rug and Pimm’s, is this a romantic date?’ Clara wandered over with Daisy in tow, both pushing sleeping tots in buggies. ‘Oh, the kids are here too.’
‘Playing happy families?’ Daisy asked, barely able to look Libby in the eye.
With her worst fear confirmed, Libby’s blushes increased. People did think she was trying to get her feet under Low Wood Farm’s kitchen table. She knocked back her drink as Clara sat down. Where the hell was Zoë?
‘So, Ms Wilde,’ Clara said, helping herself to the Pimm’s. ‘Shall I sign you up for the fan club, or pencil you in to be guest speaker at the AGM?’
Robbie pulled Clara’s ponytail. ‘Leave her alone.’
‘You’re no fun.’
‘Rob,’ Scott called from the pitch, beckoning him over.
Robbie checked on Matilda and Dora, still bouncing. ‘Lib–’
‘I’ll keep an eye on them,’ Daisy offered.
‘They’ll be fine with me,’ Libby said, and as Robbie jogged away, she turned to Daisy. ‘I’m not trying to take her place if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘You couldn’t. She’s their mother.’
Libby stared at her empty cup.
‘Daze, pack it in. It’s Van’s fault as much as anyone’s. Besides, Libby’s only human. I’m not a hundred percent sure I’d say no.’
‘I’m just... if Robbie would, what if Xander would too?’
Libby hadn’t a clue what to say. Would sorry cut it?
‘I’m going to the bar.’ Daisy strode away, pushing baby Evie towards Xander who was already grinning, clearly delighted at their arrival.
‘Xander never would and she knows it,’ Clara said, turning to watch the other men warming up. ‘You and Rob explains a few things though. I couldn’t understand why Patrick didn’t have his hands in your pants already. I’d started to think he’d either found God or caught HIV. If I were you, that’s who I’d be doing.’
From the safety of her sunglasses, Libby watched as the boys started stretching, Patrick laughing with Scott.
‘He’s not my type.’
‘Why? He’s the classic Byronic hero and sexy as fuck. And OMG, does that guy know how to party. There are three days of my life I can’t remember. All I know is we got the train to Paris and I couldn’t walk when we got back.’
‘You and Patrick...’ But wasn’t he one of Scott’s oldest friends? Well, that was his decent moral values box left unchecked.
Clara waved a dismissive hand. ‘It was yonks ago, before Scott and I got together. Well, we were kind of on a break. Scott’s the settle down and marry type, but Patrick’s more likely to get you fucked, fuck you then fuck off.’
‘Definitely, not my type.’
‘He’s fun. Last year. Gosthwaite would’ve won the football, but he got hammered, punched the Haverton goalie and got sent off. Scott was furious, but it really kicked off after the match. Patrick got busted snorting coke off his Land Rover bonnet. I thought it was hilarious, but PC Andy wasn’t so amused. You should so go out with him, Libby.’
Not a chance. Whatever his reasons were for walking out of the pub, Libby had to admit she’d had a lucky escape. Clara was right; Patrick was hot, very hot, but the last thing Libby needed was to get involved with someone who slept with his friend’s girlfriend.
‘O... M... freaking G.’ Clara pointed to the other side of the field.
The Haverton team stopped their knee-raises as Zoë walked into the park. One-by-one the Gosthwaite players slowed to a halt, watching her hourglass body, perfectly encased in a sleek red dress, killer heels in hand, wiggle past. Jack and the Haverton goalie even managed to walk into one another. But if Zoë knew she’d literally brought members of two football teams to their knees, she appeared oblivious, merely flicking her glossy black hair over one shoulder, bee-lining to Libby.
‘Bit over-dressed for a football match, aren’t you?’ Libby filled a cup, offering it to her. Zoë downed it in one then held it out for a refill. ‘Bad day not-at-work, dear?’
‘That’s one way to put it. Jesus, there’s no shade. I’m so going to get freckles sitting here. Hi, Clara.’ Zoë hitched her skirt up, flashing more shapely thigh, and frowned beneath her enormous sunglasses.
Libby frowned at the linked Cs on the arms. ‘Are they Chanel?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can’t afford–’
‘They were a gift from a guy at work.’
‘Ooh, who?’ Clara asked. ‘Adam’s pretty hot.’
‘And a total dick,’ Zoë said, her head tipping to the side as the Gosthwaite team began stretching. ‘Jesus, Patrick’s put together pretty bloody well.’
Libby nibbled a slice of cucumber, determined not to answer, and thankfully Clara’s little boy woke up, distracting them.
‘Oh for...’ Clara groaned. ‘I’ll be back in, well about twenty minutes if I’m lucky.’
‘It’s a shame he’s a vet,’ Zoë said, suspiciously casual.
‘Patrick?’ Libby hated herself for biting. Zoë knew all her soft spots. A vet had to be the hottest profession around, even surpassing a fireman. Rushing in, saving kittens, puppies, ponies – all completely heroic to Libby.
‘Might do it for you, Lib,’ Zoë said. ‘And okay, they do earn a fair whack, but it’s a bit... grubby.’
Libby glanced again at Patrick. His grubby side wasn’t his job, it was his rather dubious morals: rude, backstabbing and willing to sleep with his friend’s girlfriend. She sipped her wine. Thank God he wasn’t English. Thank God she hadn’t summoned someone like him.
‘What’s going on?’ Libby asked, topping up Zoë’s cup. ‘You’ve a face on you like someone’s cut up all your credit cards.’
Zoë let out a long sigh. ‘Remember the hot coffee shop guy? He’s a no-fly zone.’
No fly zone? But Zoë didn’t have rules; she thrived on breaking other people’ rules. ‘Why?’
‘He’s...’ Zoë’s guilty blinking was so obvious the partially-sighted lady collecting money for guide dogs outside the WI tent could see it. ‘He’s Jonathan Carr’s son.’
‘Your boss?’ Why would that matter? Unless... Libby folded her arms. ‘You’re shagging him?’
‘Don’t you bloody dare?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t give me that why-can’t-people-be-faithful crap.’ Zoë pinched one of her cigarettes. ‘You’re shagging your boss.’
‘That’s different. Rob’s in a difficult place.’
‘And what if my boss is in a difficult place, does that make it okay?’
‘Is he?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. His wife, Fee, had a car crash years ago and has permanent back pain. Total cripple. They have a very open marriage.’
‘She knows?’
‘She even invited me for lunch.’
Libby worried the polish on her thumbnail. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him?’
‘Why do you think? You wouldn’t have approved.’
‘Sorry.’ Libby glanced across at Robbie. Pots and Kettles. ‘But you’re choosing your boss over his son, even though–’
‘He’s just some guy.’
‘Who you like a lot. Admit it. You loved his book... Zo, you could LOVE this guy.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Why are you choosing his
dad?’
‘Because he’s a god-damned silver fox.’ Zoë took a long slow drag on her cigarette. ‘And he’s totally loaded.’
‘He won’t be if his wife divorces him and takes him for everything he has. What’s wrong with having a normal boyfriend?’
‘Oh, like you’ve got?’
‘Why not choose the son?’
‘The penniless writer?’
‘You fancy him. Is Jonathan’s money really that important?’
‘Of course not. But if there are two equally hot guys, one rich, one poor, which would you do?’
‘The one I liked the most.’
‘Or the one who could give you control of your own life?’
Control? Why did it always come down to control?
‘You’re insane. Going out with Ed, who’s single, is sensible. It could be a long term thing. That’s what you should be doing.’
‘Really?’ Zoë asked. ‘If that’s what you really think, why are you shagging your married boss when you could be doing the sensible thing with the hot vet?’
Libby lay down and closed her eyes. ‘There’s nothing sensible about that vet.’
‘I rest my bloody case.’
The gentle English afternoon of Pimm’s had given way to a beer tent filled with flashing lights and Lady Gaga booming from speakers. Laughter came from every corner, but Libby sat outside, curled up on a bench. This had to be in her Top Ten of situations she never wanted to find herself in. Ever. Zoë currently had some farmer friend of Scott’s wrapped around her finger and Robbie still hadn’t come back from taking the kids home. Clara and Scott were laughing at the bar, but Grace and Jack’s close proximity meant Libby couldn’t join them. At least the smoking gave her a valid excuse not to be in the marquee.
She lit her second off her first. She could just go home. Robbie would come over and they could spend the evening together, not just the night. That idea had a lot going for it, but it didn’t give Robbie the chance to get drunk and hang out with his friends. And he needed that.
Distracted by the strobe lights, Libby didn’t notice the shadow fall over her, but the aroma of the barbeque gave way to the more enticing smell of fresh sweat on a fit guy.
‘The white Rioja,’ Patrick said, handing her a glass as he sat down.
‘Thank you,’ she said, sure she’d never been so grateful for a drink or a goodwill gesture in her life.
‘Enjoy the match?’
‘I’m guessing you did, Mister Hat Trick.’
Patrick had been named Man of the Match after Gosthwaite cruised home three-one, thanks to his goals.
His grin was like a child’s at Christmas, unashamedly happy. ‘I don’t know if you heard about last year–’
‘Clara couldn’t resist.’
‘She never can.’ He gazed across the deserted pitch, still smiling. ‘Christ, I feel like...’
Libby’s mood lifted – his happiness infecting her. ‘What?’
He shook his head. ‘Anyway, I’ve made up for it.’
‘And when their back took you out, you didn’t hit him.’
He laughed softly. ‘I nearly did.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘I didn’t.’ He turned to her. ‘Are you hiding?’
She nodded.
‘Come inside. Scott’s just bought a bottle of tequila.’
Libby shook her head.
‘Why?’
‘Grace.’
‘She won’t bother you, not really.’
‘You’ve said that before and she did.’
‘She was just mouthing off. Sticks and stones.’ Patrick wafted her smoke away.
‘Sorry.’
‘Since you’re not putting it out, you’re not forgiven. Look, you can’t avoid her forever.’
‘I can try.’
‘She’s behind the bar, but I promise if she even looks at–’
‘You didn’t last time.’
‘I told you. I had my reasons.’
Trying not to notice how his sweaty, post-football body felt so close to hers, Libby shifted on the bench, trying to distance herself from him, but as she crossed her legs, her knee touched his, the skin-to-skin contact making her flinch. He stared down at their knees.
‘How’s Hyss–’
‘Did you–’
Libby tucked her hair behind her ears, aware she was blushing. ‘Did you ask Grace about Maggie’s pendant?’
‘Yeah, on Monday, but she got all... so I didn’t push it.’
‘She got all what?’
‘Well, she and Maggie were friends and she got all upset. I hate it when girls cry.’
‘Ohmigod, you soft touch.’ She elbowed him, laughing, and they both relaxed. ‘Go ask her.’
‘Tell you what. I’ll man up and ask Grace, if you man up and come inside.’ He stood up, taking her glass. ‘Come on.’
Reluctantly, she followed him into the marquee, but he led her to the furthest end of the bar, beckoning Scott and Clara to join them.
‘Why are you being nice?’ she asked.
‘It’s my job to look after you when Rob’s not here.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve got his back. It’s a Musketear thing.’
‘A what?’
He looked away, grinning. ‘Can’t say anymore.’
‘I’ll cry...’ She smiled up at him, fluttering her eyelashes.
‘God help me.’ He leaned on the bar, his elbow resting against hers. ‘Scott, Rob and I went to school together. They used to call us the Musketears, tears spelt the boo-hoo way. We broke a lot of hearts apparently. And I say they, I think Scott started it.’
Libby laughed. ‘I’m guessing he’s Athos?’
‘He’s your traditional sporting hero, academic, alpha-male, captain of all the teams.’
‘And from what Clara told me, you’d fit the wine, women and song role of Porthos.’
‘Christ, what did she tell you?’
Libby mimed locking her lips.
‘It’ll all be true.’
‘You sure? Even sleeping with your best friend’s girlfriend?’
His grin faltered. ‘Yeah.’
‘But you and Scott are still friends?’
‘We are now. Took about a year.’
Libby had her chin on her hand, intrigued. How could someone have so few moral values that they’d do something like that? ‘Why did you do it?’
He sipped his pint, turning to where Clara and Scott were chatting. ‘I don’t trust her, never have. We get on, she’s fun, but she screwed Scott around and I don’t like that.’
‘You’ve got his back?’
‘Absolutely. It was a stupid idea, but I was wasted and I wanted to show him that she didn’t really care about him. Christ, after we’d, you know, she sent him a picture. Nice, hey?’ He shook his head. ‘But he forgave her and one day, she just asked him to marry her. And now look at them.’
Libby turned, watching Clara and Scott gazing at each other. ‘So is Rob Aramis, the romantic hero?’
Patrick nodded. ‘He’s going to kill me for telling you this, but he spent most of his time pulling anything in a skirt and he was bloody good at it.’
Libby sipped her wine, trying not to show her shock.
‘He’d have a girlfriend, one on the side, and another waiting in the wings.’
‘I thought he was Mister Faithful.’
‘Back then, he wasn’t.’
‘What happened?’
‘Vanessa. I take it you’ve never met her?’
She shook her head.
‘If you had, you wouldn’t be shagging him, because she’s the nicest person in world.’
‘Don’t make me feel any worse.’ Libby sighed. ‘So he changed, just like that?’
‘Scott and I came back for Christmas and Rob was shacked up with her. We couldn’t believe the change. He said he knew the day he met her that she was the love of his life.’
‘She still is.’
‘Wh
y are you messing around with a married man who blatantly loves his wife? Habit of yours?’
‘No. I have huge issues with infidelity. This is different.’ Libby nodded to Grace, who’d left the bar to collect glasses. ‘Ask her now.’
‘But–’
Libby pushed him away. Cursing her, and not under his breath, Patrick went over to Grace. The sound system pounding out the Weather Girls prevented Libby from hearing anything they said, but at least she had an unobstructed view. As Grace spoke, she glanced over at Libby, loathing in her eyes, and Patrick’s body language changed. He had his back to Libby, but he folded his arms, his shoulders stiffening. This wasn’t chit chat about Maggie. More interesting was how Grace glanced down, her nod full of contrition. Unless Libby was very mistaken, Patrick had just given Grace a telling off, and she’d taken it. That girl hero-worshipped him.
The next time Patrick spoke, Grace’s bottom lip wobbled, and his shoulders sagged. He really was a sucker for tears. Man up. Was he still speaking or was Grace struggling to compose her answer? Hard to tell, but when Grace did speak, she twiddled her hair, looking down at her feet, anywhere but at Patrick. And in response to his last question Grace’s right hand hovered over her mouth. Ashamed of her words. What on earth was she lying about?
Libby leant on the bar, eager for the news as Patrick joined her back at the bar. His frown intriguing her. ‘And?’
‘Maggie was wearing the necklace at the Ostara festival. And she left early because of a migraine.’
Libby’s eyes widened. ‘So where did the necklace go?’
‘No idea, but Grace said she thought it was odd that the elderflower wine you were poisoned with was in the gift bag.’ He leant on the bar, his frown worsening. ‘You were poisoned? How?’
Libby stared at him, shock and shame bouncing around her head. ‘I thought she told you what happened with Jack?’
‘She just said you messed around with him. Jack poisoned you?’
‘No. I mean, yes, but not intentionally.’ With mortification seeping out with every word, she gave him a glossed over account of the horrific night four weeks ago.
Patrick leant back, open mouthed. ‘Jesus Christ, that’s practically date rape, Libby.’
‘No. It wasn’t his fault.’ She forced a smile. ‘How often does she use the waterworks on you?’
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