Please don’t hate me.
Malcolm rocked on his heels. ‘Obviously, I’d rather there was no scandal, but under the circumstances, if there is...’
‘If there is?’
‘Well, I can’t think of anyone better to take over the practice than you.’ Malcolm nodded, his eyes shining. ‘You’re a hell of a vet, Patrick, but for the last couple of years, you’ve not been quite the man you should be.’
For the first time since Patrick graduated from Vet School, his father hugged him. Just for a few seconds, but it meant the world.
‘I’m sorry for letting you down, dad.’
‘It’s okay. We could tell when you came back from Spain. You’ve changed.’
Their smiles and relief were short-lived as Grace showed the motorcycle doctor in, presenting the situation as she would an animal to Patrick. Patrick closed his eyes, pressing his lips to Libby’s fingers. There were the expected exclamations of shock, horror, disbelief that a vet would assume they could treat a human. Patrick expected nothing less.
‘Duncan, good to see you,’ his father said, standing up and shaking the doctor’s hand.
Doctor McNamara, a friend of his father’s, began his examination of Libby, his equipment saying exactly the same as Patrick’s. Finally, he stood back and sighed. ‘I don’t... You may well have saved her life, but–’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘Let’s worry about Libby for now.’
Libby’s eyes flickered open, her head shaking a little. ‘...the snakes...’
‘Libs? It’s Patrick. I know you’re seeing weird things, but listen to me. Focus on me. I’m here, holding your hand, can you hear me?’
Libby stirred again. ‘...can’t be Zoë... don’t leave me.... where’s Patrick?’
‘I’m here.’
‘... don’t like the snakes...’
‘Libs, they aren’t real. There are no snakes. I promise you.’
‘Who is she?’ Dr McNamara asked.
‘Olivia Wilde. She lives next door,’ Malcolm answered.
‘Her next of kin?’
‘They’re in Australia,’ Patrick replied.
‘But she must have someone here.’ Duncan McNamara placed an avuncular hand on Libby’s head.
‘She has me,’ Patrick said, his voice sounding more authoritative than it ever had. ‘Do you think she’ll be okay?’
Libby babbled a little more, none of it making any sense, but all of it more animated than earlier. Finally, she turned her head, her eyes opening.
‘Patrick?’
‘I’m here.’ He couldn’t stop a smile. Okay, she wasn’t out of the woods, but the drugs were working. Thank you, Grace.
‘Is it really you?’ She turned her head, lifting a hand to his face. ‘Not Jack?’
‘It’s really me.’
‘Are you castrating cows today, or can we catch up on the last sixth months?’
He almost laughed. ‘I think you’re still hallucinating, princess.’
‘We could fuck in–’
‘Shush.’ He held a finger over her lips. ‘Room full of people.’
‘Belladonna can induce quite… provocative delusions,’ Dr McNamara explained. ‘Libby, can you hear me?’
She nodded, but cowered into Patrick. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re okay, Libs.’ Patrick held her close. ‘This is Doctor McNamara.’
‘Please don’t leave me,’ she whispered, her eyes widening. ‘No cold Patrick. I don’t like the snakes.’
‘There are no snakes and I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Zoë’s been taken over by the snakes.’ Libby started scratching her arm, shaking her head. ‘Big red snakes. They’ve eaten Zoë. The snakes have eaten Zoë. It’s not Zoë any more. She’s changed. It’s not her–’
‘Libby?’ Patrick stopped her hands. ‘You’re safe, with me. Zoë’s not here. Just me. Patrick.’
She relaxed again.
‘Keep her talking,’ Dr McNamara instructed. ‘Grace, can you get her some water, please?’
Patrick leant on the table, holding Libby’s hand, stroking her hair. ‘Remember the night we had dinner?’
She nodded.
‘I had a great time and when you’re feeling better, I want to do it again.’
She smiled.
For ten minutes, while Dr McNamara monitored her, Patrick kept her awake, calm and semi-lucid with tales of the last few months. They relived the steak and dauphinoise night, the bike ride and the night they made cheese on toast. Finally, he got it. She wasn’t a nearly, or an almost, she was a sledgehammer.
And he loved her.
* * *
Libby’s throat hurt, her head throbbed and even the dim winter light pained her eyes, but she lifted her head, trying to make sense of her surroundings – antiseptic, beeping machines, a woman in a blue uniform opening the blinds... She was in hospital?
‘Sorry to wake you, but it’s seven o’clock,’ said the nurse, her plump face breaking into a comforting smile as she offered Libby a glass of water. ‘They said you’d be thirsty. I’m Katy. Do you know where you are?’
‘Hospital?’ Libby croaked, in between mouthfuls of blissfully icy water.
Katy nodded. ‘There’s not much waking him, is there? How are you feeling?’
‘Confused.’ Him? Libby glanced down. The mop of black curls resting on the bed shocked her more than waking up in the hospital. ‘Has he been here long?’
‘Long?’ Katy laughed. ‘He hasn’t left your side since they brought you in. It’s no wonder the poor lamb’s still dead to the world. I reckon he’s been up most of the night. If you came round, he’d be there, talking you down from the ceiling.’
‘Really?’
Katy smiled at him. ‘He’s had a few pulses racing, I can tell you. Mine included. Do you remember what happened, love?’
Libby shook her head, sipping more of the water, but fuzzy memories were coming back, the ones of red snakes not fuzzy enough.
Zoë.
Zoë had red hair.
‘They said someone gave you deadly nightshade. You’re lucky to be alive, love.’
Zoë.
Zoë had poisoned her. Zoë had given Fee the ketamine. Zoë had pushed Maggie down the stairs.
Not Zoë. It couldn’t have been Zoë.
‘It was in the elderflower wine.’
‘Intentionally?’ Katy’s eyes sparkled, even if she sounded blasé.
Libby looked at the nurse for a second, then shook her head. ‘A mistake. She’s my best friend.’ Why was she defending Zoë?
Katy smiled at Patrick. ‘They said she rang him and he gave you the antidote, probably saved your life, but the official line is the motorbike doc administered it. A and E pumped your stomach, then they gave you a sedative and brought you up here. If you need anything, just press your red button. Breakfast will be here in thirty minutes.’
Libby rolled over as Katy left, but Patrick was still fast asleep. Wanting to go back to sleep herself, Libby closed her eyes for a moment, but the snakes leapt into her face. Gingerly, she touched Patrick’s arm. He didn’t wake. He had to be exhausted if he’d been up all night. She really shouldn’t wake him. Then again, she didn’t want to have nightmares about snakes. A little less gingerly, she shook his shoulder. Finally, he looked up, his eyes softening, crinkling at the corners as he smiled.
‘You okay?’ he asked, so quietly it was almost a whisper.
Libby nodded. ‘The nurse has been filling me in on what happened.’
‘Katy?’ he asked through a yawn. ‘She has the hots for me.’
‘I gathered.’ Libby smiled, watching as he helped himself to her water, loving it when he stretched and treated her to a snippet of bare abdomen between his jeans and jumper. ‘She also said you saved my life.’
‘You know me, can’t stop looking out for you.’ He leant on the bed again, his chin resting on his folded arms. ‘Technically, my dad gave you the drugs, but since you didn’t die, I don’t mind
taking the credit.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you remember much?’
‘Too much.’
Patrick nibbled his thumbnail. ‘Libs, you said some pretty crazy things last night.’
Her cheeks flushed, vaguely aware she may have suggested a little hallway action. ‘I was hallucinating.’
‘You were, but…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Did Zoë steal my ketamine? Did she give it to Fee?’
‘Has anyone claimed she did?’
‘Yes. You did, last night.’
‘Just me?’ Not the police?
‘Just you. What’s going on?’
Ed hadn’t told anyone.
‘Libs?’
She pushed a curl off his face. God, it was good to see him again. At times, back in London, she felt she never would, but he looked so tired. Stubble darkened his chin and shadows blackened his eyes. ‘You should go home. Get some rest.’
He shook his head. ‘Not happening. Besides, Grace’ll only make me castrate the cats I didn’t get done yesterday.’
With a weary hand, Libby beckoned him closer and when his face hovered beside hers, she kissed him, her lips gently pressing against his. Just for a moment, he kissed her back.
‘You scared me.’ He smiled, resting his forehead against hers. ‘But you know one perk of this whole drama? The nurses cleaned off the black crap.’
Libby’s cheeks flushed. Surely, she must look worse than she felt after a rough night on a cocktail of drugs and having her stomach pumped.
‘Pretty Libby.’ Patrick stroked her fringe back, kissing her again.
Libby closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of his woody aftershave. Was this Hot Patrick because of the situation, or had something changed?
‘Libby? Oh–’ Katy stood in the doorway, grinning. ‘Put her down, she’s supposed to be resting.’
‘Katy, your timing’s rubbish,’ Patrick said, ‘but I’ll forgive you for a coffee. Libs likes tea.’
Katy pretended to cuff him around the head as she smiled at a giggling Libby.
‘He’s a cheeky one, but I wish all my patients came with their own nurse. Must be nice having a boyfriend like that. I doubt my Dan would sit with me all night.’ She headed for the door, oblivious to the atmosphere she’d created.
Patrick had obediently let go of Libby, but not before she’d caught the fleeting moment of wide-eyed panic flashing in his eyes. Boyfriend. He’d freaked at the word. Sighing, Libby sat up, sitting cross-legged. Nothing had changed.
‘Oh, that’s what I came in for,’ Katy said. ‘Police are here, so is your lawyer with some journalist. Who do you want to see first?’
‘The police?’ Libby’s eyes widened, staring at Patrick. ‘What should I–’
‘You want the lawyer. It’ll be Scott.’
Libby nodded to Katy. ‘Send him in.’
Patrick was right; Scott came in, suited and booted.
‘It’s New Year’s Eve. Don’t you ever take a day off?’ Patrick asked, back-slapping his friend.
‘This is for your sake.’ Scott faux-punched him. ‘I want Wray to know we mean business.’
‘Is he buying it?’ Patrick said.
‘What are you two talking about?’ Libby asked.
‘Sorry, Libby.’ Scott came over, perching on her bed. ‘Clara’s coming to see you later. How are you feeling?’
‘Like my best friend poisoned me.’ She managed a smile. ‘Pretty okay, considering. What’s going on with Michael Wray? Why’s he here?’
Scott opened his briefcase and took out a document. ‘Are you fully in charge of your senses again?’
Libby nodded.
‘We’ve a proposal for you,’ Scott said. ‘Bored housewives around the country are dying to hear about the Broken Ballerina and Michael Wray is prepared to barter for the exclusive.’
Libby shook her head. ‘There’s no way I’d–’
‘It’s leverage. You give Wray the Broken Ballerina story and he promises not to publish a single word about you or Patrick for the next six months, including what’s happened over the last month. If he does, the Gazette has to pay fifty grand to Haverton Animal Rescue. The last part was Patrick’s idea. He thought you’d approve. What do you think?’
Oh, she’d sign the contract. Crikey, even if Patrick hadn’t saved her life, she’d do anything to protect him, but what did it mean, him asking her to do this? She glanced across to him, but he stared resolutely at the floor. If the coast were clear, could they have a real relationship? She uttered a silent, prayer, as Scott asked for Wray to come in.
And there he was. Michael Wray.
He was a small grey-haired nothing of a man, the kind of man she’d walk past on the street and never notice, but God, did his eyes burn. They were alive, taking everything in. And wasn’t that his gift – being able to hide in his own skin but witness everything you did.
‘My wife’s a huge fan,’ Wray said, offering his hand. ‘Loves the painting.’
She shook it, but only through ingrained politeness. ‘Do you mean it? You won’t write about him?’
‘I only want stories, Miss Wilde. You’re the biggest story right now.’
Libby looked to Scott. ‘You’ve got his back, right?’
Please, promise me you do.
‘Always,’ Scott said, before his six-figure corporate lawyer eyes focussed on her. ‘And you?’
Libby took the pen and signed, but as she did a niggle popped into her head. If Patrick knew he could go out with Libby without worrying about the paper, then why had he panicked when Katy uttered the word boyfriend? Was this the return of Cold Patrick?
As Michael Wray left, a photo-shoot and interview set for two days’ time at Jane’s studio, Scott fastened the contracts back in his briefcase. ‘The police are waiting. They’ll ask Patrick to leave while they question you, but would you like me to stay? I’m no criminal defence expert, but–’
‘Yes, please,’ Libby said, truly grateful.
‘Lie down,’ Scott instructed her. ‘You may as well play up the weak and vulnerable angle.’
For twenty minutes, the two officers asked endless and largely pointless questions. The ones concerning Patrick were easy. Libby could remember little, the little she could remember was fragmented and the bits she could make sense of, she didn’t intend to share with the police in case it implicated Patrick in some wrong-doing. The questions regarding Zoë proved trickier. Libby knew she ought to tell them about Maggie, but she kept picturing a seven year-old girl, starving in the cupboard under the stairs.
‘Miss Wilde, do you have any idea why Miss Horton might have given you the deadly nightshade?’
‘She’s my best-friend. I doubt she did it on purpose.’ Libby crossed her fingers underneath the sheets, ignoring Scott’s valiant effort not to look astonished. ‘Her great-aunt would lace elderflower wine with belladonna, maybe there was a bottle of it in the house. Do you know where Zoë’s gone?’
Both officers shifted uncomfortably.
‘Mr McBride said she sounded like she was at an airport,’ one said, ‘but there’s no Zoë Horton listed on any flights.’
What were the bets that Zoë had a new passport, a new passport using her birth certificate? They’d need to look for Zoë Keeley, her original birth name. Libby struggled not to smile and hoping for a distraction, she pressed the tube in her hand against the bed, sending a bolt of pain up her arm.
‘Libby, you’ve gone grey,’ Scott said, leaning on the bed. ‘Are you okay?’
She turned her head, smiling. ‘I’m just a little tired.’
With that, Scott stood up and the police officers thanked her for her time. Libby barely listened as the officers said it sounded like a genuine accident, but when Miss Horton returned from her holiday, they would like to speak to her. Libby nodded, staring out of the window, guilt lying heavily on her shoulders. She should’ve told them the truth – not just about the belladonna, but about Maggie and Fee. She hadn
’t just distracted them or omitted a few details, she’d lied. Why?
Because I’ve got her back.
‘You’re quiet,’ Patrick said.
Libby frowned. ‘Says you. That’s the first thing you’ve said to me in an hour.’
He turned the Land Rover into the Green, his jaw twitching. ‘You were too busy turning down offers for places to stay.’
A fair point. Her morning had been one steady stream of visitors. Grace had been the first, with a bag of clean clothes for Libby and a repeated offer of a room in her house, swiftly followed by Robbie and Vanessa, who’d brought Patrick’s car. They begged Libby to move in with them – an idea Libby laughed off, claiming they only wanted a babysitter.
‘So are you leaving?’ Patrick asked as he pulled up outside his house. ‘Gosthwaite, I mean.’
‘Would you want me to stay?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what would happen?’
‘We’d go out.’
‘And then what?’
He sighed. ‘Why does there have to be a then what?’
Nothing had changed. Libby went to open the door, too tired to cry, but her hand stopped on the handle. Outside Maggie’s cottage, sitting on the bonnet of a silver Jaguar, was Seamus Doyle.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Patrick asked.
Libby closed her eyes. How could she tell Seamus that his illegitimate daughter murdered the love of his life? ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Ooh, Olivia Wilde used the F-word.’
Despite everything, she smiled. ‘I think I’ve used it once or twice before.’
‘Like on Christmas Eve?’ He raised his eyebrows with fake innocence.
She swatted his arm. ‘Look, I really need to talk to him.’
‘You really need to talk to me.’ He leaned on the steering wheel. At least his twitching jaw had gone if his concerned frown hadn’t. ‘Should I wait?’
She shook her head. ‘Go and put the kettle on. I won’t be long.’
Libby climbed out of the car, wishing she could follow Patrick into his house. Maybe he was right, maybe there didn’t have to be a then what.
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