On Wednesday, Libby almost skipped into the yard, planning to make a cup of tea before she fed the horses. What she hadn't planned on was World War III breaking out. Tallulah's screaming quietened to a low sobbing, but Libby approached the house with caution. Had Robbie denied Tallulah another pony, or was this about getting her ears pierced again?
In the kitchen, when Tallulah turned, her hands clenching and unclenching, Libby knew the tears and shouting weren't another petulant pre-teen demand.
'You were supposed to be my friend, you fucking whore.'
'Lulu,' Robbie snapped.
'Fuck off,' she spat back at him. 'You and mum were special. Now, you're just like everyone else, a fucking divorce statistic.'
Libby stared at Tallulah, unable to defend herself of her actions. 'I'm sorry.'
'I fucking hate both of you.' Tallulah ran out, slamming the door behind her.
Robbie stared at the door, his face emotionless. 'I think it's fair to say she's mastered the use of the word fucking.'
Libby slumped against the table. 'I'd never thought about Tallulah. How it'd affect her, what she'd think. Who told her?'
'You haven't seen it?' Robbie looked up to the ceiling, before pointing to the newspaper on the table. 'Christ, I'm sorry, Lib. It's worse than that.'
She picked up the paper, already open to page three. Lock Up Your Husbands. Two photos, side-by-side dominated the page. The first was of her and Robbie, kissing on the doorstep, the second was of Zoe and Greg in a similar pose. Worse still, was a blurry snap of Libby and Robbie arriving at the football with the kids, looking every bit the happy family. They'd even dragged out the photos of her with Andy and Xander. She didn't read the words.
How had everything gone so wrong with her life? Once, she had everything. Now, even her morals were unravelling. She'd had a one-night-stand and an affair with a married man. Thank god, her parents wouldn't find out.
'It's about now that people generally say, Olivia Wilde, you're fired.' She wrapped her arms around herself, her heart hammering. 'I'm so sorry.'
'What for? It's not your fault.' He sighed and after a glance to the living room, ensuring Matilda and Dora were still engrossed in cBeebies, he pulled Libby to him, hugging her. 'I'm the married one.'
'I'll keep an eye on them, if you want to go after Tallulah.'
'Why, so my eleven year-old daughter can tell me to fuck off again? I really ought to curb her language, but she got it all from me in the first place.' His arms tightened as he kissed her head. 'I'll give her ten minutes to calm down.'
'So should I go and never come back?'
'No,' he said, taking her face in his hands. 'Maybe this is for the best.'
'How?'
'What if this were a real relationship?'
Libby closed her eyes for a second, to compose her thoughts. She knew what he was getting at, what he'd hinted at several times. He wanted to know what would happen if Vanessa didn't come back.
'What if, Lib?'
'Look,' she said. 'Sometimes, a lot of the time, I daydream about what it'd be like if you were single and... didn't have kids.'
His face clouded over.
'Sorry,' she said, knowing the mere suggestion would make him feel sick. 'I love your life, the house, the yard, the horses, but it feels borrowed and I'm not sure if it'd ever feel like mine. You have three kids. She's their mother and... I'm not.'
His already dubious expression grew darker. She knew she was denting his ego, effectively rejecting him.
'Don't look like that,' she said, gently kissing him. 'If things were different, I'd fight like a wildcat to keep you. When you're not being a grumpy arse, you make me laugh more than anyone and you're... we're friends, right?'
He nodded.
'The thing is, you've raised my expectations, Mister Golding.' She sniffed away her looming tears. 'I'd have loved you to be my somebody.'
'You really did listen.'
'Of course I did. But you love her. She's your somebody and you know it.' Libby sighed. 'And maybe I want more. Maybe I want to live in the whitewashed farmhouse and have kids of my own.'
'Would that be the ultimate distraction?'
'Maybe.'
He held her tighter 'Don't go, Lib. I need you.'
She forced a smile for him. 'I'll do the horses and carry on as though I've not been outed as a home-wrecking tramp.'
'Stay away from Harmony's box. It's where she always goes when she's upset.' He kissed her head again. 'I don't regret a thing.'
I do. Libby closed her eyes, sheltering in his arms. 'You need to speak to Vanessa. Find out what she wants. We can't... You can't move on until you know.'
This was it, the end. Vanessa would find out, come to her senses and Libby would lose the only real distraction she'd ever had. For the first time, Libby hoped Vanessa had fallen in love with the French viola player.
*
After a morning of hellish sales pitches, valuations and ass-kissing, Zoe slipped off her sunglasses and fixed her smile in place before pushing open the large glass door of Young & Carr. She'd have to brazen this out. Would Greg be in?
'The boss wants to see you,' Lucy said, barely restraining her glee.
Zoe dumped her bag and coat, glad she'd stopped to check her make-up on the way in. If Martin wanted to tick her off, he'd roll over, as he usually did, if she shed a tear. His door was ajar, so she gave a brief knock, but went straight in. It wasn't Martin, her ineffective boss. Instead, sat at Martin's desk, flicking through a pile of brochures she recognised as her properties, was a grey-haired guy.
'Ms Horton, I'm Jonathon Carr,' he said, still focussed on the brochures. 'Take a seat.'
She didn't. She folded her arms, leaning back against the wall and with one heel, she gently pushed the door closed. About time the owner of the bloody company showed his face, but why today? Just to tell her off?
'Am I in trouble?' she asked.
'I don't appreciate being dragged into work because my senior sales manager has been caught shagging yet another member of the staff. He's called in a personal day. I hope you're not in love with him.'
Finally, he looked up. Wow. Thick grey hair, perfect looks. In fact he could pass for Paul Newman in the Seventies aside from having brown eyes. If only he were twenty years younger. The guy had shag me written all over him. Better still, whatever he'd opened his mouth to say next had stayed there as he simply stared at her - at her, not her tits. How refreshing.
'I feel like I've been summoned to the headmaster's office,' she said, trying not to flirt, not yet at least. 'Before you put me over your knee-'
'Ms Horton...' His frown worsened as he shifted in his seat.
Oops-sie. Had she flirted and had he just responded? Zoe slowly walked to the desk where she leaned down, resting her hands on the desk. If he glanced down, he'd struggle to see anything other than her cleavage. He glanced down.
'Mr Carr,' she said, quietly. 'I really don't want to discuss anything here. Lucy will already have a glass pressed against the wall. Now, would you like to continue this elsewhere, or shall we discuss why Greg, your senior sales manager has an office, whereas I, your other senior sales manager, don't?'
Jonathon stood up, his frown growing. 'Lunch?'
*
Vanessa. Patrick read the name of the caller and swore. Why was Vanessa ringing him? He flipped over the paper, sighing at the photos of Robbie and Libby. Had Vanessa found out?
'Hello, stranger,' he said, trying to sound as though her husband hadn't been caught shagging the staff.
Vanessa sniffed. 'Please, tell me it's not true. Tell me you're shagging her and he was just giving her a hug.'
A hug? In one photo Robbie had his hand on Libby's arse. Did she think Robbie regularly copped a feel of Patrick's girlfriends? 'Van...'
'The paper emailed me. I don't even know how they got my email address. Is it true?'
'Come home.'
'I can't.' She broke into fresh sobbing. 'Does he love her?'
'No, he loves you.'
'Then why's he shagging her?'
Because you're shagging the French bloke. 'Come home.'
'What if he doesn't want me back?'
'He does. Do you want to come back?'
Silence hung.
'I don't know,' she croaked. 'I mean all the things that were wrong aren't suddenly fixed by him shagging Livvy.'
Patrick couldn't help himself. 'What, and you thought shagging the French wanker would fix things? And her name's Libby.'
She hung up.
Bollocks.
Time to call in the Captain.
Scott arrived at six, still suited and booted, fresh from the office, and Patrick started the Land Rover, filling him in on Vanessa's call. At Low Wood Farm, all was quiet, but Robbie met them in the yard, with a six pack in hand, his forehead furrowed.
'Where is everyone?' Scott asked, loosening his tie.
'If you mean Libby, she's gone home,' Rob replied and handed them beers. 'I take it you've seen the paper. Tallulah's being a little... vicious.'
'Do you blame her?' Scott asked
Robbie lit a cigarette and shook his head.
'How is Libby?' Patrick asked, refusing the proffered beer.
'Devastated.' Robbie frowned. 'Are you ill or something?'
'No, driving,' Patrick said, dismissively. 'Look, Vanessa rang me earlier.'
Robbie stared at the sky, swearing under his breath. 'She knows?'
Patrick nodded. 'She was upset, crying, asking if it were true.'
'I notice she hasn't come back though.'
What the hell could Patrick say? He sat back, praying the Captain could come up with something.
Scott sighed. 'Rob, this has to end. Mate, Libby's not for you.'
'Why?' Robbie asked.
'Is she ready to play wicked step-mother?'
Robbie took a long drag on his cigarette.
'I'll take your silence as a no,' Scott said. 'You need to get Vanessa back before it's too late.'
'What if it already is?' Rob stared at the table.
Scott smiled. 'When I thought all was lost with Clara, what did you tell me?'
Why did they have to bring his fuck-up with Clara into this? Patrick held his breath, unsure what his friends had discussed behind his back.
'It's never too late if it's the love of your life.' Robbie drained his beer.
'So how are we going to get Vanessa back?'
'For fuck's sake, she walked out, Scott.'
For a few minutes, they sat in silence. Robbie chain-smoked, Patrick tapped his fingers, wishing he could drink and Scott stared at the grey clouds over head. Finally, the Captain sat up.
'She did. She left. The question is, why?' Scott sucked in a deep breath. 'Van's not the sort to suddenly have her head turned by some French viola player. Why did she really leave?'
'She said...' Robbie leaned forwards. 'Originally, she wanted to go away to be her, Vanessa Jones, not Vanessa Golding. She was sick of being my wife. She hated that all she'd ever done was get her face on Marie Claire and have three children. That everything she's done was for me, but I take her for granted and she's fourth on my list. Girls, Horses, Restaurant, Wife. It's like the last thirteen years have been a waste.'
'Have they?' Scott asked, quietly.
Robbie shook his head. 'And she's not fourth on my list.'
'But it's how she feels,' Scott said, opening their second bottles. 'Now, what the hell are you going to do about it?'
'I don't know.' Robbie stared up at the sky. 'It's not just that. She said we've got nothing in common. She's right. She loves music. I don't get it. She wants to talk about Mozart and I want to talk about breed lines. And she wants a life in music. She can't have that around here.'
'Yes, she can.' Patrick frowned. 'Haverton has an orchestra. It might be small, but it's an orchestra. My mum loves going to see them. Or Van could play in Lancaster, and Manchester's only an hour away. Or if it matters that much, move.'
'Move?'
'What matters more, her or here?' Patrick asked.
Robbie sat back. 'Her.'
'Then why the fuck are we having this conversation? Go see her.' Scott laughed.
'But she's right. We don't have anything in common. Libby and I do.'
'Breakfast At Tiffany's.' Scott said, holding his hands in the air as if he'd scored a goal.
'The film?' Patrick asked.
'The song. Clara loves it. You say we've got nothing in common, no common ground to start from, and we're falling apart. She says it reminds her why she puts up with me when I'm watching cricket, or buggering off to Twickenham.' He smiled at Robbie, knowing he had the answer. 'So you're overly obsessed with horses and couldn't give two hoots about Beethoven, that doesn't mean you don't have anything in common. Think about all the other stuff. You've been together for thirteen years. Something worked.'
'Breakfast At Tiffany's? That's your motivational talk? You're slipping mate.' Robbie laughed a little, before picking at his beer label.
'Think about it,' Scott said, still looking pretty smug.
The despair had gone from Robbie's face, instead doubt flashed here and there, but mostly he sipped his beer, his forehead furrowed in thought.
'I suppose...' Robbie laughed. 'It's a bit... but we both liked it, the film. Actually, we generally like the same films. We used to always say we'd rather watch a Disney DVD with the girls than anything with subtitles.'
'Well, that's her and Frenchie screwed.' Patrick grinned.
Scott patted Robbie's back. 'I think it's time for an overblown romantic gesture.'
'I don't think a bunch of flowers will cut it.' Robbie shook his head. 'Besides, I can't drive to Grassington. I'd be over the limit.'
'I'll take you,' Patrick offered.
Scott smiled. 'Excellent. I'll babysit. Cricket's on.'
'What if Van won't come back?' Worry etched Robbie's face again.
'She will,' Scott said, 'but you'd better make it a bloody good gesture so she knows the last thirteen years weren't a waste of time.'
Robbie nodded, his face set. 'I'm going to need a bucket, a clean one.'
A bucket. Patrick pulled into the car pack at Grassington Town Hall and frowned at the silver bucket on the back seat. The seventy minute journey had been mostly silent with Robbie staring out of the window, tapping his foot.
'What's the bucket for?' Patrick asked as he turned off the engine.
Robbie's frown worsened. 'The day I met Van, I asked her what she'd like to drink. She said a vodka and tonic, but that she'd need a bucket of the stuff because I made her so nervous. I never understood how someone so confident in front of a camera could be so shy.'
Patrick smiled, picturing Vanessa shifting from foot to foot when she had to chat to someone who intimidated her.
'She finally agreed to meet me that night and in the bar, I was waiting with a bucket. Inside I'd put a glass of vodka and tonic. Months later, she admitted that's when she knew she'd love me forever.' Robbie hung his head back. 'What the fuck am I doing?'
Patrick's smile grew. Robbie was the king of romantic gestures. 'Come on, Aramis.'
The Town Hall in Grassington was filled to capacity, but the lady on the door had said since it was half-nine and the concert would finish soon, it'd be okay for them to sneak in if they stood at the back of the hall.
Vanessa was on stage, in a long black dress, her hair swaying as she played, her face down, eyes closed, immersed in the music. Robbie slumped against the wall, staring with blatant pride at the talented, beautiful woman on stage.
'I should've gone to more of her performances,' he whispered, still watching her. 'I haven't seen her play for well over a year. She's right. I have taken her for granted. What the fuck was I thinking, agreeing to the free pass?'
'Because you wanted one too?'
Finally, Robbie turned his head. 'Yeah. I wanted to see if the grass is greener.'
'Is it?'
Robbie turned back, frowning. 'I'd say it's just as green, but this is Van.'
The crowd were rapturous, and Vanessa uncomfortable with their praise as she meandered through them, clinging to her cello case for support. They waited, watching her until eventually she saw Robbie. Aside from stopping mid-conversation and abandoning the woman she was speaking with, Vanessa didn't show any emotion, but she at least headed their way. Sadly, Jason Benoit wasn't far behind.
'She's seen the paper,' Jason said.
'Oh, allez te faire foutre, tu branleur francais,' Robbie said.
Patrick suppressed a smile, his French rusty, but the bad language he'd learned as a teenager didn't fail him.
'Je t'emmerde,' Jason replied.
'Stop it. You know I don't understand a word you're saying.' Vanessa crossed her arms, frowning at Robbie, but she'd not even glanced in Jason's direction.
'Tu ne la merite pas,' Jason said.
'Undoubtedly,' Robbie replied. 'Now, piss off.'
Once Jason had flounced off, Patrick stepped away, but leaned against a pillar, hoping to eavesdrop.
'Why are you here?' Vanessa asked.
'To remind you.' Robbie shoved his hands in his pockets, still leaning against the wall. 'How are your fingers?'
'Bloody sore. Remind me of what?'
'Green olives, unpitted, are far superior to black ones. King prawns kick ass over tiger prawns, but we'd rather have langoustines cooked on a fire on the beach. Rioja in La Rioja equals heaven. We hate the smell of vanilla unless it's in ice-cream. We'd rather watch a Disney DVD with the girls than anything with subtitles. Sunday morning lie-ins are the best bit of the week, especially when we get an hour to ourselves before the bed's invaded by kids.'
'Go on,' she said, lifting a hand to her mouth, trying to hide her smile.
A sudden jolt of jealousy surprised Patrick. Not that he wanted Vanessa, he'd known her for so long she was like a sister, but the way she gazed at Robbie, Patrick couldn't help wishing for... something.
'Sunsets, walks in the woods, never relaxing until we get to the airport, but once the bags are checked the holiday starts. You might hate horses and I may not love classical music, but we have thousands of other things in common, including when we fell in love.' Robbie picked up the bucket by his feet. 'For my nerves this time. I'm sorry about Libby, but I'm more sorry I ever made you feel you were fourth on my list. You're not. You're the most important person in my life.'
Tears were trickling down Vanessa's cheeks, and a small crowd had gathered. Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets, not wanting to leave, not wanting to go home to his empty house.
'I love you,' Robbie went on, 'and we can find a way for you to have a life with me and with music. I always planned to open a second restaurant. We could open it somewhere near an orchestra, Covent bloody Garden, if you like.'
She wiped her eyes, but still didn't speak.
'When you're ready, I'd like you to come home. We can talk about what you want and how we can make it work.' He handed her the bucket. 'You were amazing tonight. That Debussy piece you played was beautiful.'
Then without kissing her, as Patrick expected, or even saying goodbye, Robbie walked away, a bold move, but one that visibly shook Vanessa. Patrick followed, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he passed.
'Thank you,' she whispered, still staring at the door Robbie had disappeared through.
In the foyer, Robbie stood with his back to the wall, his face pale. 'What's happening?'
Patrick hovered beside the reception desk where he could still see inside the hall. Jason was speaking to Vanessa, but she hugged her cello case, putting a barrier between them.
'It looks like she's telling the French wanker to piss off, in her very polite and apologetic way.' Patrick smiled, as Vanessa, clearly desperate to follow Robbie, was waylaid by a well-wisher. 'Sit tight, she'll be here in about twenty seconds.'
Robbie took a deep breath. 'Thanks.'
Patrick nodded. 'And the plaything?'
'I'll speak to her in the morning.' Robbie glanced at his feet. 'Do me a favour?'
'Name it.'
'Keep an eye on her for me.'
Shit. Patrick didn't expect that. He needed to stay away from Libby Wilde and her knack of getting in the paper, but then again, she didn't deserve this. 'Okay.'
The wait seemed interminable, but then Vanessa ran through the door, cello case in one hand, the bucket in the other, her eyes wide when she couldn't see Robbie. Patrick nodded behind her. She turned, dropping the cello and the bucket. Vodka and tonic spilled onto the parquet floor as she threw her arms around Robbie's neck. Patrick's work here, was done.
'Ohmigod, that's the most romantic thing ever,' said a female voice beside him. 'I can't believe he came all this way for her.'
Patrick looked around. A pretty and curvaceous blonde in a short velvet dress stood gazing at Robbie and Vanessa, nibbling her thumbnail. 'You know Vanessa?'
The girl nodded. 'We play together sometimes. She was telling me about him. Bit of a pain though, we're supposed to be going to the party at the hotel together.'
'I think she might be otherwise engaged tonight.'
'Are you?'
She didn't look around, but Patrick hadn't missed the sexy, suggestive tone in her voice. Grassington - forty-five miles from Gosthwaite and Michael Wray's prying eyes. Maybe his work here wasn't done. And it'd be a better bloody option than going home alone again.