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Nearly Almost Somebody

Page 21

by Caroline Batten


  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Grace?’

  ‘I think she’s playing you, putting on the tears to avoid the situation. You really don’t react well to girls crying. Soft touch.’

  ‘How the hell do you...’ Patrick glanced across to Grace, who now laughed with Clara at the bar. ‘Really?’

  Libby nodded. ‘And… she was lying.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know. You were talking to her. All I could hear was It’s Raining Men.’

  ‘How do you know she was lying?’

  ‘Body language.’

  ‘But that’s–’

  ‘An art form I happen to be bloody good at.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.’

  ‘Get over yourself.’

  ‘My dad used to be an expert for the MOD. Interrogations, diplomacy, but seriously, I’m not allowed to say anymore.’

  ‘Rob said he thought you were a compulsive liar. I think he might be right.’

  ‘Can you read me, tell if I’m lying? I doubt it.’ She smiled as Robbie headed over, swiping Scott’s bottle of tequila along the way.

  ‘She’s really been playing me?’

  Libby elbowed him. ‘If it makes you feel any better, she’s very good.’

  ‘What doesn’t make me feel any better, is that I’ve given her a bloody pay rise every time she’s cried.’

  ‘What was the last thing you asked her about?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I asked why someone might want to steal the necklace.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said, she hadn’t the foggiest.’

  Libby watched as Grace moved back behind the bar. ‘But she was lying.’

  If Sheila knew the emerald was worth a fortune, surely Grace would too. So why lie about it?

  * * *

  On the doorstep of No.4, Libby stood in her running gear, the skimpiest vest and shorts, with her arms around the neck of Robbie Golding. His hands were on her arse and in one shot, she almost looked naked. Together with the snaps of them knocking back tequila after the football, this was pure gold.

  ‘It’s me. You’re going to love this.’

  ‘Libby Wilde?’ Michael Wray asked, the pitch of his voice rising with repressed excitement.

  ‘And Robbie Golding.’

  ‘You beauty. Send them to me.’

  She hung up and kissed her phone.

  Pure bloody gold.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On Wednesday, Libby almost skipped into the yard, planning to make a cup of tea before she fed the horses. What she hadn’t planned on was World War III breaking out. Tallulah’s screaming quietened to a low sobbing, but Libby approached the house with caution. Had Robbie denied Tallulah another pony, or was this about getting her ears pierced again?

  In the kitchen, when Tallulah turned, her hands clenching and unclenching, Libby knew the tears and shouting weren’t another petulant pre-teen demand.

  ‘You were supposed to be my friend, you fucking whore.’

  ‘Lulu!’ Robbie snapped.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she spat back at him. ‘You and Mum were special. Now, you’re just like everyone else, a fucking divorce statistic.’

  Libby stared at Tallulah, unable to defend herself, or her actions. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I fucking hate both of you.’ Tallulah ran out, slamming the door behind her.

  Robbie stared at the door, his face emotionless. ‘I think it’s fair to say she’s mastered the use of the word fucking.’

  Libby slumped against the table. ‘I hadn’t thought about Tallulah. How it’d affect her, what she’d think. Who told her?’

  ‘You haven’t seen it?’ Robbie looked up to the ceiling, before pointing to the newspaper on the table. ‘Christ, I’m sorry, Lib. It’s worse than that.’

  She picked up the paper, already open to page three. Lock Up Your Husbands. Two photos, side-by-side dominated the page. The first was of her and Robbie, kissing on the doorstep, the second a blurry snap of Libby and Robbie arriving at the football with the kids, looking every bit the happy family. They’d even dragged out the photos of her with Jack and Xander. She didn’t read the words.

  How had everything gone so wrong with her life? Once, she had everything. Now, even her morals were unravelling. Thank God her parents wouldn’t find out.

  ‘It’s about now that people generally say, Olivia Wilde, you’re fired.’ She wrapped her arms around herself, her stomach churning. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What for? It’s not your fault.’ He sighed and after a glance towards the living room where Matilda and Dora were still engrossed in cBeebies, he pulled Libby to him, hugging her. ‘I’m the married one.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on them, if you want to go after Tallulah.’

  ‘Why, so my eleven year-old daughter can tell me to fuck off again? I really ought to curb her language, but she got it all from me in the first place.’ His arms tightened as he kissed her head. ‘I’ll give her ten minutes to calm down.’

  ‘Should I go and never come back?’

  ‘No,’ he said, taking her face in his hands. ‘Maybe this is for the best.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If it’s out in the open, it can be… real. What if my marriage is over?’

  Libby closed her eyes for a second, to compose her thoughts. She knew what he was getting at, what he’d hinted at several times. He wanted to know what would happen if Vanessa didn’t come back.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, a lot of the time, I daydream about what it’d be like if you were single and… didn’t have kids.’

  His face clouded over.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, knowing the mere suggestion would horrify him. ‘I love your life, the house, the yard, the horses, but it feels borrowed and I’m not sure if it’d ever feel like mine. You have three kids. She’s their mother and... I’m not.’

  His already dubious expression grew darker. She knew she was denting his ego, effectively rejecting him.

  ‘Don’t look like that,’ she said, gently kissing him. ‘If things were different, I’d fight like a wildcat to keep you. When you’re not being a grumpy arse, you make me laugh more than anyone and you’re... we’re friends, right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The thing is, you’ve raised my expectations, Mister Golding.’ She blinked away her looming tears. ‘I’d have loved you to be my Somebody.’

  ‘You really did listen.’

  ‘Of course I did. But you love her. She’s your Somebody and you know it.’ Libby sighed. ‘And maybe I want more. Maybe I want to live in the whitewashed farmhouse and have kids of my own.’

  ‘Would that be the ultimate distraction?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He held her tighter ‘I’m sorry for everything.’

  She forced a smile for him. ‘I’ll do the horses and carry on as though I’ve not been outed as a home-wrecking tramp.’

  ‘Stay away from Harmony’s box. It’s where she always goes when she’s upset.’ He kissed her head again. ‘I don’t regret a thing.’

  I do. Libby closed her eyes, sheltering in his arms. ‘You need to speak to Vanessa. Find out what she wants. We can’t… You can’t move on until you know.’

  This was it, the end. Vanessa would find out, come to her senses and Libby would lose the only real distraction she’d ever had. For the first time, Libby hoped Vanessa had fallen in love with the French viola player.

  * * *

  Vanessa. Patrick read the name of the caller and swore. Why was Vanessa ringing him? He flipped over the paper, sighing at the photos of Robbie and Libby. Had Vanessa found out?

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ he said, trying to sound as though her husband hadn’t been caught shagging the staff.

  Vanessa sniffed. ‘Please, tell me it’s not true. Tell me you’re the one who’s shagging her and he was just giving her a hug.’

  A hug? In one photo Robbie had his
hand on Libby’s arse. Did she think Robbie regularly copped a feel of Patrick’s girlfriends? ‘Van…’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Come home.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She broke into fresh sobbing. ‘Does he love her?’

  ‘No, he loves you.’

  ‘Then why’s he shagging her?’

  Because you’re shagging the French bloke. ‘Come home.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t want me back?’

  ‘He does. Do you want to come back?’

  Silence sat on the line.

  ‘Van?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she croaked. ‘I mean all the things that were wrong aren’t suddenly fixed by him shagging Livvy.’

  Patrick couldn’t help himself. ‘What, you thought shagging that French wanker would fix things? And her name is Libby.’

  She hung up.

  Bollocks.

  Time to call in the cavalry.

  Scott, the undisputed leader of the Musketears arrived at six, still suited and booted from the office, and Patrick started the Land Rover, filling him in on Vanessa’s call. At Low Wood Farm, everything was quiet, but Robbie met them in the yard with a six pack in hand, his forehead furrowed.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Scott asked, loosening his tie.

  ‘If you mean Libby, she’s gone home,’ Rob replied and handed them beers. ‘I take it you’ve seen the paper. Tallulah’s being a little... vicious.’

  ‘Do you blame her?’ Scott asked

  Robbie lit a cigarette and shook his head.

  ‘How is Libby?’ Patrick asked, refusing the proffered beer.

  ‘Devastated.’ Robbie frowned. ‘Are you ill or something?’

  ‘No, driving,’ Patrick said, dismissively. ‘Look, Vanessa rang me earlier.’

  Robbie stared at the sky, swearing under his breath. ‘She knows?’

  Patrick nodded. ‘She was upset, crying, asking if it were true.’

  ‘She hasn’t come home though, has she?’

  What the hell could Patrick say? He sat back, leaving the cavalry to come up with something.

  Scott sighed. ‘This has to end. Mate, Libby’s not for you.’

  ‘Why?’ Robbie asked.

  ‘Is she ready to play the wicked step-mother?’

  Robbie took a long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘I’ll take your silence as a no,’ Scott said. ‘You need to get Vanessa back before it’s too late.’

  ‘What if it already is?’ Rob stared at the table.

  Scott smiled. ‘When I thought all was lost with Clara, what did you tell me?’

  Why did they have to bring his fuck-up with Clara into this? Patrick held his breath, unsure what his friends had discussed behind his back.

  ‘It’s never too late if it’s the love of your life.’ Robbie drained his beer.

  ‘So how are you going to get Vanessa back?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, she walked out, Scott.’

  For a few minutes, they sat in silence. Robbie chain-smoked, Patrick tapped his fingers, wishing he could drink but finally, Scott sat up.

  ‘She did. She left. The question is, why?’ Scott sucked in a deep breath. ‘Van’s not the sort to suddenly have her head turned by some French viola player. Why did she really leave?’

  ‘She said...’ Robbie leaned forwards. ‘Originally, she wanted to go away to be her, Vanessa Jones, not Vanessa Golding. She was sick of being my wife. She hated that all she’d ever done was get her face on Marie Claire and have three children. That everything she’s done was for me, but I take her for granted and she’s fourth on my list. Girls, Horses, Restaurant, Wife. It’s like the last thirteen years have been a waste.’

  ‘Have they?’ Scott asked, quietly.

  Robbie shook his head. ‘And she’s not fourth on my list.’

  ‘But that’s how she feels,’ Scott said, opening their second bottles. ‘Now, what the hell are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Robbie stared up at the sky. ‘It’s not just that. She said we had nothing in common. She’s right. She loves music. I don’t get it. She wants to talk about Mozart and I want to talk about breed lines. And she wants a life in music. She can’t have that around here.’

  ‘Yes, she can.’ Patrick frowned. ‘Haverton has an orchestra. It might be small, but it’s an orchestra. My mum loves going to see them. Or Van could play in Lancaster, and Manchester’s only an hour away. Or if it matters that much, move.’

  ‘Move?’

  ‘What matters more, her or here?’ Patrick asked.

  Robbie sat back. ‘Her.’

  ‘Then why the fuck are we having this conversation? Go see her.’ Scott laughed.

  ‘But she’s right. We don’t have anything in common. Libby and I do.’

  ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’ Scott said, holding his hands in the air as if he’d scored a goal.

  ‘The film?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘The song. Clara loves it. You say we’ve got nothing in common, no common ground to start from, and we’re falling apart. She says it reminds her why she puts up with me when I’m watching cricket, or buggering off to Twickenham.’ He smiled at Robbie, knowing he had the answer. ‘So you’re overly obsessed with horses and couldn’t give a damn about Beethoven, that doesn’t mean you don’t have anything in common. Think about all the other stuff. You’ve been together for thirteen years. Something worked.’

  ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s? That’s your motivational talk? You’re slipping, mate.’ Robbie laughed a little, before picking at his beer label.

  ‘Think about it,’ Scott said, still looking pretty smug.

  ‘I suppose...’ The despair had gone from Robbie’s face, instead he sipped his beer, his forehead furrowed in thought. ‘It’s a bit... but we both liked it, the film. Actually, we generally like the same films. We always said we’d rather watch a Disney DVD with the girls than anything with subtitles.’

  ‘Well, that’s her and Frenchie screwed.’ Patrick grinned.

  Scott patted Robbie’s back. ‘I think it’s time for an overblown romantic gesture.’

  ‘I don’t think a bunch of flowers will cut it.’ Robbie shook his head. ‘Besides, I can’t drive to Grassington. I’d be over the limit.’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ Patrick offered.

  Scott smiled. ‘Excellent. I’ll babysit. Cricket’s on.’

  ‘What if Van won’t come back?’ Worry etched Robbie’s face again.

  ‘She will,’ Scott said, ‘but you’d better make it a bloody good gesture so she knows the last thirteen years weren’t a waste of time.’

  Robbie nodded, his face set. ‘I’m going to need a bucket, a clean one.’

  A bucket. Patrick pulled into the car park at Grassington Town Hall and frowned at the silver pail on the back seat. The seventy minute journey had been mostly silent with Robbie staring out of the window, tapping his foot.

  ‘What’s the bucket for?’ Patrick asked as he turned off the engine.

  Robbie’s frown worsened. ‘The day I met Van, I asked her what she’d like to drink. She said a vodka and tonic, but that she’d need a bucket of the stuff because I made her so nervous. I never understood how someone so confident in front of a camera could be so shy.’

  Patrick smiled, picturing Vanessa shifting from foot to foot when she had to chat to someone who intimidated her.

  ‘She finally agreed to meet me that night and when I met her in the bar, I had a bucket. I’d put a glass of vodka and tonic inside. Months later, she admitted that’s when she knew she’d love me forever.’ Robbie hung his head back. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’

  Patrick’s smile grew. Robbie was the king of romantic gestures.

  The Town Hall was filled to capacity, but the lady on the door had said since it was half-nine and the concert would finish soon, it’d be okay for them to sneak in if they stood at the back of the hall.

  Vanessa was on stage, in a long black dress, her hair swaying as she played, her
face down, eyes closed, immersed in the music. Robbie slumped against the wall, staring with blatant pride at the talented, beautiful woman on stage.

  ‘I should’ve gone to more of her performances,’ he whispered, still watching her. ‘I haven’t seen her play for well over a year. She’s right. I have taken her for granted. What the fuck was I thinking, agreeing to the free pass?’

  ‘Because you wanted one too?’

  Finally, Robbie turned his head. ‘Yeah. I wanted to see if the grass is greener.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Robbie turned back, frowning. ‘I’d say it’s just as green, but this is Van.’

  The applause was rapturous, but always uncomfortable with too much praise, Vanessa dashed through the audience, clinging to her cello case for support. They waited, watching her until eventually she saw Robbie. Aside from stopping mid-conversation and abandoning the woman she was speaking with, Vanessa didn’t show any emotion, but she at least headed their way. Sadly, Jason Benoît wasn’t far behind.

  ‘She’s seen the paper,’ Jason said.

  ‘Oh, allez te faire foutre, tu branleur français,’ Robbie said.

  Patrick suppressed a smile, his French rusty, but the bad language he’d learned as a teenager didn’t fail him.

  ‘Je t’emmerde,’ Jason replied.

  ‘Stop it. You know I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’ Vanessa crossed her arms, frowning at Robbie, but she’d not even glanced in Jason’s direction.

  ‘Tu ne la mérite pas,’ Jason said.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Robbie replied. ‘Now piss off.’

  Once Jason had flounced off, Patrick stepped away, but leaned against a pillar, hoping to eavesdrop.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Vanessa asked.

  ‘To remind you.’ Robbie shoved his hands in his pockets, still leaning against the wall. ‘How are your fingers?’

  ‘Bloody sore. Remind me of what?’

  ‘Green olives, unpitted, are far superior to black ones. King prawns kick ass over tiger prawns, but we’d rather have langoustines cooked on a fire on the beach. Rioja in La Rioja equals heaven. We hate the smell of vanilla unless it’s in ice-cream. Sunday morning lie-ins are the best bit of the week, especially when we get an hour to ourselves before the bed’s invaded by kids.’

 

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