Distraction

Chapter Three

'She's playing the cello, not him.' Scott stretched. 'He's got a ponytail, for Christ's sake. As if she would.'  

But Robbie still scowled.  

Looking for a change of subject, Patrick studied the dark circles under Scott's eyes. 'I went to bed at four. What's your excuse for looking like shit?' 

'Work, a telecoms buyout. And Will likes to party as late as you. He's his mother's son.' 

'Don't blame me. You were watching the cricket.' Scott's wife, Clara, joined them, setting a baby monitor on the table. 'He's finally gone down. If he wakes up, it's your turn.' 

Patrick slugged his beer, happily eyeing Clara's long lean legs, capped by tatty denim cut-offs. If only all primary school teachers were five-nine, blonde Scarlet Johansson lookalikes. Fit as, but been there, done that and now she was Scott's wife so strictly off limits. 

'Got any paracetamol?' Patrick asked her, praying she would.  

Clara perched on Scott's knee and delved into her vast bag, pushing aside nappies and baby wipes as she frowned at Patrick. 'You look like crap.' 

'I love you too.' But he meant it when she produced a pack of Anadin Extra. 

'And how's my favourite Musketear?' She fluttered her eyelashes at Robbie with exaggerated innocence. 'Ready to whisk me away from all this?'  

'You'd run a mile if I asked.' Robbie gave her a wink. 

Patrick knocked back two pills with a mouthful of lager. He hadn't heard anyone call them the old nickname in years. Scott must've confessed. The Musketears - infamous for watching each other's backs and leaving broken-hearted girls in their wake. Those were the days.  

Out of habit, he evaluated the females at the party. Amongst the usual village faces, only a few fit the twenty to thirty-five demographic, but he wouldn't want to see any of them in the morning. Although... a pretty blonde by the pond had potential. She seemed a little austere in her prim white dress with her hair in a severe bun, but the way she toyed with her straw, rolling it between her dark plum lips, had him take a second look.  

'Who's Grace Kelly?' he asked Robbie. 

'Amber something. She's with Marcus.'  

'Don't be fooled by the respectable exterior,' Clara said. 'From what I've heard, she's a ho-bag. She was last year's Miss Haverton.' 

'A ho-bag beauty queen?' Patrick nodded. 'I could go for that.'  

'What you should go for,' Clara said, giving him her stern, school-teacher frown, 'is a single sexy blonde, not Marcus' or anyone else's. Get a girlfriend of your own. You might like it.' 

The hypocrisy of Clara nagging him was almost amusing. She'd spent most of her life shagging around but the minute she got married, she expected him to do the same. Sod that. Patrick concentrated on last year's Miss Haverton as she glanced around, double-backing when she spotted him already watching her. A smile played at the corner of those perfectly pouty lips.  

Hello, princess. You might be with Marcus but maybe I can have you too. 

'I bet she would though,' he said to Clara. 

'Don't be ridiculous. She's with Marcus.'  

'And?'  

'You think she's going to ditch him for you? Marcus is twenty-four, half-Italian and a millionaire. You're a vet. You shove your arm up cows' bums.'  

'And?' Patrick smiled as Clara cast a disdainful eye over his ten year old t-shirt, threadbare, ripped at the knee jeans and battered shell-toes.