Nearly Almost Somebody

by Caroline Batten

  ‘Okay,’ Zoë said, nodding.

  Libby stared at Zoë. Her best friend had just agreed to marry a guy thirty years older than her, and she’d said yes as casually as she would if he’d asked if she wanted parmesan on her pasta. Zoë only betrayed her nonchalant appearance when Jonathan led her away and she shot a triumphant wink to Libby.

  It was all Libby could do not to cry. How had everything gone so wrong again? Zoë would move out, sell the cottage and what would Libby be left with? Teaching Good Toes, Bad Toes to yummy mummies.

  * * *

  Patrick watched, mildly amused as Libby drained her glass. Clearly she wasn’t happy about Zoë’s gold-digging victory, but maybe this could work to his advantage. If Libby were upset, maybe it’d give him the opportunity to apologise, make friends, or something.

  Or something? Christ, he could go for a bit of something. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that her perfect breasts needed one, but to see the silk top draped over her nipples was distracting to say the least. Robbie had noticed too. And several blokes nearby. Patrick wanted to punch one particularly lecherous arse.

  Despite being braless, wearing more black eye make-up than ever, twenty bangles on each wrist, skinny leather jeans and fuck-me heels, she exuded more class than any other girl in the bar. Zoë, in a clinging red dress, looked like a New York hooker in comparison. Patrick raised his eyebrows to Scott, who nodded, getting the unspoken message and dragged Robbie off to the bar.

  Shaking her head, Libby grabbed her coat and bag.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Patrick asked. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Don’t go. Stay and drink. We’ll go later. Together.

  ‘Home. And I’m not speaking to you.’ She flicked her hair off her shoulder, wafting her perfume his way.

  His off-switch fused.

  Patrick knocked back his whisky fully aware old habits weren’t even close to dying in his life and took hold of Libby’s wrist, tugging her towards him. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t put up a fight or flinch when his hand slipped inside her coat, pulling her closer.

  With him still perched on a stool and her in the skyscraper heels, their eyes were at the same level, but she stared determinedly over his shoulder. If they were at his house, he could slip off that flimsy top and see for real what it suggested. Christ, what it suggested looked good.

  ‘Why are you going?’ His thumb stroked up her spine.

  ‘It’s late,’ she replied, arching her back against his hand.

  ‘No it’s not. Stay.’

  She sucked in a quick breath, glancing down at his hand as it stroked her side. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘I know, but stay.’

  For the briefest moment, her pale blue eyes gazed into his. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ll all go later.’ And you can come home with me.

  A camera flashed.

  He whipped his hands from Libby.

  Two girls were messing with a phone, snapping each other, but his heart hammered as he struggled to breathe. What the hell was he doing? Yes, Libby was hot. She was hot, pretty, funny and his friend, but would he give up his life for her? Literally, no. Figuratively, no.

  Her face filled with despair. Why? They just... Then he got it. This is what he’d been doing to her, building her up then letting her down. No wonder she hated him.

  ‘Libs...’ He’d tell her everything. They’d work it out.

  ‘Hello Patrick,’ said a woman to his right, her voice a predatory growl. Miss Haverton.

  Reluctantly, he glanced over, scowling at her ridiculous fake tits. What the hell had he seen in her? ‘Not now, Rachel. I’m busy.’

  ‘You’re such an arsehole,’ she spat, throwing a disdainful snarl in Libby’s direction.

  But her venom was wasted. Libby had fled.

  Why couldn’t he get this even a little bit right?

  * * *

  It was over. The next day, Libby curled up on Zoë’s bed with Hyssop, struggling not to cry or look at the Carr & Young For Sale sign which had appeared that afternoon. No home, no friends, no decent job. The Gosthwaite Era was over.

  ‘Is this mine?’ Zoë asked, holding up a red halter neck.

  ‘No.’ Libby picked up her phone and clicked a bookmark she’d not used for three years. ‘But it clashes with my hair, so you can keep it. Why are you dressed like a Stepford wife?’

  Zoë frowned down at her prim grey shift dress. ‘We’re going to the golf club. It has a no jeans dress code.’

  ‘All you’re missing is a pearl necklace.’

  ‘That’ll come later.’

  The English National Ballet’s website opened, showing photos of their current Nutcracker performance. Would she want to be a part of it, watching from the side-lines? Maybe she could have a small part, maybe in the corps. Or maybe she could dance for a smaller company? She was tougher now, the fell race had proved that. Her feet ached, longing to be en pointe. What a distraction ballet would be.

  Oh, the irony. She’d come to the Lakes looking for a distraction from ballet and six months later she was looking at ballet for a distraction from the Lakes, from Patrick.

  ‘God, I’m such an idiot, Zo.’ She kissed Hyssops purring head. ‘Why don’t I learn?’

  She’d let Patrick do it again – get her hopes up then toss her aside. In the bar, he’d practically begged her to stay, his hand stroking her back, then, poof, it was over. The second that beautiful blonde walked up, he dropped Libby as if she’d burned his fingers. The way he’d stared at the girl’s fabulous boobs. Libby could never live up to that.

  ‘It’s not about learning, Lib.’ Zoë shoved another two of Libby’s tops into the case. ‘It’s about knowing what you want and making sure you get it.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Libby asked quietly, and retrieved a black velvet vest she thought she’d lost over a year ago. ‘Is Jonathan really what you want?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really, really?’

  ‘Really, really.’

  ‘What about Ed?’

  Zoë flopped onto the bed beside Libby. ‘Honestly? Yes, I still fancy him. Yes, I wish... but Ed and I would never have worked. He’s too... he makes me forget time and space. That’s not what I need.’

  What if it wasn’t about control? What if it was about letting go? ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I need the security of Jonathan, of being Mrs Carr. It’ll be a good life.’ Zoë grinned. ‘But okay, Christmas Day is going to be Jeremy Kyle levels of weird.’

  Libby laughed, but the first of her tears tumbled out. ‘I wish I could be so certain.’

  ‘Your problem is you don’t know what you want. Do you want Patrick or do you want ballet?’

  Libby blinked away tears, trying to focus on the little screen. ‘I love him, possibly more than ballet, but he doesn’t love me. If I had any sense, I’d walk away before I get really hurt.’

  ‘Then it’s time to go back to London, back to the company.’ Zoë rested her head against Libby’s. ‘I know you ran from it because it hurt so much, but you’re dancing again, you’re in that world again. At least send an email, say hi.’

  ‘I will,’ Libby said, her fingers going nowhere near the new message icon. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Actually, bugger packing. If I only take the bare essentials, Jonathan will just have to take me shopping, right?’ Zoë flipped her suitcase shut with a foot. ‘And we should go out in style.’

  ‘An actual orgy, just open the brothel doors?’ Libby suggested, but despite her flippancy, her tears tumbled out.

  ‘Christmas Eve at the Mill. Black tie, sit down dinner. Everyone’s going.’

  Including Patrick? ‘There’s a reason not to go.’ But Robbie had already given her a ticket, part of his don’t tell the wife, overly generous Christmas Bonus, so to not show up would be horribly ungrateful.

  ‘Here’s your plan.’ Zoë stood up, grabbing a carry-on bag. ‘Wear the sexiest dress you have, that vintage sequin number maybe? And if you seriously want ballet not
the boy, then you show him exactly what he’s missing. Then walk the hell away.’

  But do I want the ballet, or the boy?

  Several hours after Zoë left, her car loaded with little more than a holdall full of shoes, Libby sat on her own bed, curled up with Hyssop. She stared at the email she’d drafted to her old boss, asking if he might consider her for a coaching job, anything. The idea left her feeling hollow, but she could return to London and her life of routine exercise. She moved the cursor over the send button. She would have professional ballet and be three hundred miles from Patrick McBride.

  I have nothing left here.

  Hyssop mewed.

  Libby took a deep breath, trying to ignore Hyssop’s disapproving scowl. How the hell did a cat scowl anyway? She re-read her words for the fifth time, checking for silly errors before she hit–

  A clatter at the window shattered the silence and Libby pressed herself against the headboard, her heart hammering. A second clatter – pebbles against the glass – roused Hyssop to jump to the dresser and peer out of the window. He meowed at Libby. What if it were Patrick? Slowly, she crept over.

  In the tiny front garden, Grace stood smiling up at her, which was strange, since they hadn’t spoken since Libby’s birthday. Stranger still, Grace wore a red coat and held a wicker basket over one crooked arm.

  Libby opened a window. ‘If you’re looking for the Big Bad Wolf, he’s still at Xander’s party.’

  ‘I see Zoë’s selling up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I need a lodger since Patrick killed off my little sideline.’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘You won’t. You belong here.’

  ‘What do you want, Grace?’

  ‘Remember when I said you shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand?’

  Intrigued, Libby nodded.

  ‘Can you borrow the emerald from Zoë?’

  Again, Libby nodded. The emerald, not part of Zoë’s bare essentials, was left with Libby for safe keeping.

  ‘There’s a full moon and the power of two is better than one. Are you ready to mess around?’

  Hyssop, practically smiling, jumped off the dresser and scampered downstairs, but Libby paused, frowning at her laptop. Message sent. Arse.

  After a chilly, but intense grounding exercise led by Grace, they sat cross-legged, facing each other, just as Libby had made Zoë do. The air was still, the stars bright, but the moon shone down, illuminating the garden and turning Grace’s hair almost blue. Libby had never seen Grace with her hair loose before. Even at Xander’s party, she’d had half of it pinned back. Now, it hung over her shoulders, as long as Libby’s, but blacker than the sky.

  ‘What are we doing?’ Libby asked, feeling oddly foolish.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Between them, Grace had placed the emerald on a dish etched with a pentagram, but to her right, she’d set out a red candle, several petals and a tell-tale red pouch.

  ‘A summoning spell?’

  Grace nodded. ‘The ancient ways say you should only perform a spell with an open heart. The night before Maggie died, at the Ostara festival, she told a forgiveness circle that she’d tried to summon her love, a man with a wife and daughter. Her heart wasn’t open to who her true love might be. Her spell would never work, not properly. Yours has.’

  ‘Mine?’ Libby blinked. ‘But it hasn’t.’

  ‘I know him, Libby. He’s yours. I don’t understand why he’s fighting it, but the spell’s working. What did you do?’

  No doubt Grace would find her efforts amateurish, like a teen girl messing with a parlour game Ouija board, but Libby explained, her cheeks heating up as she did. Grace didn’t mock, she listened intently.

  ‘You performed an honest spell with an honest heart. It’s what I want to do.’ Grace closed her eyes. ‘I didn’t take Jack back after...’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t take him back because I thought maybe if I was single, then maybe Patrick... but it didn’t make any difference.’ Grace took her piece of handmade paper. ‘I miss Jack. I want to summon him, but the right way.’

  Libby sat quietly, serenely even, as Grace wrote the traits she wished for: honest, good-looking, good with his hands, hard-working, a family guy. But Grace wrote each of them fully aware it might not be Jack she summoned.

  ‘That’s the risk,’ she explained. ‘But if you want true love, you have to open your eyes and your heart to whoever that may be.’

  Seize the power, see the truth.

  Libby watched the emerald as Grace burned the flower petals and parchment, waiting, expecting, well... something. But the candle fluttered out and Grace took Libby’s hands. Together they sat, wordless in the moonlight. Libby’s legs were tingling from sitting still for so long, but she no longer felt cold. Instead, warmth filled her. Warmth?

  No.

  Energy filled her.

  Libby opened her eyes, already alarmed by the sensations rushing through her body, but what she saw had her backing away, too scared to scream. Grace sat with her eyes shut, a knowing smile on her lips and a shimmering violet haze drifting around her.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ Grace murmured.

  ‘Feel it? I can bloody see it.’ Libby stared. ‘You’re... glowing.’

  ‘Do you want to know what’s really freaky?’ Grace asked. ‘I don’t even have to open my eyes to know you’re glowing too.’

  Libby looked down at her own hand, blinking, but it was unmistakable. The same violet shimmer hovered around her fingers. ‘Oh... My... God.’

  ‘Calm down. They’re just auras. You’re finally in tune with the world.’ Grace opened her eyes, smiling. ‘Blessed be, sister.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ‘You’re not actually wearing that shawl, are you?’ Zoë frowned at Libby as Jonathan helped her out of the car. ‘It’s longer than your dress.’

  ‘And that’s why I’m wearing it.’ Libby frowned at the Mill. It twinkled with fairy lights but the mistletoe over the door only increased her apprehension. ‘I look like a Soho stripper.’

  She’d assumed her little black dress, a vintage sequined number, would be suitable without trying it on. It wasn’t. When she’d bought it for an opening night party four years ago, it had been just shy of too big, but now she could barely breathe. The strapless neckline sat far too low but if she pulled it up, the hem showed the tops of her hold up stockings. With no other even vaguely appropriate dress for a black tie event, she’d had to grin and wear it.

  ‘You look incredible.’ Jonathan smiled down at her. ‘You both do.’

  No. In a red satin, full-length column dress, her glossy hair flowing down her back, Zoë looked incredible – a classy 1950s sex goddess. A classy 1950s sex goddess with a vast rock on her left hand.

  While I look like a stripper.

  ‘Er… ears?’ Zoë pushed Libby’s hair aside, scowling at the diamante strands the Dick had given her for her birthday. ‘No.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘No.’

  Libby took out the earrings and handed them over. She loved those earrings. Zoë hadn’t minded Libby wearing them a few months ago. As they approached the entrance, Libby slipped off the shawl and the cold night air bit at her bare skin. She was going to a Christmas Eve party on her own. Could her life get any more tragic?

  But not for much longer. In five days’ time, she had a meeting with her old boss at the English National Ballet. He’d called her the day after she’d emailed, delighted to hear from her, overjoyed to learn she was dancing again and ecstatic to discover she might want to come back. That’s what she should focus on – her future.

  Well, her future and bloody good hair. For some reason known only to Mother Nature, an intense conditioning treatment at the hairdressers had actually worked and her newly highlighted hair hung like a silk curtain. A Christmas miracle.

  With her bravest smile plastered on, Libby carried her cashmere shawl over one arm,
hoping her legs in her highest black heels would distract anyone from checking out her non-existent cleavage. Of course, if she slipped on the polished wood floor, there was a fair chance people would get to see her non-existent boobs too.

  ‘Hello, angel.’ Robbie waylaid her, kissing her cheeks. ‘You came. I’m glad.’

  ‘I don’t know why. I’d rather be at home reading a book.’ Especially since her repeated scanning of the room only confirmed Patrick’s absence. Not that she wanted to see him.

  ‘You’ll have fun.’ He handed her a glass of champagne before looking her over as only he could. ‘You didn’t fancy making an effort then?’

  She managed a genuine laugh. ‘Don’t let your wife catch you looking at me like that.’

  He shot her a wink. ‘Seriously, you look beautiful.’

  Buoyed up by Robbie’s compliments, she wandered across to the seating plan, hoping she’d be sitting at Robbie’s table with Patrick on the other side of the room. She found her name and closed her eyes for a second. At table nine, she’d be sitting with six people she’d never heard of and Patrick. This was over. She headed for the door.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Robbie said, grabbing her arm.

  ‘Can you switch the tables around? Please?’

  ‘No.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s Van’s idea.’

  This was a set up. A horrific, badly planned, ill-conceived set up.

  Zoë appeared by her side, giggling at the seating plan. ‘Oh, come on. Just get drunk and have fun. I bet he looks hot in black tie.’

  Libby had no doubt he would, but that would be the problem. He’d sweet talk her, be nice to her, somehow persuade her to be friends and then… cold. For some reason, he’d back off. She couldn’t let him do it again. She had to focus on London, on her old life.

  She and Zoë wandered through to the garden, where guests mingled with glasses of champagne, but Libby came to an abrupt halt when she spotted Jack and Grace. Had the spell worked? Did they really work?

  Zoë glanced around, sipping her champagne. ‘Is it me, or are you shagging men in alphabetical order?’