Robbie, after the previous evening's wine and chat, was grumpier than ever when she arrived at work making her wonder if he'd discovered who she'd gone out with. But if he had any interest in her date, he didn't show it. He didn't even look up from the paper. Hoping he wasn't cross with her, she collected her list, again longer than the day before, and headed off to feed the horses, hoping she could stay awake until lunchtime - a noble aim since she'd had less than five hours sleep.
Four o'clock passed with no cup of tea, and at five, Libby admitted defeat, dropping the list on the worktop and stifling a yawn. 'Failed.'
Robbie looked up from the pea negotiation he and Matilda were embroiled in and his frown couldn't be worse. When he fired her, would he call her Olivia too? But to her utter surprise, he smiled. He smiled. He wasn't cross. His aftershave wafted over her as he picked up the list, his arm accidentally brushing hers. Why did simply touching him make her blush?
'Late night?' he asked, with a suspiciously innocent tone.
'A bit.'
'And how was the hot date?'
Libby glanced at the floor, trying in vain to hide her burning cheeks. There'd been a moment the night before, when she'd almost relented, when she'd almost caved in and let Andy fuck her in the hallway, up against a wall, just like he'd suggested.
She'd led him to the door, pooh-poohing his suggestion that he could stay, that nothing would happen - she'd heard it all before. But as she leant in to kiss him one final time, he'd gently pressed her against the wall, his knee easing hers apart and Libby's body flared into life. She hadn't been able to breathe as he looked her in the eye and her body pulsed when his fingers threatened to slide her dress up her thighs - that was the moment, but instead of seizing his opportunity, Andy merely kissed her cheek and said goodnight, leaving Libby practically whimpering with unfulfilled lust.
'Hot,' she replied, unable to look at Robbie.
'And who was your hot date?'
'None of your business.'
'Tell me who or you're fired.'
She laughed, her embarrassment fading. 'You can't do that.'
He raised his eyebrows, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of him mouth. 'Who?'
'Andy Chapman.'
The hint disappeared. 'Are you serious?'
She lifted her chin, defying his judgemental scowl, but he merely shook his head and ushered Matilda and Dora into the living room. Libby screwed up the list, throwing it across the worktop where it pinged against two wine glasses. Arse. Had he intended to offer her a glass of wine again? Well, if he had, he clearly wasn't going to now.
She plodded home, thoroughly ashamed because Robbie disapproved of her seeing Andy, but why should he care? It was nothing to do with him. He was her boss, that's all.
At Maggie's cottage, Libby's melancholy fled when she opened the front door and a fresh, heady scent assaulted her. Dozens of peonies, all bunched in little glass vases, lined the hallway. Andy had done more than scrounge a bunch from his mum's garden - this had to be his mum's garden.
Breathing in the bouquet from the prettiest lilac blooms, Libby tiptoed through the vases, laughing and trying to ignore a feeling of déja vu. This is how it started with Paolo, her heart filled with hope - hope that this would be the new love to replace her only love.
After her two days off, most of them spent with Andy, Libby arrived back at the yard with no roots, no purple streaks but a new, Grace-like fringe. Thick and long, it fell into her mascara laden eyes, and when Robbie met her at the door, smiling, she held her hands together, in a pantomime-worthy, angel pose. She peeked out from under the fringe as he looked over her Metallica t-shirt, black denim jodhpurs and dark red nails. If she wasn't mistaken, he looked genuinely pleased to see her. And since he'd barely spoken to her all weekend, she couldn't be happier.
'I don't think you need to worry about angelic first impressions, with or without your roots being done. Have you seen this?' he asked, holding up a copy of the Haverton Gazette.
'What?' She took the paper.
'You're headline news.'
The headline on the front page was Save Our School, but on page fourteen, under the banner of Hatch, Match, Despatch was a photo of Libby and Andy kissing on his doorstep.
Allo, Allo, Allo. PC Andrew Chapman with friend, Olivia Wilde, 26, groom at Low Wood Farm.
He had his hands on her bum and the kiss left no suggestion to how friendly their relationship was. Bugger, it was worse. Milk bottles were on the step; to the world it looked like she was about to start a walk of shame. Oh god, no.
'You were supposed to play hard to get,' Robbie said, heading back inside.
'I am hard to get.'
'Clearly.' He put the kettle on, trying hard to fight a grin.
How could she explain she wasn't like that, that to Andy's irritation, he'd barely copped a feel of her boobs. 'FYI, it was Monday afternoon, nothing untoward.'
'Libby! Libby! Libby!' Matilda and Dora came running in, each stopping to hug one of her legs.
'Apparently, they missed you.' Robbie smiled with affection at his daughters.
'If this is all they have to write about, it must be a slow news day.' Libby sat down only to have a small child clamber onto each knee.
'All the news is slow around here. I'm surprised you don't have the front page.'
'But why's the local paper publishing gossip? Does it think it's The Sun?' She stared at the photos.
'They started adding the odd bit of sensationalism last year. The editor, Michael Wray, used to work for the News of the World. The paper's been rather dull since Patrick went away, but you and that bloody copper have perked things up a bit.'
'Oh my god, I really did need to get my roots done, but my bum looks awesome in that dress.'
'How the hell did you meet that untrustworthy bastard anyway?'
'Small children present.'
'They've heard much worse.'
'He's Sheila's son. We met, he asked me out, I said yes.'
'You should've said no.'
She folded the paper, her cheeks burning as Robbie shook his head, scowling at her. I'm an adult. I can go out with who I like. But, please, don't hate me.
'And how is Mr Chapman?'
'A very good cook.'
He raised his eyebrows.
'Seriously, he is. He made spaghetti. From scratch.'
'It's astonishing. He protects the village from teenagers drinking cheap cider in the park and knocks up homemade pasta.'
'Astonishing.'
'Did he whisk you away for a couple of days? Paris or Rome?'
'Ha, ha.'
'Just remember he's an untrustworthy bastard.' He shook his head again as he handed her a tea and the day's list. 'Zoe came to the Mill on Saturday, with Greg.'
'She said the food was incredible.'
'They looked awfully cosy, pretty public too.'
She frowned at the first item on the list, Tidy up again. Sorry. 'You've left the yard in a pigsty?'
'You try finishing up with two small children helping.'
She gave an exaggerated sigh, making him laugh, before she headed out to the yard. The girls had missed her; he'd missed her. Low Wood Farm was where she belonged. As she paused to pull on her boots, she heard Robbie muttering to himself.
'Bloody PC Andy...'
Sweet of you to care, Mr Golding.
She didn't know why he cared, but knowing he did gave her a bigger smile than dozens of peonies had.
That evening, Libby stepped into the cottage down from the post office, twitching with nervous energy. This was it - the fifth date. By her rules, she'd played hard to get, Andy had endeared himself to her with home-cooked meals, a hand-holding, Sunday evening walk up to Black Fell Tarn and crikey he could kiss. Just thinking about how he would pull her to him and gently bite her bottom lip had her eager for more. A lot more.
'Hello, beautiful.' Andy lay stretched out on the sofa, reading a book.
Since he didn't make a move to get up, she lay next to him and relaxed into the slow kiss as his hand stroked her back.
'Have you had a good day off?' she asked, resting her head on his shoulder.
'Yeah, met up with Holly for lunch.'
Oh. She took his novel, refusing to succumb to jealousy. Possession by A.S. Byatt. 'I read this at sixth form.'
One sunny, Sunday afternoon, she and James Rothwell-Burton had sat on the banks of the Thames. He'd brought wine and she'd brought her ballerina body since that's all he'd been interested in. Six months they lasted. He was fun. While she'd read, his hand had explored under her top.
'Did you see the paper?' Andy's hand wandered down, drifting to the hem of her dress.
She nodded. 'You made me famous.'
'Like it?'
'No.'
His eyes glinted. 'Liar.'
Bugger. 'It was a little fun, but I don't like being famous.'
'Still worried what people might think?'
'Not even slightly.' She hoped she'd escape the lie by moving to sit astride him, the same move she'd made on that river bank. She hadn't cared what people thought back then.
'I'm off early next week. Want to go away for a couple of days?'
'Paris or Rome?'
'Cities are too hot this time of year.' His eyes widened as she slid up his t-shirt, kissing his perfect abs. 'How about the Dales?'
'In a B and B that we never leave?' she asked, popping open the buttons on his jeans.
'Libby, what are you doing?' A tentative smile crept across his face.
'Fifth date rule.' She shot him a wink.
He'd showered so much attention on her over the last few days; it was time to return the favour. For twenty minutes, she tortured him with tiny kisses, her hands stroking, her tongue toying, keeping him on the brink for as long as she could.
'Jesus Christ...' His eyes were still closed, his fingers gripping the sofa. 'For fuck's sake, Holly.'
Libby sat up, wiping her mouth. 'What?'
*
Michael Wray picked up his phone. 'I like her. Get me more.'
'She's actually pretty dull. What about her mate? Did you get the photos of her and Greg Foxon-Jones?'
'Ah, forget her, the sheila's too prim. Makes it too hard to take the mental leap that she'd really do the shit we're suggesting. Olivia Wilde though... she looks like a hell raiser. All we need to do is hint at bad behaviour. It's too fucking easy, mate.'
'I'll see what I can do.'
Michael Wray hung up, smiling at the photo of Miss Wilde's legs. Shame they couldn't get away with Page Three.
*
By five o'clock, the rain had stopped, the sun breaking through but Libby remained buried under her coat, still sweeping the yard. When Robbie came out, she leant on the brush handle, barely able to look at him. This was it, the moment she'd lose her job. She'd arrived twenty minutes late that morning, exhausted after a massive argument with Andy, a bottle of wine with Zoe and a largely sleepless night. Since Robbie was usually so bloody grumpy in the morning, she'd expected him to sack her on the spot, but he'd closed the Land Rover door, merely frowning at her as he drove away.
'The yard's clean. Come on.' And he headed for the garden.
The fact he had two glasses of wine suggested he wasn't sacking her - at least, no one had handed her a glass of red with her P45 in the past. Taking a deep breath to summon a little bravery, she hung up the yard brush and followed him.
This would be the second post-work drink they'd had in the garden and he couldn't have made a better choice. Libby loved the idyllic, if a little unkempt setting. Beside the French doors into the living room, Robbie sat on the chair-swing where he could keep an eye on his daughters who were watching TV and eating berries. One day, Libby would have something like this, although she'd mow the lawn and the scarecrow wouldn't be at forty-five degrees to the weeds he protected. One day.
Robbie patted the swing beside him and handed her a glass. 'Okay, out with it. What did that bastard do?'
She curled up, hugging her knees. 'He called me Holly. At the worst possible time. She's his ex-wife.'
Robbie stretched out his legs, shaking his head. 'What did you do?'
'Swore at him, listened to his pathetic excuses, yelled at him a bit more and walked out, slamming the door.' She sipped the wine, a rich Merlot. 'He said it was a mistake. Bloody liar. He had lunch with her yesterday.'
'He wants her back?'
'He said he just wants to be friends with her, but I'd say so.' The admission elicited a couple of fat tears.
'He's not worth it.'
'I know.' But the tears still fell. 'It's just, he made me feel...'
'Christ, don't tell me you love him?'
'Of course not, but he made me feel second best. That hurts.'
Robbie nodded. 'Now will you listen when I tell you to stay away from unsuitable, untrustworthy types?'
'Why don't you just go ahead and say I told you so?' She wiped her eyes. 'Know any suitable types?'
He laughed a little, but didn't offer any suggestions.
'You don't have any single friends,' she asked.
Grinning into his glass, he shook his head.
'Really, not any, half-decent single friends? No, chefs at the restaurant?
'All completely unsuitable and untrustworthy.'
She swatted his arm, smiling for the first time that day. 'Sorry for being late this morning.'
'Obviously, it's never to happen again, but under the circumstances, I'll let you off.'
She lit a cigarette and sighed. 'Life must be so much easier when you're married with kids.'
He laughed, but with no humour.
'What?' she asked. 'You have the perfect life.'
His smile fell as he leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. The silence grew, but Libby refused to break it, knowing he'd be debating telling her. She sipped her wine.
'I think Vanessa's shagging the viola player in the string quartet. And if she's not, then it's only a matter of time until she does.'
'Oh.' Libby took a slow breath. 'And why do you think she's shagging the viola player in the string quartet?'
'How come you took Shakespeare out today? I asked you to take Storm out.'
'Shakes cheers me up.' She shifted to sit cross-legged, her knee an inch or so from his thigh. 'You're avoiding my question.'
'I am.' He still stared at the grass.
'Hey, I just told you the last guy I almost slept with had his eyes closed thinking about his ex-wife. Misery adores company. Out with it.'
And he did something that surprised her. He sat back and told her everything. He explained how Vanessa had taken up the cello again, twelve years after she'd stopped playing, and seemed to lose interest in everything else around her. First, the garden suffered, then her friends and eventually, her family. And when she landed a place in the string quartet, the constant practice, the frequent evenings at rehearsals and the never-ending calls to Jason for advice, drove her further and further away.
'The worst of it,' Robbie said, lighting yet another of her cigarettes, 'is how happy she is. It's as if we bore her and only that wanker who plays the viola can make her smile.'
'Have you spoken to her about it?'
He gave a derisory laugh. 'Argued about it? Yes.'
'Then why did you let her go on tour?'
'It's her dream. I'm not going to stop her.'
'So you have no evidence, just paranoia?'
He nodded.
'You should trust her. She must be trusting you.'
For the first time, he faced her, his frown growing, and Libby blushed. Crikey, she hadn't meant herself. Surely, he must know loads of beautiful women. Look at Clara. The moment passed and he resumed his study of the grass.
'I'm not sure she cares anymore.'
'What's he like, the wanker who plays the viola?'
'One of those talented, good-looking, charming sorts. And he's French.'
'Sounds awful.' Libby struggled not to giggle.
'But he has a ponytail.'
'Is it a very long ponytail? Do you think he's compensating for something?' She elbowed him and to her delight, he laughed.
How the hell could his wife be even considering playing around? Robbie was... well, he was perfect. Libby drained her glass, wishing there were another tall, dark, funny, sexy guy in the village - one just like Robbie, but single. There was. Andy.
'I should go,' she said, her mood sinking as she handed Robbie her glass. Wouldn't it be lovely to stay and polish of a bottle, drowning her sorrows with him? But they both stood up, their chat over. 'Thanks for the shoulder.'
To her astonishment, his arms wrapped around her and Libby fought the urge to hug him back, knowing if she did, she might act utterly in appropriately. He was being friendly, not trying anything on, but try telling that to her hormones.
'You'll be okay, Lib.'
The muscles in his arms tensed as he kissed the top of her head and when he released her, she focussed on her boots, unable to look at him. If she did, she knew what she was feeling would be written all over her face. It was official - she fancied the pants off him.
'Night.' She walked away, reaching the far side of the garden before she dared to peek back. She'd intended to shout goodbye or thank you, but he was sitting on the swing again, his hands behind his head as he stared at her, frowning slightly. She stared back. Oh god, did he feel the same?
No, no, no. He was married, regardless of what his wife was doing. Libby strode across the yard, getting as far from him as possible. She had to stop thinking like this. She had to find a boyfriend, not a married man or one who wanted his ex-wife, a real boyfriend.
Back at home, she reached under her bed, feeling for the Spell Book. Would Maggie have any spells to ward off lust? She flicked to her bookmark, only a quarter of the way through, the point where she'd reached with her reading. She'd devoured Chocolat in days, but the spell book was heavier going, sometimes requiring Google translations to begin to understand what the Latin pages contained.
Using random luck to guide her, she flicked through the remaining three quarters, landing at a retribution charm. Tempting to use against Andy, but not her style and the Wiccan motto was: If it hurt none, do what you will. She skipped forward a handful of pages. Summon Your True Love. Oh, hello. The spell looked easy enough, a bit of candle burning, some flower petals, a little bag and make a list of your ideal man's traits. Easy. She could imagine him nothing like Robbie. At the top of the page, in what she'd come to assume was Maggie's handwriting, was a note: Imp! Grounding a must before performing.
Grounding? Hadn't she read about that a few nights ago? Marking the page, she flicked towards the front of the folder, searching for the lengthy Wiccan meditation instructions. If she was going to do this, she ought to do it properly.
Libby showered and changed into a cotton vest and linen trousers then, wearing no make-up, perfume or jewellery, she stood barefoot on the lawn and closed her eyes, recalling the instructions she'd tried to memorise.
Her toes wiggled in the grass and she shifted her weight, focussing on sending her breath down into the ground beneath her, spreading it like roots amongst the bugs and worms. As she mentally reached the core, to the Earth Goddess, Libby sent down the feelings she wanted rid of - her attraction to Robbie, her anger at Andy, then she imagined feeling the energy from the Earth coming back up, past the worms and bugs, rising through her body.
Feeling faintly ridiculous but justifying it as no different to yoga and she'd done that for years, Libby sent her energy up to the sky. And after a similar ritual swapping energy with the Sun Star, she found herself in an unending chain. With each in-breath she sent energy from the Earth Goddess up to the Sun Star, and on her out-breath, the energy fell from the sky back through her body and down to the Earth.
A few breaths later, Libby's feet started tingling. Had she hyperventilated? She crouched down, touching the ground, closing her eyes and taking a moment.
'Blessed be,' she whispered.
Well, that was weird. She studied her feet, all fine now. Actually, she felt fine too, but then meditative breathing had always relaxed her. The Earth Goddesses part might be a little too hocus pocus to take seriously but then again, how had she ever taken her fling with Andy seriously? His betrayal didn't matter. Of course it didn't. She barely knew him and she certainly didn't love him. And she and Robbie might be attracted to each other, but he wasn't the cheating type and, more importantly, she wasn't the home-wrecking type.
Satisfied, she sat cross-legged on the grass, in the same central spot on the lawn, and lit a red candle. Okay, ideal man traits: good looks, 25-35, nice eyes (but not brown), honest.
She wrote them on a torn piece of chintz wallpaper - more parchment-like than A4 notepaper, she'd decided. That should do it. She burned the list with a handful of red rose petals, tipping the cooled ashes into a small red silk pouch she'd found in Maggie's magic box. Molten wax sealed the bag and the spell.
'Blessed be,' she whispered, again touching the ground.
Hyssop watched from the patio and, if she didn't know better, she'd swear he was smiling.