She handed him the paper and Patrick almost choked on his coffee. Looking back at him, immortalised in oils, was Ms Olivia Wilde.
Or was it Libby? By seven o’clock that night, Patrick had persuaded himself he was being ridiculous. Or was he? The rough style of the artwork generalised the ballerina’s features, and certainly the girl in The Happy Ballerina could be anyone, but in The Broken Ballerina... Was that Libby? The dancer sat on the floor, tears rolling, hugging her legs, her head resting on her knees. The same position Libby had been in when they’d sat on the lawn eating cheese on toast at Maggie’s cottage and she’d told him how much she’d miss the horses at Low Wood Farm. And the artist was Paolo de Luca. Her ex, the one who buggered off to London, was called Paolo.
It had to be her.
Patrick laughed. If Libby was a ballerina, it’d explain a few things – the perfect legs, the super-skinny body.
It definitely had to be her.
But so what if it was? Why did he care? She was just some girl. She looked bloody awful most of the time, yet he’d showered, put on a half decent t-shirt, jeans that weren’t falling apart and, for Christ’s sake, he’d even combed his hair. Properly. He didn’t even fancy her, not really. Well, not the majority of the time, but when he’d walked past a florist’s earlier, the heady scent instantly reminded him of hugging Miss Olivia Wilde. How come she always smelled like a rose garden?
This was stupid. For two weeks, he’d avoided her, trying to forget he’d heard her say that he’d be a great distraction. Why the hell had he kissed her? Then Robbie begged him to check on her. Christ, when Jack went to push the strap off her shoulder… If he closed his eyes, Patrick could still picture the fear on her face. He’d never wanted to kill anyone or anything in his life, not until that moment. It terrified him.
But he’d promised to keep an eye on her and a couple of times since then they’d had coffee. A couple? Okay, four. Patrick stared at the paper again.
Sod it.
Clutching the paper, he headed round to Maggie’s cottage, walking as casually as he could to the back garden gate. She might not be in. She might have a date.
She was in.
She and Zoë were sitting at the rickety old table. As ever, Zoë looked like she ought to be gracing the fuselage of a WWII bomber, her scarlet lipstick perfectly matching her cleavage enhancing top, but it just didn’t work for him. Maybe it was because he could remember her as a kid, running around in a tutu.
Tutus, Flashdance – it all made sense. Libby had to be the Broken Ballerina.
‘Welcome to the Gin Terrace,’ Libby said with a perfectly clipped, fifties heroine accent. ‘You’ve arrived in time for cocktails. G and T, darling?’
He laughed as he crossed the lawn. ‘Why the hell not?’
Zoë stood up. ‘I’ll get it.’
As he sat at the table, he looked Libby over with a mixture of amusement and horror. In a simple black t-shirt and ripped-at-the-knee jeans, with no hooker-esque bra straps on display, she lacked her usual trailer trash styling, but made up for it with twenty black bangles on each wrist, near black polish on her nails and pink hair. Christ, it really was pink – a pale, candyfloss pink with six or so black streaks scattered through it. She’d gone even more rock chick. Why? It was all a front. He’d already discovered she preferred R&B.
‘Nice hair,’ he said examining one of Libby’s new pink locks. Sadly, the fringe still covered half her eyes.
‘It’s for my new job. Cool, hey?’
‘Not even slightly. It’s pink. What’s the job?’
‘Oscar’s Bar and Bistro in Haverton. Rob sorted it. I’m sure it’ll suck, but it’s a job. This might be the last Saturday night I ever have off and so we’re having a girly night in. You can be an honorary girl, if you like.’
‘An honorary girl? My weekend’s made.’ He leant on the table, still holding the paper. ‘Libs, your ex… Paolo, is he an artist?’
Libby’s frown told him enough, but when she pulled her graceful legs up onto her chair, hugging her knees, he knew it was true.
She nodded. ‘Why?’
‘And is this you?’ he asked, dropping the paper on the table, already open at page twenty-five. ‘Are you the Broken Ballerina?’
Libby stared at the paper, her hand shaking as she gulped her drink.
* * *
The words were a blur, but she stared at the photos. Two large oil paintings, one of her doing a rather good arabesque and the other showing her in tears as she told Paolo how once upon a time she used to be a ballet dancer. Oh, Paolo. Libby’s fingers brushed over the photo of him. He’d had his hair cut a little shorter. She preferred the way it was before.
‘You’re a ballerina?’ Patrick asked.
‘No, I’m a broken ballerina.’ She held the paper up to her face and screamed before taking a deep breath and facing him. ‘Sorry. Shock.’
‘What’s going on?’ Zoë asked, dashing out. Her accusatory scowl evaporated as she spied the paper and snatched it from Libby. ‘Fuck me. He finally painted you.’
Libby rested her forehead on the table. Oh god, Paolo had painted her, not just painted her, but made her famous too. Okay, he hadn’t named her, but Patrick had recognised her, what if others did? ‘How could he do this to me?’
‘They’re quite good.’ Zoë peered at the photos. ‘Not at all chocolate box considering they’re of a ballerina. I never realised he was actually talented.’
‘The article’s not about him being talented,’ Patrick explained. ‘He turned down seventy-five grand and then burned the painting to protect Libby.’
Which would be Paolo’s style. Libby closed her eyes. Oh Paolo. Why couldn’t she have loved Paolo?
‘I bet he regretted it,’ she said, picking up her phone, ‘because he knows I’m going to kill him.’
Paolo answered instantly.
‘Ach, I’m sorry,’ he said, his familiar voice like molten chocolate for her soul. ‘I’ve just been thinking of that time we went to Devon in Mikey’s campervan. You were so angry, but remember how I painted you? Need me to do it now?’
God, he’d promised not to sketch her for a week, but she’d found his pad and threatened to walk all the way home. She didn’t. Under a starlit sky, they’d built a fire on a deserted beach and he’d painted her. Literally. With his watercolours, he painted elegant swirls and flowers over her arms, legs and torso, until she lay naked but decorated from the neck down. They’d washed it off, shagging in the sea. It was no wonder he’d talked her back into bed so many times. He knew how to break down her defences: a knee-weakening kiss, an erotic endearment whispered into her ear, a hand brushing over her neck. It didn’t take much. Patrick watched her. She couldn’t weaken. Not this time, Paolo.
‘Sorry?’ she snapped. ‘I trusted you to keep a bloody secret, not plaster it all over page twenty-five of the bloody Guardian.’
‘It got a wee bit out of hand.’
‘A wee bit? You could’ve bloody warned me–’
‘I rang you last week. Twice. You didn’t answer.’
‘Well you should’ve rung a third time. Of course I’m going to ignore your calls. I’m trying to move on with my life–’
‘Me too. Painting you is part of that. I’m trying to let go.’
Libby sighed. ‘Why didn’t you sell the painting?’
‘I said I’m trying to let you go. I haven’t yet.’ His voice softened. ‘Come to London.’
‘Sofa still free?’
‘And the bed.’
Was this a sign, to tell her to move to London? She closed her eyes, refusing to look at Patrick again. I want more. ‘I can’t.’
‘I love you.’
‘Let it go.’
She hung up, staring at the sky to banish the tears.
‘And how is our perpetually tortured artist?’ Zoë asked. ‘Still pining for you?’
‘So what if he is?’ Libby strode along the patio, trying to ignore Zoë’s amused smile and Patrick’s g
rowing frown.
‘You should’ve told him years ago,’ Zoë said, picking up her beeping phone. ‘He might’ve made you happy.’
Maybe he would. As Zoë headed into the house, Libby began dead-heading the faded chive flowers. She ought to change the subject before Patrick started asking questions.
‘God, I could kill the Scottish fuckwit. Bloody untrustworthy men.’ Libby flashed Patrick a smile. ‘No offense meant to any Scottish non-fuckwits present. Although I expect you’re just as untrustworthy.’
‘Absolutely,’ Patrick replied. ‘But I’m not Scottish.’
Libby’s fingers hovered around a purple flower. ‘What?’
‘Technically speaking, I’m not Scottish. My mum and dad are both Scottish and I went to Edinburgh University, so the accent’s inevitable, but I was born and bred here.’
‘You’re English?’ Libby’s heart had stopped.
‘I’m English.’
Oh god. ‘I… have to… check the potatoes.’ She ran inside and slumped against the kitchen units, waiting for Zoë to finish her call. ‘It’s him.’
‘What’s him?’ Zoë asked.
‘Patrick. He’s the one I summoned. He’s twenty-nine, good-looking, single, and despite his appalling behaviour, he has decent morals. He’s a vet, for god’s sake. You can’t get better with animals than that. He’s got hazel eyes and now, it turns out, he’s bloody English.’
Zoë pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
‘Oh, you cow.’ Libby threw a tea towel at her. ‘You knew.’
‘I wanted to see what would happen when you found out.’
‘I swear you only keep me around as some kind of psychological case study.’
‘I could get a PhD out of you. You don’t really believe this Wiccan nonsense?’
But surely, this was her sign; she should stay in Gosthwaite. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘Shag him?’ Zoë suggested.
As if. Libby dug around in her bag, searching for the little red pouch containing her summoning spell. She’d stopped carrying it, doubting its effectiveness, but Patrick fit everything she’d wished for. And more.
Oh please, let him be my ‘Somebody’.
She tucked the pouch into her back pocket as Patrick came in, frowning at her. Sticking to her potatoes ruse, Libby opened the oven, poking at the dauphinoise with a knife.
‘Almost done.’ Libby closed the oven door, her face composed.
‘Change of plan,’ Zoë said, putting her barely touched drink on the table. ‘I’m going out.’
‘What about our girly night?’ Libby put her hands on her hips, her nails tapping.
Zoë glanced at Patrick. ‘Er, there’s a boy present. It’s not a girly night.’
‘Whoa, don’t blame me,’ Patrick said. ‘I’m an honorary girl. Where’re you going, booty call?’
Zoë flashed her coyest of smiles. ‘Something like that.’
‘With the silver fox?’ Libby asked.
‘Older, by how much?’ Patrick asked, clearly warming to his honorary girl role.
‘Sugar daddy kind of older.’
‘You’re a very bad girl, Ms Horton.’
‘And what about dinner?’ Libby asked, despising the way Patrick smiled at Zoë.
‘Patrick looks like a red meat kind of guy,’ Zoë said before heading out of the room.
Oh, the stirring cow. Patrick sipped his drink, trying not to smile. And what was he after? Clearly, he didn’t fancy her. He couldn’t have been more disparaging about her new hair.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Starving.’
‘Would you like to stay for dinner? Steak with dauphinoise potatoes and green veg.’
He nodded, looking her over. ‘You don’t strike me as the steak and dauphinoise type.’
‘It’s all part of my fell race fitness regime. Saturday. Red meat and carb night. I’ll run it off tomorrow.’
He grinned at her. ‘Ob... sess... ive.’
‘Bite me.’
‘There’s more meat on a potato. I’ll pass.’
She handed him a bottle of red. ‘Here, make yourself useful.’
Although she did a sterling impression of sounding pissed off, Libby struggled not to smile. Patrick didn’t bother.
‘So, little miss ballerina, I have a million questions.’
‘You can keep them to yourself. I don’t want to talk about it.’ She stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island to prepare the vegetables. ‘Any of it.’
‘Dinner’s going to be fun. What’s in your back pocket?’
‘None of your business. Broccoli and French beans okay?’
‘Fine. Why did you go all weird when I said I wasn’t Scottish?’
‘It was a surprise.’
‘Were you a professional ballerina?’
‘Did you get out for a ride today? Awesome day.’
He laughed. ‘Oh come on, Libs. There’s a big fucking elephant in the room and it’s wearing a tutu.’
She banged her head against a cupboard door.
‘Okay, let’s start easy,’ he said. ‘If Paolo’s so in love with you, why did he go to London?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Libby...’
She sighed, lacking the energy to distract him. ‘He said he wanted to become rich and famous. Really, he went because I didn’t love him. God, he’s actually done it, become rich and famous. All I’ve done is become slightly infamous.’
Patrick studied the paper, peering at Paolo’s photo. ‘He’s good-looking, talented... what’s wrong with him? Rubbish kisser?’
Despite everything, she smiled. ‘No. He’s pretty fabulous in every way. I actually questioned my attraction to men when I didn’t fall in love with him.’
‘How seriously?’ He leant forward, his elbows on the worktop, his grin infectious. ‘Any girl on girl action?’
She laughed, flicking her hair back. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t question it for long. He’s hot.’
‘He can’t be all that hot. You’re here. He’s there.’
‘He’s a good friend, but he just... he was nearly perfect, but just not quite, if you know what I mean.’
He nodded. ‘Nearly isn’t good enough. What wasn’t perfect with Paolo?’
‘He’s too emotional. We fought a lot. Mostly over his obsession with painting me. I met him the first week I moved to Manchester and we went out for a year. I actually thought I could just fall in love with someone...’ She checked the potatoes, fussed over the vegetables.
‘But?’
‘He ticked all my boxes, but he literally spent all the time we weren’t in bed sketching me. It’s actually quite draining to be stared at that much, to sit still for that long.’
As Patrick laughed, Libby relaxed. God, it was nice to talk to someone about Paolo. Zoë only ever mocked her for sticking with him for so long.
‘We split up, but for the last two years neither of us went out with anyone else. We’ve had more absolutely never again last nights than I’ve had my roots done.’ Libby gazed out of the window, smiling. Bloody Paolo. ‘When he told me he was leaving for London, I told him I used to be a ballerina and he drew me. He said he finally understood me. I guess he understood me enough to paint me, the bugger.’
‘You spent three years with the guy and you didn’t tell him until he said he was leaving?’ Patrick’s eyebrows had disappeared under his black curls. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t see why people need to know everything about me.’
‘Well it helps them get to know who you really are.’
‘What if I don’t want people to know who I really am?’
‘Then you’ll never be happy.’ He rested his chin on his hand, still leaning on the island. ‘What is all the secrecy about? You were a ballerina, so what? Or are you in some ridiculous witness protection program?’
‘It’s not even remotely exciting,’ Zoë said, tottering in wearing a skin-tight blac
k dress and the five-inch Louboutin heels. ‘But good luck trying to talk any sense in to her. I’ve failed on many occasions. I’m off. While ’dile.’
Libby kissed Zoë’s cheek. ‘Later ’gator.’
‘Careful you don’t give him a heart attack,’ Patrick said, frowning at the metal studs on Zoë’s heels.
‘But surely that’s the point of a sugar daddy,’ Zoë called as she walked down the hallway.
Patrick appeared to be unable to take his eyes off her arse.
‘You’re not old or rich enough for her.’ Libby frowned at him, holding up a sirloin steak. ‘How do you want it?’
‘I’d be scared she’d eat me alive afterwards. Medium rare, please.’
This would be a disaster. She’d never be able to cook, not with him watching. His t-shirt was snugger than his usual tatty efforts, and it showed off his perfect body. She could see the muscles in his back working as he pulled the cork from the bottle. God, what must he look like with his kit off. Her cheeks burned.
‘I’m not promising it’ll end up that way,’ she said, ‘but it’s something to aim for at least.’
Somehow she held it together and ten minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table with pretty perfect-looking steaks and potatoes that made her mouth water from the mere aroma. He poured the wine and held up his glass.
‘Thank you, it looks great.’ He chinked his glass against hers. ‘The elephant’s doing pirouettes, by the way.’
He wasn’t going to let this go and she couldn’t go through the entire meal deflecting his questions. She took a deep breath.
‘Look, I was a ballet dancer, but talking about it makes me cry, so I don’t talk about it.’
‘Everything makes you cry. I’m used to it.’
He sliced into his steak and Libby smiled. Medium rare, miracles do happen.
‘So this is why you need the distractions?’
She nodded. Don’t cry.
‘What happened?’
Maybe she should’ve told Paolo the truth years ago. Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe she’d never be happy until people knew who she was. The Somebody song popped into her head. She’d wanted somebody to know her innermost thoughts, know her intimate details. Was this her chance?
Nearly Almost Somebody Page 25