Nearly Almost Somebody

by Caroline Batten

  Elizabeth paused as she put on her coat. ‘My grandfather used to call me Libby.’

  ‘My middle name’s Elizabeth and my little brother couldn’t pronounce Livvy for years. Libby just took over. Thank you for making breakfast.’

  ‘Look, you seem a nice girl. Jane has nothing but praise for you and Patrick adores you, but... Well, let’s just hope Michael Wray doesn’t find out. Have a lovely day.’

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  Elizabeth left.

  Utterly nonplussed, Libby popped the toast onto the tray and dashed back up to Patrick, desperate for his reassurance. Happily, the bizarre conversation with his mother faded from her head as Libby took in the sexiest thing she’d ever seen on Christmas Day. Lying on his side, propped up on one elbow with only his bottom half covered by the duvet, Patrick looked her over, his smile growing.

  ‘I come bearing gifts.’ She put the tray on the bedside table and knelt over him, running her fingers down his treasure trail. ‘Tea, I’m afraid. I don’t like coffee in the morning, but there is toast.’

  Patrick began unbuttoning the shirt. ‘That can wait.’

  ‘Have you any idea how very, very pretty you are without the black crap and the fringe?’ Patrick handed her a mug of stewed tea.

  Thirty minutes of breathless, intense shagging had left her hair bedraggled and her face sweaty. Pretty wasn’t the term she’d have used.

  ‘You might have mentioned the pretty thing once or twice, but I like the black crap. I don’t like looking pretty. I like looking edgy.’

  ‘You don’t look edgy. You look like seventeen year-old trailer trash.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Christ, really strong tea might actually be worth drinking. Where on earth did you find a teapot? I didn’t know I had one.’

  ‘I didn’t, your mum did. Ugh, it’s cold.’ She put her mug on the side. ‘Tea really has to be hot.’

  ‘Hang on, my mum did?’

  Libby nodded. ‘She was downstairs, tidying up. She’d already done the living room.’

  ‘I wonder what she thought when she found your cut up dress.’

  ‘It was possibly the most excruciating five minutes of my life. I look awful. She must think I’m an awful tramp, but she was very blasé. Has she had many chats with girls making tea?’

  ‘It’s usually coffee.’ He tugged her plait. ‘No, not to my knowledge. And you don’t look awful. In fact you look cute as fuck in my shirt.’

  Libby grinned. She might wear it all day. ‘She said she likes to make sure you’re still alive the morning after.’

  ‘Bullshit. She most likely heard we’d left together and came for a nosy. Sorry.’ He leant back against the headboard, frowning up at the ceiling. ‘I wonder if she’ll tell Dad.’

  ‘I know you don’t want to let him down, but you’re nearly thirty. Surely you’re not worried what he thinks about who you’re shagging?’

  ‘Of course, not.’ The tiny twitch in his eye was back.

  Libby sat up, frowning at him. ‘Liar. He doesn’t like me, does he?’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘The way he looked at me last night.’

  A huge frown took over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Libs. He doesn’t know you. He’d like you if he did.’

  Libby hugged her knees. ‘Your mum asked if you’d let her know if you were still going to Christmas dinner. Are you?’

  If he invited her along, she could meet his dad and hopefully win him over.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed.’ He ran his thumb along her thigh. ‘We’d pray my phone didn’t ring, while I sit watching crap on TV and you make dinner like a good little wench.’

  She laughed, gently punching his arm. ‘You have to help. And I’m nobody’s wench.’

  ‘Okay, but if Zoë catches us shagging in the kitchen, it’ll be your fault.’

  ‘I can live with those terms.’ Libby smiled. Who wanted to go to his parents anyway? ‘Your mum also told me something else.’

  ‘Go on...’

  ‘The painting?’

  ‘Christ, I’m starting to look a little obsessed, aren’t I?’

  Libby held her finger and thumb an inch apart. ‘Just a bit. I went to get it back the next day, but it’d gone. You weren’t even speaking to me then.’

  ‘Do you want it?’

  ‘No. Yes. Maybe one day. How much did you pay for it? I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘How much?’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s between me and Haverton Animal Rescue. The irony isn’t lost on me. I already work for free on Monday afternoons, now I’ve funded the drugs too.’

  One day she’d pay him back, but in the meantime he’d have to make do with a million thank you kisses.

  ‘Enough,’ he laughed, fending her off.

  Libby sat smiling at him for a moment. I love you. It’s absolutely official. ‘Your mum said something else too.’

  ‘I’m going to throttle her when I see her.’

  ‘She said we’d better hope Michael Wray didn’t find out.’

  ‘And? I hope he doesn’t.’ Patrick stood up, pulling her with him. ‘Shower?’

  Libby let him drag her to the bathroom, fully aware he was distracting her. ‘Why does it matter?’

  ‘If we have a shower? I’ll smell a lot better.’ He opened the vast glass door to the shower, turning on a deluge of water. ‘You still smell of roses and sweet peas, but come on.’

  ‘I’ll have one at home. I need ridiculous amounts of conditioner.’ And industrial make-up remover or she’d look like Alice Cooper. Roses and sweet peas?

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  She leaned against the wall, blatantly perving at his naked body. Crikey, he was confident, but then, he had no reason not to be with his long muscular legs and perfect arse. Maybe she could dive in with him.

  ‘What does it matter if Michael Wray finds out?’ she asked. ‘We have nothing to be ashamed of. Let them read all about it. Hell, we really should send him a photo.’

  The glass steamed up, hiding all but his silhouette. He washed his hair, scrubbed his skin, but still didn’t answer her. What if this was a one night stand? A Christmas fling. What if he’d got cold feet?

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ she said. ‘You’re ignoring me.’

  Again, the silence descended, this time magnified as he shut off the shower. She wrapped her arms around herself, the wait unbearable.

  ‘This isn’t a scandal,’ she said.

  ‘But he’ll make it a scandal and I can’t afford for that to happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  Finally, he came out, tying a towel around his waist. A wet Patrick, droplets running down his flat abdomen, down to the dark hair half covered by the towel was more distracting than the naked one. Oh god, she should’ve showered with him. Maybe she should stop wearing the black crap.

  ‘You had your chance, princess,’ he said, flashing a cheeky grin.

  She gave a little laugh, but couldn’t ignore the dread building inside. ‘What didn’t you tell me last night?’

  He swore quietly, as he leaned against the shower door. ‘The Miss Haverton story, did you ever see it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Front page, shagging in the park. My mum actually said she was ashamed to call me her son. I’ll never forget the disappointment in her eyes. Libs, they’ve already tried to make out that you’re a prostitute. What will they say if I’m involved?’

  ‘But it’d be made up nonsense.’

  ‘But it’d still hurt my parents.’

  ‘So…’ She dared to look up at him. ‘Is that it? You’re protecting your parents? Don’t get me wrong, it’s admirable, but they are grown-ups. They could handle the truth.’

  ‘It’s not just that.’ He let out a slow sigh. ‘I can’t break the rules.’

  ‘Why? What happens if you do?’ She closed her eyes, not wanting to hear the answer.

  ‘They’ll kick me out. Disowned. Sacked. Bye-bye hous
e, car and my life in Gosthwaite.’

  No. Tears stung her eyes, but she hung her head so he couldn’t see. ‘Do they mean it?’

  ‘My name being linked to your escapades on Halloween cost me two weeks wages. They mean it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.’ He gave a brave smile and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. ‘Look, so we can’t go out in public, but we’ll work it out, Libs.’

  ‘How? I know what it’s like to lose your job and your family. You can’t risk it.’ Her cheek rested against his damp shoulder as she inhaled his fresh-from-the-shower scent. I love you and I won’t ruin your life. She glanced down, spotting the smudge of mascara on his towel. ‘I got the black crap on your towel, sorry.’

  He gave a small laugh, relaxing his hold on her as he glanced down.

  She darted out.

  By the time he yelled her name, she was already running down the stairs. She dashed past their neatly folded clothes, an excited Isla and out the back door, hoping no one saw her leave. Who would see her? The rest of the world would be checking under the tree to see what Father Christmas had left them. For a brief moment, she’d thought all her Christmases had come at once, but in reality, she’d spent six months earning her place on the naughty list.

  The bitter winter air ripped through the shirt, but Libby ignored it as she ignored the stones cutting into her bare feet. They were her penance for betraying her better judgement. She should never have even remotely flirted with Jack and god, did she need another reason to regret her affair with Robbie?

  She strode into Maggie’s garden, wiping in vain at the tears falling down her cheeks, the white shirt cuffs now streaked with black. London was her only option. She’d book a ticket on the first train south.

  ‘Libby, stop,’ he called from behind her.

  She did, but only to put an end to their odd relationship once and for all. He crossed the gap between them, still pulling on his sweatshirt, his nine toes as bare as her ten. Before he could speak she lifted a hand and laid it on his forehead.

  ‘Whatever influence I hold–’

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit.’ He knocked her hand away, and pulled her to him, wiping her tears with his sleeve. ‘Please, don’t cry.’

  ‘It’s not worth it, Patrick.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ He still held her face.

  ‘I don’t want a half-arsed, secret fling.’

  ‘It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ Seriously, did he say fun? ‘I’ve done secret. It’s not fun. It’s horrible.’

  ‘It’s just for six months.’

  ‘I want more.’

  His hands fell away. ‘What do you mean, more?’

  I love you. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Patrick took a step back. ‘What are you expecting? We haven’t even been out on a date.’

  ‘And with your genius plan, we never will.’ Libby folded her arms, shivering against the cold wind. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘I knew you’d do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Run away.’

  ‘I’m not running away.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I have a meeting with the English National Ballet on the twenty-ninth. I’m going to discuss going back to work. I arranged it after you messed me around yet again at Xander’s party.’

  Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘And were you planning to tell me, or just fuck me then fuck off?’

  ‘Of course I was going to tell you.’

  ‘What about teaching ballet to the little kids?’

  ‘London would be better.’

  He stared at the ground. ‘And us?’

  She mustn’t cry again. ‘What us? You want a fuck buddy who’s not going to get in the way of your idyllic life in the country. You might be a bloody good distraction, but let’s face it, you’re not ballet.’ And I won’t ruin your life.

  His forehead creased as he looked up, his eyes blazing with hurt, anger, frustration. ‘I guess not. Happy fucking Christmas, princess.’

  And he walked away.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Cartier watch on Zoë’s left wrist, her best Christmas present ever, sparkled as she padded down the stairs to say goodbye to Jonathan. He and his family were off on their annual trudge to the next village for mulled wine and mince pies at his brother’s house, but Zoë opted to stay at home, citing culinary reasons. Really, she wanted an hour or two away from his bloody family.

  The eldest son Eliot and his drippy wife Paula clearly despised her, while their two feral kids, Harriet and Joshua, had no concept of the word no. Twice Zoë found six year-old Harriet rummaging in her handbag, the last time pulling out cigarettes, tampons and using her Chanel lipstick to draw a picture of Granddad. But if they made her life hell, they were nothing compared to Ed.

  His vitriolic attitude at the funeral hadn’t abated and he used every opportunity to snipe at Zoë. The evening before, when she’d excused herself to get ready for the Mill party, Ed had poured her a glass of champagne, his cold eyes glaring into hers.

  ‘But surely someone like you,’ he’d said, ‘only needs to throw on an old rag, a little lipstick and the latest diamonds my dad bought you.’

  He’d become an obnoxious little prick. How had she ever fancied him?

  Smiling, she slipped her arms around Jonathan and kissed him. ‘Enjoy the walk.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ he asked.

  ‘Too much to do.’

  ‘Actually, dad,’ Ed said, wandering down the hall. ‘I thought I’d stay and give Zoë a hand.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ Zoë flashed a smile. What the hell was that bastard up to? ‘Enjoy your walk.’

  But Jonathan slapped his sons back. ‘Good man, Ed.’

  Zoë clenched her fists, barely restraining her fury as Ed headed back to the kitchen. ‘I don’t need his help.’

  ‘It’s a gesture, Zoë,’ Jonathan ran his hands down her arms, trying to pacify her. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed the tension between you two. I know it’s difficult, but why don’t you take some time to get to know him? You’ll like him.’

  All she could do was smile sweetly.

  In the kitchen Ed was leaning on the island, waiting for her, his hands in his pockets, his dark hair contrasting fabulously with his Arran jumper, his blue eyes glittering with contempt. It was all too tempting to throttle him.

  Or fuck him.

  You’ll like him. And wasn’t that the problem. He was his father’s son. Zoë strode past Ed, hating that his aftershave made her want to tie him to a four-poster bed. Ten o’clock, time for Buck’s Fizz.

  ‘What do you really want, Ed?’

  ‘I’m just keen to help my wonderful step-mother-to-be in the kitchen. I’m one hell of a cook, you know.’

  ‘Bite me.’

  He looked her over, as though he were contemplating just that. ‘Oh come on, I just want to talk and you’ve been avoiding me since I got here.’

  ‘I wonder why. I notice you haven’t told your dad about... us.’

  ‘There is no us. And you haven’t told him either. Why?’

  She opened the fridge, needing the cold air to cool her flushing cheeks, and took out the champagne. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘I’ll have one.’ He leaned against the island, his eyes narrowing. ‘Coincidences.’

  Zoë raised her eyebrows as she filled two glasses. Bollocks to the orange juice. ‘Coincidences?’

  ‘A few months ago I came to see Mum. She had this amazing skunk. I know she used to score it off your aunt–’

  ‘Great aunt.’

  ‘Your great aunt, but Maggie was dead, so who was the new dealer, I asked. Your father’s latest whore, she replied.’

  Zoë smiled over her glass. ‘I considered it a good deed. Your mum had needs and your dad had needs
. I’m a facilitator.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you’re fucking him for the money, for the Cartier watches.’

  ‘I’m fucking him because he’s an amazing man.’

  Ed stepped closer, invading her space. ‘Is it a coincidence that the whore who supplied my mother with skunk happens to live next door to the vet’s where the ketamine that killed her was stolen from?’

  ‘Yes.’ Zoë refused to back off. ‘Yes, it’s a massive bloody coincidence. Is this how you want to spend Christmas Day, accusing me of supplying the ket?’

  ‘Did you supply the ket?’

  ‘The night it was stolen, I was shagging your dad at a boutique hotel overlooking Grasmere.’ Zoë tried not to smile when Ed flinched at her words. He was jealous? ‘And the night your mother received the ket, I was dressed as the Queen of Hearts, surrounded by half of Gosthwaite. The police thoroughly checked my story after you suggested I was her dealer. Thanks for that.’

  Ed leaned in, putting his lips next to her ear. ‘Thing is, stepmother, I think you’re a liar.’

  He stood so close she could feel his semi and Zoë turned her head so her lips hovered an inch from his. ‘What are you really after, Ed? To play with your daddy’s toys?’

  His lips curled in a mirthless laugh, his semi growing and pushing against her hip. ‘You’re a gold-digging whore.’

  ‘What a shame you don’t have any gold to dig.’

  Their lips met in a hot, breathless kiss, his hands holding her face, and Zoë throbbed, her pants already soaking. Jesus, even Jonathan had to do more than just kiss her. She pulled away, staring at Ed. I want you, not him.

  He stared back. ‘Oh Christ.’

  ‘We can’t do this.’ She begged him, but her fingers were in his hair. ‘We can’t do this to him.’

  ‘But you and me?’ Ed’s eyes burned into her.

  ‘It can’t happen.’ Zoë shook her head, though she pressed her body tight against his. ‘I honestly swear I’m not just after his money.’

  ‘It’s wasted on him, Zoë. He fucked around on my mum for years. He’ll do it to you too.’ Ed’s hand reached down, slowly hitching up the hem of her jersey dress. ‘You can’t marry him.’