‘Hello, Miss Wilde,’ Seamus said.
She sat next to him, steeling herself. Seamus deserved to know the truth and maybe he’d be the one person who could help Zoë. ‘She’s not here, I’m afraid.’
Seamus glanced around the Green, not looking remotely disappointed. ‘Do you have my photograph, Olivia?’
‘The photo?’ Libby stared at him, crossing her arms. ‘Is that why you came here? You travelled three hundred miles for the photo?’
‘It means a lot to me.’
‘And your daughter? Doesn’t she mean a lot to you?’ Libby’s skin crawled. He didn’t deserve to know a damned thing about Zoë.
‘It’s the only photo I have left of Maggie and me. Lucinda burned the rest.’
‘But you have another daughter, right?’
Seamus frowned. ‘Zoë has two perfectly good parents.’
Libby stood up, shaking her head. ‘She also has the photo. I’d watch my back if I were you, Mr Doyle.’
* * *
Patrick slumped against the front door, nausea taking over his body. Why the hell did there have to be then what? He couldn’t do this. He really couldn’t. A meow from the living room pulled him back to reality and Patrick went to see Hyssop who sat curled up in front of the fire, where he’d spent most of Christmas.
Crouching down, Patrick stroked him, letting the rhythmic purr relax him. For hours, Patrick had watched over Libby, praying she’d be okay. He loved her. Christ, the day before, he’d seen Paolo’s painting, the Fixed Ballerina, and come to terms with moving to London, so why did then what send him running? He just had to persuade her to stay.
‘And I expect you to help, pal.’
After he’d let Isla out into the back garden, Patrick peeked out of the window, checking on Libby. She was still chatting to Seamus Doyle, so he dashed upstairs to brush his teeth. He toyed with the idea of a shower, but made do with swapping his jumper for one he hadn’t been wearing for the last twenty-four hours – he had to talk to Libby sooner, not later. He had to make this right.
Doyle’s car had gone. Why hadn’t Libby come in?
Downstairs, Hyssop sat in the window, tapping his claw against the glass, something he only did when Libby was in the cottage. In the dim light of the cold December day, Patrick could just make out a forlorn figure sitting in the bay window. She shouldn’t have gone in there by herself. Whistling for Isla to follow him, Patrick picked up Hyssop and headed over to Maggie’s cottage. The door was ajar, but he knocked gently.
‘Libs?’
‘Come in.’
She sat, hugging her knees, a photo frame in one hand and tears rolling down her cheeks. Even Isla jumping up to say hello didn’t raise a smile. Patrick sat beside her and handed her Hyssop. If anyone could cheer her up, it’d be the cat. Patrick took the photo – it was one of her and Zoë, in their teens, both in tutus, stood on their toes, an arm around each other’s waist.
‘What chance did she have?’ Libby said, her voice muffled as she hugged Hyssop. ‘Her mother gave her away, her parents ignored her pleas to let her spend summers at home, and her father couldn’t give a damn. He came here to get a photo I had, not to see Zoë.’
‘He’s her father? Do you mean–’
‘Maggie was Zoë’s mother.’
It all made sense. Why hadn’t he seen it? They looked so alike, for Christ’s sake. ‘Libby, what did Zoë do?’
‘It’s better you don’t know.’ Libby kissed Hyssop. ‘I didn’t tell the police. I lied to them. I said it was an accident.’
‘Poisoning you, or pushing Maggie down the stairs?’
Libby didn’t answer.
‘The thing is,’ Patrick said, ‘I think you told me last night. About Fee?’
She nodded.
Jesus Christ.
‘But it’s not just black and white, is it?’ Libby let Hyssop jump down. ‘Like when Grace gave me the emerald pendant. She nearly ruined your life, but you forgave her.’
‘This isn’t the same. Zoë nearly killed you.’
‘I know, but not intentionally.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘She murdered Maggie, or at least assisted in her death, and she sold the ketamine to Fee.’
‘But you’re protecting her?’ What happened to his moralistic Libby, the one who wouldn’t turn a blind eye?
‘What difference would it make if I told the police? Nobody forced Fee to take the drugs and Maggie… well, let’s be honest, this is all her fault.’
‘How is it Maggie’s fault?’
‘She did this. She damaged Zoë years ago. When our flat was broken into last Christmas, Zoë needed her birth certificate to get a new passport.’
‘And she found out Maggie was her mum?’
Libby nodded. ‘Can you imagine what that did to Zoë’s head? This was the woman who cultivated an eating disorder in her, who used to hit her around the ankles with a walking stick and lock her under the stairs. After you went blackberry picking that time, Maggie didn’t let Zoë eat anything for two days.’
Patrick leant against the window. Zoë had been seven. It was child abuse and her parents wouldn’t listen.
If I’m ever a dad...
Libby looked around the room. ‘I used to feel sorry for Maggie. I thought she was this lonely old lady who’d been forgotten by the world. The truth was she was a total bitch. She slept with her friend’s husband, she wouldn’t help a friend in need and instead of showering a little girl with love, she twisted her until she snapped.’
‘You reap what you sow.’ He reached into his pocket and took out the letter addressed to Libby. ‘Zoë left this for you.’
Libby’s hands shook as she ripped open the envelope and while she read, fat tears splashed onto the paper. Patrick put his arm around her shoulders, resting his head against hers as she let him read the letter too.
Lib, I’m so sorry. I never, ever wanted to hurt you, but you wouldn’t have let me leave. You’re too good, too honest, too right – just what I’ve always needed in my life. I wish I had your strength.
I never meant to do any of this. Please don’t hate me. I really don’t want you to hate me because you’re the only person who ever cared about me. Jonathan didn’t. I loved him, truly loved him. I could’ve been happy with him, I really could, but let’s face it, I don’t deserve a man like him, not after the things I’ve done. But he didn’t care, not really.
The oddest twist of fate is Ed might love me. And you’ll love this. He’s not some penniless writer. He’s worth a fortune so the spell worked – a good shag with money. Be careful what you wish for!
But I don’t deserve to live happily ever after. You do. Let Patrick make you happy.
I love you.
Zx
Ps. I’ve sold the cottage. Got £350k for it, but if you look behind the painting, I left you a gift. Later, ’gator.
‘In a while, ’dile,’ Libby whispered.
The Broken Ballerina stood against the wall and Libby knelt beside it, feeling behind the frame. A smile wavered as she produced the emerald pendant, but she sat twisting the stone between her fingers.
‘I want to hate her for what she’s done,’ Libby said, wiping her cheeks, ‘but I can’t. She’s never been able to rely on anyone, except herself. I tried but even I can’t help her now. I’ve lost my best friend.’
Hyssop meowed, rubbing his head against Libby’s hand, but his affection set Libby off sobbing again.
‘Oh, what are we going to do, Hyss? It’s just me and you.’
Enough. Patrick pulled her to her feet, taking a moment to hug her, to let her cry and to summon the courage he needed for what he was about to say.
‘We’ll find her, Libs. We’ll make sure she’s okay.’ He rested his head on hers. ‘And it’s not… It’s not just you and the cat. You have me too.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I have half of you, the indulgent, hedonistic half.’
This was it, his chance to show she was his first priority. After a deep breath,
he took her hand and led her outside, to the bandstand in the middle of the Green.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered, gazing up at him.
Christ, when she looked at him like that, with her perfume filling his head, Patrick couldn’t breathe and his desire to flee kicked in. It was too much. But he stayed where he was and rested his forehead against hers, trying not to close his eyes. Why was this so hard?
‘Not half of me,’ he said. ‘All of me.’
‘But...’
‘I’m shit-scared, Libs, but… I love you.’
Her eyes widened. ‘What?’
‘I love you.’ He laughed. Actually, it wasn’t so hard. ‘While you were in London, Hyssop made himself right at home. He sits in the armchair by the fire and stares at Isla with utter disdain. Why don’t you make yourself at home too?’
For what felt like five minutes she didn’t smile, or react, she just stared at him. Oh Christ, what if she said no? Gosthwaite, London… did it matter where they were? She just had to say yes.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know you need to go back to London and I wouldn’t want to do it forever, but I know it’s important to you, so… well... I hear they have cows in Surrey.’
‘But I don’t want to go to London,’ she said, her eyes still staring.
‘Don’t lie. I’ve seen Paolo’s new painting. Ballet makes you happier than anything else. I get it.’
‘What painting?’
He took out his phone, showing her the photo of the Fixed Ballerina. At first she frowned, as though confused, but then her cheeks slowly turned pink.
‘I’m not happy in that painting because of ballet. Paolo made me talk about the thing I loved the most.’
Patrick’s heart officially stopped as she stood on tiptoe and held his face with both her hands.
‘He made me talk about you,’ she whispered. ‘I love you. More than ballet.’
In the middle of the Green, they kissed and he hoped to God someone was watching. This was the love of his life and he wanted the world to know.
‘How do you always smell like a rose garden?’ he murmured between kisses.
She dropped her head back, laughing. ‘I’ve spent the night in hospital and I really need a shower. The last thing I smell like is a rose garden.’
‘It’s mental, I know, but you definitely smell of roses and sweet peas.’
‘Roses and sweet peas, really?’ Glancing sheepishly to the sky, she plucked a little red pouch from her jeans pocket. ‘This might sound… but I did this spell in July, to summon my true love.’
He struggled not to laugh. ‘We hadn’t even met.’
‘I summoned someone…’ She took a deep breath, turning adorably pink. ‘Twenty-five to thirty-five, good-looking, non-brown eyes…’
‘That’s half the male population.’
‘Honest, decent morals, good with animals–’
‘Most people are.’
‘And English.’
‘You’re in England. What are the chances?’ But he laughed, remembering the Broken Ballerina evening. ‘So that’s why you freaked out when I said I wasn’t Scottish.’
‘That’s when I knew you were the one I’d summoned.’
‘Weirdo. But what’s with the roses and sweet peas.’
‘They’re the flower petals I burned as part of the spell.’ She opened the ties on the little pouch and emptied the contents, the ash drifting off on the breeze.
‘If you believe in that nonsense, why are you throwing it away?’
‘I didn’t throw it away. I gave it to the wind. It seals the spell.’ She grinned. ‘You’re mine forever now.’
‘Define forever.’ He pulled her to him, trying not to grin.
‘Oh, you know... marriage, kids, dog, cat, crumbling farmhouse.’
To his surprise, his smile grew. ‘Sounds tolerable.’
‘Tolerable?’
He nodded to the house where Isla and Hyssop sat, obediently waiting for them. ‘Well, we’ve got the dog and the cat already.’
‘He’s not your cat.’
‘No, he’s our cat. I told you I wouldn’t rely on plying you with booze.’
Chapter Forty-Two
As the monsoon eased, Zoë opened up her laptop and sipped her rum and soda. Bajan rum, was there anything better?
On Facebook, she logged in as Angelique Balletfreak and scanned through Ed’s latest messages. He was still in Barcelona. He’d found her within a week on Facebook and nearly caught up with her within a month in real life, but for over six months she’d stayed one step ahead. Funny, she didn’t need to – she wasn’t on the run. Neither Libby nor Ed had gone to the police, it seemed, but keeping Ed at arm’s length gave Zoë that all-important element of control.
Libby had uploaded a batch of new photos. The house-warming. Jesus, the farmhouse she and Patrick had bought needed about fifty grand throwing at it, but she could see the potential. Their perfect family home.
The photos showed Robbie, Vanessa, Scott, Clara, Xander and Daisy, the usual faces, even Libby’s parents, all smiling and holding glasses of wine in the July sunshine. Zoë paused at a photo of Libby and Patrick. He had his arms around her and his head on her shoulder as they faced the camera. Libby still had the fringe and black eye make-up, but her feet were noticeably bare. Patrick had fixed Olivia Wilde’s neurosis. Another photo showed them crouching beside a spaniel while they cooed over that bloody cat. Zoë smiled, tapping his nose via the screen.
Hello, Hyssop. Considering you hated me, you did me so many favours.
‘Ms Wilde?’ The hotel manager walked up. ‘Your guests have arrived.’
Zoë offered a courteous smile to the manager and a hand to the woman who’d agreed to an interview. ‘Mrs Doyle, I’m Verity. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.’
Like anyone, even a do-gooding, charitable heiress like Lucinda Doyle wouldn’t turn down afternoon tea at Barbados’ most fabulous hotel.
After shaking Zoë’s hand, Lucinda reached up, gently touching one of Zoë’s earrings. ‘Beautiful diamonds.’
Zoë gave a suitably appreciative response, but her eyes were fixed on Seamus Doyle. He seemed awfully pale for someone who’d spent the last month in paradise.
Hello, Daddy. It’s payback time.
‘This way, please,’ the manager said leading them down to the Lower Terrace. ‘Ms Wilde, your photographer is already setting up.’
Photographer? Zoë’s stomach contracted, but she smoothed her hands over her white linen shift. She didn’t have a bloody photographer, which meant either OK magazine had twigged she’d set up an interview in their name, or he… but he wouldn’t just turn up, would he?
Her heels rapped on the pristine marble floor and the photographer looked up from the light meter he held, his blue eyes twinkling.
‘Nice freckles, beautiful.’
The End
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Thank You
When my husband opened the first print copy of #Forfeit, he smiled when he saw I’d dedicated it to him. My daughter opened the second print copy, scowled and said, ‘But this one’s for daddy too.’
Without question, this book’s for Lissie. :) My writing partner in training. Love you. (And Daddy too).
I’d like to thank my fab street team for all their Beta Reading, pimping and generally being awesome cheerleaders. Special thanks go out to Amber, Nikki, Lucy, Kirsty and Alyssa for their nit-picky proofreading – ridiculously tight deadlines on a hefty-assed book? Nailed it. You guys rock.
Tay (Chicks That Read), Amber (Cosying Up With Books), Jo and Rachel (Orchard Book Club) – your brilliant book review blogs/pages have been fabulously supportive of me and my books. I’ll be forever in your debt.
Laura K – Yeah, so you hit hard with reality, I procrastinate for six months then you pick up the job again and set me straight. Heart you. x
Pezza – If I turned you gay, then my work here is done. ;)
Nat, Janny,
Jo – the never-ending writing support crew. Now, if I could just get you all at the same signing at the same time...
And finally, Wattpad’s Eva Lau and Caitlin O’Hanlon. If Caitlin hadn’t stumbled across Distraction and Eva hadn’t given such unwavering support, none of this might’ve happened.
Thank you all so, so much
Caroline
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