'What do you think?' Zoe stood back, admiring the carved pumpkin lanterns arranged in the fireplace.
'You've missed your calling.' Libby sat on the windowsill, summoning the enthusiasm to prepare for the Halloween party to end all Halloween parties.
'How was work?'
'Just awesome,' Libby replied, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
Three weeks. Twenty days, if she was being precise. Twenty days she'd survived at the bar. How, was a miracle. If she had one friend at work, just one, it would help, but every single member of staff hated her. They were jealous. She'd shagged not just one Golding brother, but both of them. It didn't matter how many times she told them she hadn't touched Xander, because they'd seen the photos in the paper; they knew the truth.
The job itself was surprisingly okay. Oscar's Bar and Bistro was set in the old magistrates court, kitted out with ornate mahogany tables and ancient Chesterfield sofas. In keeping with the classy setting, they served decent wine and addictively tasty tapas. Plus, Libby proved to be great barmaid, but then, she'd done it so many times in between other jobs, she ought to be a bloody expert. Actually, if she included the temporary bar jobs, her employment tally over the last three years had to be well over thirty. An incredible feat.
'What happened?' Zoe handed her a staple gun. 'Cobwebs on the beams, please.'
Libby dutifully stapled stringy nylon threads to the ceiling while she explained how at ten past eleven, Oscar Golding, her uber-boss and father of the Golding brothers, had walked into the bar. Inevitably, he'd asked why she was working there and not Low Wood Farm, but before Libby could answer, she'd glanced around to see Steve, the chef, taking a photo on his phone.
Without hesitation, she'd taken Steve down with the defensive leg sweep her mother had taught her and, as he lay on the floor groaning, Libby deleted the photo. Of course, then she'd had to explain to Mr Golding Senior not only why she'd lost her job at the farm, but why she'd floored the chef. I fort she were goin' for an 'at trick, Steve had said. Sadly, the ground hadn't swallowed her.
'It's a job,' Zoe said, 'and for Haverton, not a bad one. Don't bugger it up.'
If Libby could just get her head down at the bar, the rumours would die down and she'd make friends. Or, more likely, the very dishy Mr Golding Senior would see she could run the place better than Rich, give her the manager's job and the staff would resent her even more.
Libby sat on the windowsill again, staring outside. 'Do you think he'll come?'
'Paolo or Patrick?'
When Libby had mentioned throwing a party, Zoe leapt at the idea. A Halloween shindig, Zoe said, would be the perfect excuse to dress in porn-worthy costumes and lure fit men into bed. They'd emailed everyone they knew, in Gosthwaite and Manchester, with majority saying yes. Friends were crammed into holiday cottages throughout the village, even Robbie and Vanessa were coming. Libby had been astonished when Robbie emailed to say yes, but he'd explained how it'd show everyone that things were okay. The only person who hadn't responded, was Patrick.
Four o'clock. Libby frowned at the vets. His Land Rover still wasn't there.
She didn't get him. Three weeks ago, he'd persuaded her to bare her soul. He'd totally taken an interest in her life. He'd even said she looked pretty. But since then, nada. No dropping in for a quick coffee, no cheeky chats over the fence as he passed by on his bike and to cap it all, the other day he'd posted eye drops for Hyssop through the letterbox. Patrick was avoiding her.
What if he didn't turn up or worse, copped off with someone else? Where was he?
An ancient MG pulled up and Libby's heart made an involuntary leap. Paolo. He'd really come all this way. After a quick check for smudged make-up, she ran outside to meet him. Okay, her lust cravings were purely for Patrick, but she still longed to see her old friend.
Paolo climbed out of the car, raking his hair out of his eyes. It'd grown, back to dishevelled perfection. God, it was good to see him. She ran down the pavement, straight into his arms and he held her tight, muttering how much he'd missed her, how much he loved her. She held his face, gazing up at him.
Had she been an idiot? This was Paolo - a talented, truly lovely person. He'd never walk out of the pub, embarrassing her in front of Grace. His fingers gently pushed aside her fringe as he looked into her eyes. She should kiss him. She should. She should kiss Paolo and make it work. Surely, she could love him back.
With the worst possible timing, she spotted a dark green Land Rover in her peripheral vision. Patrick. She glanced round, catching his eye. She smiled. He didn't. Arse. She rested her head on Paolo's shoulder. At least, you're here.
'I have a present for you,' Paolo said, finally letting her go.
From the car, he took out a large canvas, covered in a dust sheet. Oh god, had he painted her again? Libby sat on the garden wall as Paolo propped the canvas against Zoe's BMW. When he lifted the sheet and Libby saw herself, she stifled a sob. It was the Broken Ballerina.
'You didn't burn it?'
Paolo sat next to her. 'Of course not, I can barely throw a sketch of you away, let alone burn you. But I can't keep it or sell it. It's too personal, so it's yours.'
She sat for a moment, taking in Paolo's splotchy style. It was too personal, her heartache in oils for the world to see. But Patrick was right - it'd be a miracle if anyone recognised her.
'Thank you.' She leaned against him, kissing his cheek. 'I love it.'
Paolo nodded over her shoulder. 'You have company.'
She turned to see Patrick sauntering over with his hands in his pockets, peering at the painting. Was this the hot or cold Patrick? God, he looked hot in his Arran jumper and jeans.
'It's the Broken Ballerina,' he said, nodding to the painting. 'You must be Paolo.'
They shook hands as Libby formally introduced them, but she didn't miss the wary look in Patrick's eye. He didn't like Paolo. Was he jealous? Libby's hope soared.
'It is very good,' Patrick said, again focussed on the painting. 'Very Libby.'
'Are you coming to the party?' she asked.
He shrugged. 'Not sure. Depends on work. See you later.'
Will you? Libby watched him head back to his house.
Paolo nudged her. 'And he would be?'
'A friend. He lives next door.'
'A friend you happen to be in love with?'
'I'm not in love with him.'
'It's written all over your beautiful face.' Paolo frowned, taking in the Square. 'Ach, it's great to see you again, but did you have to move to the middle of nowhere?'
Maggie's cottage, the spiritual home of witchcraft in Gosthwaite, had been transformed from country cottage to kitsch Halloween extravaganza. A cauldron filled with a black vodka and blackberry liqueur punch, complete with floating lychee eyeballs, sat at one end of the living room, while orange pumpkin balloons, huge plastic spiders in faux cobwebs and furry black bats dangled from the walls and ceiling. In the garden, a gazebo over the lawn stood festooned with orange fairy lights and creepy witch silhouettes knocked together by Paolo out of bin liners.
Cheesy Halloween tat? Tick. Porn-worthy costumes? Tick. Two drinks already downed to get in the party spirit? Tick. Paolo cutting up lines of coke? Arse.
'It's a party.' Zoe lifted the bodice of her Queen of Hearts dress, but in doing so raised the hem another two inches, revealing frilly red knickers. 'I'm up for it.'
Libby shook her head as the doorbell rang. No way would she risk her chance of pulling Patrick by becoming some itchy-nosed, self-centred cow. She'd rely on her sweet-but-kinky Alice in Wonderland outfit and copious shots of vodka-based self-confidence.
It would be a great night.
An hour later, zombies, witches and superheroes filled the house. Even Grace turned up. In a tiny black PVC witch's dress and fishnet stockings, she'd brazenly handed Libby a bottle of Sheila's elderflower wine. Refusing to bite, Libby took the wine and politely asked if Jack was playing out. Grace's response was to introduce herself to Paolo, who hadn't taken his eyes off her cleavage since she'd walked in the room. Not that Libby cared.
Xander and Daisy, dressed as a zombie pirate and his undead wench, were knocking back shots of tequila, while Morticia and Gomez Addams, aka Robbie and Vanessa, were snogging in a corner and had been for twenty minutes. Libby tried to ignore them as she weaved through the bodies dancing in the living room. Sheila waved her fairy wand, winning the most inappropriate costume award as Glinda the Good Witch, and Jack winked at Libby, assuming he looked hot in his cowboy get up. Brokeback Mountain more like.
But her friends in ridiculous costumes couldn't distract her from the absence of the one person she'd had the bloody party for in the first place. Patrick hadn't turned up and, since it was getting on for ten o'clock, she guessed he wouldn't. Matters weren't improved by Paolo sketching Grace as they shamelessly flirted. Libby shouldn't care, but Patrick didn't want her, Paolo didn't want her... It was anything but a great night.
On the patio, Zoe and Clara compared their cleavages, not a game Libby wanted to join in, so she lit a cigarette and poured a shot of Blavod.
'Are you sulking?' Zoe asked, pinching a cigarette.
Libby downed the shot. 'No.'
'He's not here, is he?'
Libby shook her head. 'The party's rocking and he hasn't come.'
'Who?' Clara asked, straightening her Wilma Flintstone wig.
'The boy next door,' Zoe said, earning a swat on the arm from Libby. 'Oh, it's hardly a secret. You fancy him, he fancies you.'
'Or not.' Libby pouted. 'If he did, he'd be here.'
'But he does like you.' Clara's eyes lit up. 'Scott's convinced.'
Libby stared at Clara. 'Why?'
Clara shrugged. 'But Scott's never wrong.'
Zoe took a long drag on her cigarette. 'If you want him to come, go get him.'
Libby frowned but Clara nodded.
'Have you looked in a mirror, Lib?' Zoe turned her around, facing the kitchen window. 'You look incredible. Sexy as fuck. How could he turn that down? Now get your arse next door and tell him to get his over here.'
*
Stood on Patrick's doorstep had to be the sexiest Alice in Wonderland any man could hope to see. Jesus Christ. The low cut, little blue dress showed off her cleavage, but the skirt crucified him. Incredibly short, it grazed the top of her legs leaving a foot of perfect naked thigh between the fluffy net underskirt and top of her stripy over-the-knee-socks. Tottering in very high heels, her legs looked longer and better than ever.
'You've got to be kidding,' he muttered, but grabbed her arm, pulling her in before anyone saw her.
This was exactly what he didn't need and worse still, when she stood in the living room, the lights showed her glazed eyes. She flashed him an overconfident smile and he groaned. Pissed, or getting there at least. He needed her to leave, but she wandered over to say hello to Hyssop who'd taken refuge from the party.
'What do you want, Libby?'
'I came to see if you were ever going to come to my party. We've got canap\u00e9s, cocktails... coke. Right up your street.'
Coke? Shit. Grace would have a gram he could scrounge. He itched for a line, imagining the high. No. 'I'm on call.'
Her smile grew and the look in her eyes turned from mischievous to downright dirty. Slowly, she walked up to him, all legs, cleavage and very sexy confidence, until she stood with her body inches from his. Oh Christ.
'I don't believe you,' she whispered.
'Libs...' But he didn't back off. Instead, he looked down at her, his heart thumping in his chest.
'Why don't you come out and play? I'd guarantee you'd have the best time ever.' She smiled up at him, peeking through that very sexy fringe. 'Say, yes.'
He opened his mouth to tell her not a chance, but found himself staring at her. The shoes made her five inches taller, nearer his height, and her mouth was only a couple of inches below his. Don't kiss her.
Kiss her? He wanted to fuck her. Probably more than he'd ever wanted to fuck anyone. He wanted to do a couple of rails, neck a few shots and spend the rest of the night in bed with Libby Wilde. Sod the bed. The sofa would do. He doubted they'd get as far as the stairs anyway. He buried his hands in his pockets, desperate not to touch her.
'What happened to Paolo?'
'Grace has her talons in.' She took hold of his t-shirt, tugging him toward her. 'Are you coming out to play?'
Oh Christ, she was right there, on a plate and dressed like Alice in fucking Wonderland. His hands left his pockets, one to hold her tiny waist, the other to hold her face. He rested his forehead against hers, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to give in, to go party with her. If she kissed him, he would. But she didn't. She waited, expecting him to kiss her.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned away, making sure she was paying attention. He wanted no misunderstanding between them. 'Libby, you need to leave. Please.'
It took every ounce of restraint he had, but he gently pushed her away and put his hands back in his pockets, closing his eyes while he took control of his senses.
'Are you really on call?' she asked, her voice quiet.
He looked her in the eye and, knowing the reaction it would have, that it would make her leave, he shook his head. 'No. Now please go.'
It was her sharp intake of breath that made him regret it. She straightened her back and shrugged, putting on a brave face, but she was hurting. He'd hurt her and he felt sick for doing it. He wanted to hug her, kiss her until she smiled again, but he couldn't. He couldn't be seen with Libby Wilde and he certainly couldn't party with her. If he did, he may as well write the article and email the photos himself.
She mumbled goodbye and he watched through the window as she walked with an arrogance he knew she was faking. Surely, he could join the party. Surely, he could have one drink. He didn't have to get wasted or end up in bed with her. They could just have fun. Okay, maybe one line. He almost caved in, about to run after her, when the phone rang.
A sow with six dead piglets saved him from making a very big mistake.