Nearly Almost Somebody

by Caroline Batten

  ‘It’s still complicated.’ He bent down to the little brown and white guinea pig, frowning as it scooted along the table, refusing to put its hind leg down. Cute little thing. ‘What about you and Jack? Why are you going back there again?’

  ‘I love him. And he puts up with me.’

  ‘He can’t keep it in his pants.’

  ‘Jack’s insecure and me working with you didn’t help. I think we’ll be okay now.’

  ‘He knew?’

  ‘I think everyone except you did.’

  ‘Seriously, is this going to be okay?’

  ‘Yep.’ Grace peered at Snuffles. ‘X-ray and pin job?’

  Patrick nodded and let out a frustrated sigh. He wouldn’t be talking to Libby anytime soon.

  * * *

  Libby sat on the edge of Zoë’s bed. There was nothing more effective at distracting her from her own misery than the misery of others. On Christmas Day, she and Zoë had got utterly hammered, eventually pulling on little black dresses and heading to the Alfred. Libby had played Christmas classics on the piano, encouraging half the pub to sing along, while Zoë’s flirting levels ensured they hadn’t needed to buy a single drink all night. Inevitably, Libby ended up wailing on Zoë’s shoulder, drunkenly vowing to talk to Patrick the minute he got home – thank god, Zoë had confiscated her phone.

  A raging headache thumped in Libby’s brain and she promised her lungs she’d never, ever smoke again, but no matter how bad she felt, she’d climbed out of bed. Crikey, she’d dragged her backside into the shower and even managed breakfast, but Zoë hadn’t moved. Zoë had been Libby’s rock the day before, but now, she lay staring at the wall with tears pouring down her cheeks.

  ‘Zo?’ Libby stroked her friend’s hair. ‘Zo, you can’t just shut down. So you fucked up. If you want to fix it, you have to pull yourself together. And to start, you have to eat.’

  Zoë flinched.

  ‘Look,’ Libby said, ‘we both know you don’t want to eat because you think control comes from not eating. And we both know why. We’ve been through this too many times, Zo, and you know I love you, but I’m not prepared for the cucumber, celery and black tea stage. You’re a bitch when you go through that bit.’

  There was a half laugh.

  ‘So if you want control, take it. Control isn’t not eating, or only eating foods with less than one percent fat. Real control is eating just enough. I have real control. Now, sit up.’ Libby closed her eyes, praying she wasn’t making things worse. ‘Now, Zoë.’

  Zoë did as she was told. ‘I don’t–’

  ‘Control.’ Libby held up a bowl. The strands of tagliatelle dripped with butter, lemon and chicken jus. ‘Real control would be to eat half of this. Not a third, not three quarters, but half. Half, I’ve calculated, would be a perfectly healthy portion. And by healthy, I mean just a bit less than necessary.’

  Zoë hadn’t taken her eyes off the dish, but her chin had raised. ‘Half?’

  Please, Zoë, fight. ‘Exactly half.’

  Zoë took the bowl.

  Libby left, trying not to smile and trying not to be too hopeful. This was Maggie’s fault, and for a brief moment, Libby wished could bump off the old witch herself.

  Downstairs, she curled up on the sofa, once again succumbing to tears. How desperately did she want to say to Patrick okay, let’s do the secret fling? She could do it. She’d take what she could have. But then she’d remember how easily a simple hug from Xander could be made to look like a kiss. She wouldn’t cost Patrick his job and the respect of his parents.

  Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone and called Paolo. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Hey, me. What happened to moving on?’

  ‘Are we still friends?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Where are you, can you talk?’

  ‘I’m in my Shoreditch apartment watching Dorothy skip down the Yellow Brick Road.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a cultural phenomenon I’ve never seen. What’s up?’

  Libby skipped through the TV channels until she landed on Dorothy and the Tin Man. It was like she and Paolo were together again. ‘I have a job interview on Thursday, with the ballet. I could do with a place to stay.’

  The sofa creaked and he took a deep breath. ‘Are you going to stay-stay, or just stay?’

  ‘I’m in love with Patrick.’

  ‘Just stay then.’

  ‘If I had any sense, I’d stay-stay. Sorry.’

  He laughed. ‘You can still share my bed.’

  Libby closed her eyes, picturing him as she’d last seen him. His dark hair, slightly curling at the ends, falling to his chin, a little longer at the back. She’d cut it for him once, but the next day he’d shaved it all off, proclaiming her the worst hairdresser in the world.

  ‘Why do you put up with me?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I still love you.’

  ‘I’ll go to a hotel.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ He paused. ‘But return favour? I need a date on Wednesday, for a friend’s exhibition. Come with me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Libby paused for a moment. ‘Paolo, do you know Seamus Doyle?’

  ‘The poet? Not personally.’

  ‘I want to meet him. Can you get him invited to the exhibition?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. His wife’s a massive patron of undiscovered artists. Why do you want to meet him though?’

  ‘I think he might’ve been the last person to see Maggie alive.’ And I want to know if he murdered her. Or at least if she died happy.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Paolo paused. ‘I ought to warn you though. The papers are still looking for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Daily Mail, the Sun… They want to know who the Broken Ballerina is. They might guess when they see you. Sorry.’

  And if she were famous, then she wouldn’t be able to return to Gosthwaite, to Patrick, for six months. No ifs or buts. What would Michael Wray do if he found out if his Libertine was the Broken Ballerina? So this was it, her choice: Patrick or ballet.

  * * *

  As Dorothy found her way back to Kansas, the old Zoë put the half-empty, half-full bowl of pasta on the coffee table. For weeks she’d been wearing conservative dresses, prim skirts and fifties cardigans, anything to fit in at the golf club and not look like a gold-digging whore. But not anymore. In skinny jeans, a slinky red top and the metal-studded Louboutins, she sat on the window sill and applied her trademark scarlet lipstick.

  ‘Why the scarf?’ Libby asked, trying not grin.

  ‘Hide the bloody love bite.’

  ‘I take it from the shoes, you’re choosing Jonathan.’

  Zoë flicked back her immaculately straightened hair. ‘Yes. I’m not giving up everything just because I fancy Ed.’

  ‘Fancy Ed?’ Libby frowned. ‘I thought it was more than that. A physical and emotional bond, you said.’

  ‘It’s irrelevant. Real control?’ Zoë nodded to the bowl of pasta. ‘Real control is walking in that house and never fucking Ed again. Real control is marrying Jonathan and getting everything I ever wanted.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Look, I know you’d give up everything for love. But it’s not what’s most important to me.’

  ‘I suppose this way,’ Libby said, flashing the fakest smile, Zoë had ever seen, ‘you only have to bump off the old man to get the money. If you chose the son, you’d have to bump off them both off.’

  Oh Libby, if only you knew how close to the bone you are. Tears rolled down Zoë’s cheeks as she returned the smile. ‘It’d be worse than that. If I chose the son, I’d have to bump off the dad, the son, the brother, his wife and their two grubby children. Shagging Jonathan requires much less effort.’

  Libby enveloped her in a bear hug. ‘I’m proud of you. You didn’t give in to food.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Zoë whispered. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go to London and avoid getting me or Pat
rick in the bloody newspaper. I’ll come back in six months.’

  ‘That’s a crappy plan.’

  ‘It’s all I have.’ Libby wiped her eyes. ‘On the upside, I have a date on Wednesday. Paolo’s taking me to some fancy-schmancy art exhibition. Though it will mean the papers finding out I’m the Broken Ballerina.’

  ‘Is that a bad thing?’ Zoë asked, tapping her phone against her thigh. ‘I mean, why hide if you’re going back to the company? Why not let the bloody world know you’re the Broken Ballerina? Because let’s say if the Guardian ran with an exclusive, would it hurt your chances of getting the odd role? That’s what you really want, isn’t it?’

  Libby stared at her.

  A slow smile spread over Zoë’s face. ‘Lib, real control isn’t avoiding the press. It’s using them to get what you want.’

  Twenty minutes later, Zoë arrived at Jonathan’s. He’d stood leaning in the doorway as she parked, but strolled over to open her door. Ever the gent, he helped her out, a gentle hand lifting her chin to kiss her. A warmth filled her insides and it wasn’t down to some base desire to tie him to the bed. This was the life she wanted; a life of power – power, not uncontrollable lust. A less gentle hand brushed over her breast squeezing it just a little. And Jesus, she did love shagging Jonathan.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said, his hands roving over her arse. ‘How’s Libby?’

  ‘Devastated. She’s horrendously in love with Patrick, but she’s moving back to London.’ Zoë smiled up at him, raking her fingers through his hair. ‘Did you have a nice day?’

  ‘We did. Ed finally got into the spirit of Christmas and Paula knocked dinner together.’ He leant in, whispering in her ear. ‘They’re going out for lunch, but I want to make love to you, to worship you for hours.’

  Zoë nodded, her insides liquefying. ‘Just what I need.’

  ‘You still need to open your present.’

  ‘But I already did.’ She glanced down at her Cartier watch. ‘I adore it.’

  ‘You have another.’ Smiling, he held a hand over her eyes and led her around the side of the house.

  Inside the open garage doors sat a brand new BMW Z4 – shiny, black and wrapped in a big red bow. Tears filled her eyes as she turned to him.

  ‘Jonathan, I really do love you.’ She held his face. ‘And not because you buy me cars and watches.’

  For several minutes, she kissed him, whispering how much she adored him and the things she’d do to him when they were alone later.

  ‘Ooh, Granny Zoë, can we go for a drive in your new car?’ little Harriet asked.

  Granny? Jesus, that kid was priceless. Zoë ignored her, instead kissing Eliot and Paula a happy Christmas. Ed wandered up, his tousled dark hair reminding her of the previous day and creating a dull ache between her legs. More than anything in the world Zoë wanted to feel Ed’s dick inside her again, but she did nothing more than politely kiss his cheek.

  ‘Stepmother’s home,’ she whispered.

  Devastation flashed in his eyes and his fingers dug into her arm, but Zoë refused to weaken. Jonathan was real control.

  * * *

  Knocking on the imposing blue door of Kiln Howe terrified Libby, but she held her head high as the barking of dogs grew louder. Someone was coming. She prayed it wasn’t Patrick’s father. The door opened and Patrick stooped, holding back two energetic black retrievers. She blinked. It couldn’t be Patrick; he was at the vet’s.

  ‘You must be Sam,’ she said, still staring.

  His smile grew. ‘And you must be Libby. He’s not here.’

  ‘I know.’ She tipped her head to the side. Same black curly hair, same nose, same hazel eyes. ‘You two look really alike, really, really alike.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s very nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  Libby blushed. ‘Is your mum in? I wondered if I could borrow the painting.’

  ‘I can’t see why not. It’s yours after all.’

  ‘Well, not really. I gave it away. Patrick bought it and gave it to your mum. It’s hers.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she won’t mind. Come in.’ Sam stood aside, still holding the dogs. ‘Mum!’

  Elizabeth appeared, promptly followed by Malcolm McBride. Libby cringed.

  ‘Hello, Miss Wilde,’ he said.

  ‘For God’s sake, Dad, her name’s Libby.’ Sam shook his head. ‘She wants to borrow the painting.’

  ‘Just for a day or so.’ Libby daren’t look Malcolm McBride in the eye. He probably believed she was a prostitute.

  ‘Of course.’ Elizabeth beckoned her in. ‘Tea?’

  Libby hesitated. Crikey, all she’d wanted was to take the painting. Sam took her arm, leading her down the hallway.

  Malcolm hovered at the door to the kitchen, holding out his hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Olivia.’

  Stunned, Libby shook his hand, not missing that Patrick’s hazel eyes and thick black lashes came from his father.

  ‘Come on,’ Sam whispered. ‘We don’t bite. But to be on the safe side, I wouldn’t take any of the ginger snaps. My wife Charlotte is likely to take you out with a teaspoon.’

  Libby glanced up at him, as bemused by his similarity to Patrick as she was with his words.

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ he explained, ushering her into the warmth of the kitchen. ‘They stop her feeling sick.’

  Libby couldn’t help laughing, and Sam’s enormous smile, so like Patrick’s, took over his face. ‘Congratulations.’

  Within minutes, Libby found herself sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and a fat slice of Elizabeth’s carrot cake. Malcolm continued filling in his crossword, calling out clues to which the others would suggest answers – Sam and Elizabeth clearly competitive, while Charlotte offered ridiculous solutions.

  A sudden longing overcame Libby – a need to be part of a family once again. If she went to London, if she became the Broken Ballerina, would she ever belong in a family like this?

  Patrick or ballet.

  * * *

  After an hour of surgery, the guinea pig was recovering comfortably and Patrick sat down with a well-earned coffee. Pinning a guinea pig’s leg was possibly the fiddliest job he’d done in a long time. Thank Christ Hannah hadn’t come in – no way would she have been able to get a cannula in the tiny creature. Grace on the other hand, had inserted one in seconds.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Grace squealed. ‘It’s snowing. It never snows at Christmas.’

  The minor flurry, against his expectations, settled and developed into a veritable blizzard over the next thirty minutes. Libby’s ancient Golf still wasn’t parked outside the house. Was she driving? Maybe he should ring her. Grace could watch the patient while he picked Libby up. But if he were alone with her, what the hell would he say? He stared at his phone. What would Robbie do? He’d tell her he loved her and everything would be fine. How did Rob do that? How could he just know a girl was right?

  By five o’clock the blizzard eased off and Patrick couldn’t help feeling cheered by the snow. It changed the community. The orange glow from the street lamps and multi-coloured lights flashing on the Green’s Christmas tree added a cosy warmth. Merry drinkers spilled from the Alfred and three sets of children were building snowmen, but despite the laughter, the Green remained peaceful, muffled under its white duvet.

  Creeping slowly up the Green came his parents’ Range Rover. Perfect timing. Maybe his mum or dad would keep an eye on Snuffles while he rescued Libby. The car pulled up outside and Sam jumped out, carrying the Broken Ballerina.

  ‘What the hell...’

  Libby climbed out of the car, jogging ahead of Sam. He took the painting into Maggie’s cottage and when he came back out Libby kissed his cheek, thanking him. Briefly, as though she knew he was watching, she glanced at Patrick. Her face as sad as it had been the morning before.

  What are you doing, Libs?

  She gave him the smallest of smiles. He needed to talk to her. They had to sort this out. T
he arrival of his parents distracted him for a moment and when he looked back, Libby had gone. He forced a smile for his mum, but the sudden intrusion irritated him.

  ‘Darling, Libby’s a sweetheart,’ she said. ‘How’s Becky’s guinea pig?’

  He let Grace fill his mum in, Patrick turning his attention to his buoyant brother.

  ‘Bro, time for a pint?’ Sam hugged him, slapping his back, before whispering, ‘I love Libby.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on? Why’s she got the painting?’

  ‘She wants to borrow it. She stayed for tea and it’s fair to say Dad’s smitten. It started snowing so we gave her a lift. Left her death trap at Kiln Howe. Thought we’d take you to the pub. Seriously, Dad’s smitten.’

  Patrick glanced towards Libby’s closed door. ‘Why does she want the painting?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say. She was more interested in your niece or nephew.’

  ‘She was distracting you, getting you to talk about what you wanted to so you wouldn’t pry. It’s a skill of hers.’

  ‘Who cares? She’d make a great sister-in-law.’

  Sister-in-law? Jesus.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, bro, but there’s snow outside.’ Sam’s eyes glinted. ‘Fight?’

  ‘I get Grace. You can have Charlotte and Mum.’

  ‘Our mother and a pregnant woman? Thanks.’

  ‘As if I’d throw anything at Charlotte.’

  Sam merely raised his eyebrows.

  Ten minutes later, led by the two McBride brothers, the entire Green became embroiled in a snowball fight.

  ‘It’s like when the boys were little,’ said seventy year-old Mrs Jenkins, as she and Andrea from number twelve pelted Malcolm with snow.

  Despite waging war and orchestrating his troops against Sam, Patrick didn’t miss Libby’s front door opening. She came out, bundled up in her down jacket, a hat pulled low over her eyes. Sadly, Grace had spotted her too and a white ball smacked against Libby’s woollen hat, making her shriek.