Monday afternoons sucked. Four hours of unpaid do-gooding. Lisa, the RVN, made appalling coffee. Gloria, the practice manager, simpered for England. And the clients... Christ, this was penalty enough for the Miss Haverton story.
Patrick pushed open the office door, having already ignored the people in the waiting room, and scowled at Grace who was working on Gloria's PC. She didn't look up, but from her reddening cheeks, she obviously wasn't comfortable. He'd already given her a bollocking for being blatantly hung over that morning. Lisa hovered, smiling, giggling, making it patently obvious what she wanted. He ignored her. Twenty-two year-old veterinary nurses weren't his cup of tea. He didn't even like tea.
A fresh pot of coffee sat on the machine and he helped himself, giving Grace the chance to explain her presence. She didn't. He added a drop of milk, scowling at the pale brown colour.
'Lisa, electricity and water are precious resources.' He looked up at her as he emptied his mug into the sink. 'So you shouldn't waste them on piss-poor coffee.'
'But that's how Fergus likes it,' she said, her argument weaker than her coffee.
'Is Fergus working this afternoon?' he asked.
Lisa's face turned an amusing shade of red as she found the staff notice board suddenly fascinating. He'd have felt guilty, but she'd almost managed to kill a dog the previous week because she'd been too busy fluttering her eyelashes to check the sedative dose. The ruder he was, the quicker she'd get the message. Not interested, so get on with your job. He never had any of this crap off Grace. Christ, he hated working at the Haverton surgery.
'It's Monday,' he said, perching on the desk beside Grace. 'It's your afternoon off.'
'It is.'
'So what are you doing here?'
'Wages,' she replied, not looking up. 'Gloria's off sick.'
'But why are you doing them?'
'Because I want to get paid and that prescription drug junkie hasn't been fit to do the payroll for months. But no one here...' Grace glanced over at Lisa. 'Knows how to do them, or has the balls to tell you or your dad that Gloria's a liability. I've done it for five months.'
He took a slow breath, trying to control his building anger. 'We'll talk about this tomorrow and you can explain why you haven't had the balls to tell me that Gloria's a liability. Now, show Lisa how to make a pot of decent bloody coffee.'
He strode through to the treatment room, his hands on his head so he didn't hit anything. If Gloria was screwing up and had been for months, why had no one said anything? For Christ's sake, Grace didn't normally hold back. If he couldn't trust her, who could he trust? He slumped against the door, trying to calm down.
'Ohmigod,' Lisa said, her voice muted from the other side of the door. 'Have you seen the paper? About the orgy in Gosthwaite?'
'Are you having a laugh?' Grace replied.
'There was this mental party in the Square-'
'I was there, but it wasn't an orgy. Though I did pull this fit as artist. One of Libby's exes. She looked well pissed off when she found out.'
'Who's Libby?' Lisa asked.
'Blonde cow who lives in the Square.'
'Is his her?'
Patrick frowned at the pause in conversation, unsettled by the rustling of paper.
'Oh my God,' Grace whispered. 'Yes, that's her.'
'Is she really a prostitute?'
What the... He strode back in. The two girls were leaning over the table, eyes wide at the Haverton Gazette in front of them. He grabbed the paper, meaning to scowl at Lisa, but his mental vows to make her life a living hell every Monday afternoon vanished as he read the headline. The Libertine. Poor Libby.
He took in the first picture, of her in her Alice in Wonderland costume, sat on Andy's knee as he appeared to do a line off her cleavage. Or maybe not poor Libby. She shagged Andy?
'Grace, coffee!'
He couldn't read fast enough. The general insinuation was that Zoe and Libby were running a brothel from Maggie's cottage, churning out the old photos of Andy, Xander, Robbie and Greg, plus a new face - Zoe's silver fox, Jonathon Carr, the owner of the Estate Agents, and Gloria's husband. No wonder Gloria had called in sick.
Libby a prostitute? Utter crap. But there was no denying she'd got up to some pretty bad behaviour with Andy. In one shot, they're laughing, utterly wasted, as they walked out of the Alfred after being barred by the landlord for behaviour reminiscent to that of Patrick McBride and Amber Holloway six months ago.
Shit.
And there was an old photo of him and Miss Haverton being evicted from the Weir Wine Bar in Haverton.
'I'm going out,' he said.
'But surgery's due to start in-' Lisa didn't finish her sentence, as he slammed the door.
Monday afternoon, she would be at work. Still holding the newspaper, he almost ran down the road to Oscar's Bar and Bistro. Through the window, he could see Libby behind the bar, restocking shelves. The place was deserted except for her and a couple of women drinking at the far side of the bar. He threw open door to, his jaw aching from clenching it so tightly.
Libby turned, her initial welcoming smile faltering as her eyes flared under her fringe.
'Go away,' she snapped and went back to restocking the fridge with Smirnoff Ice. 'I'm busy.'
He leaned against the bar, watching her, waiting for her apology. It never came. He held up the paper. 'What's this all about?'
'Well, apparently, I've been shagging all the men in Gosthwaite for money. Why, are you looking for mates rates?'
He swore, mostly under his breath. 'I don't give a rat's arse what you get up to, but don't drag my name into it.'
'Not my fault.'
'Yes it is. What the fuck did you think you were doing, Libby? This is pretty much what happened with Miss Haverton and I'm guessing you know it. Andy, for fuck's sake.' He shook his head. 'Have you forgotten the night he threatened you?'
'This was on my terms.' She started on the bottles of lager.
'Can you stop for a minute?'
'I'm at work. No.' But she paused, taking a deep breath. 'It's my life.'
'Well, don't involve me in the mess you're making of it.'
'Please, piss off.'
The desire to slap her grew, but he merely shook his head and watched as she left the bar with a cloth. The tables were already clean, but she wiped them anyway, probably to avoid facing him.
He strode over, grabbing her arm. 'Just stop it, Libby.'
For a second she gazed up at him, her face teetering between anger and tears. From her pale skin, red nose and constant sniffing, he'd guess Andy wasn't the only one doing lines at the party.
'I thought we were friends,' he said.
She snatched her arm away. 'Whatever.'
'Fine, but next time you want rescuing, ring someone who gives a fuck.'
'I don't remember ringing you anyway.'
'No, you risked Rob's marriage to save you from someone you're fucking again. I'm sure Rob's over the moon.'
'It's nothing to do with you.'
'You're right, but you've no idea what this might cost me.'
She folded her arms, refusing to face him. 'Get out.'
'I'm going, but don't you ever turn up at my house in that state again. Whatever you're imagining in that pretty little head, it isn't going to happen.'
'I hate you,' she whispered, her cheeks turning red.
'Right now, princess, the feeling's mutual.'
He strode out, kicking the door open, but stopped outside. Shit. He watched as she hung her head, her shoulders shaking, but he couldn't relent. She'd done this, not him. After a minute or so, she dried her eyes and continued wiping the tables. He took out his phone as he walked back to the surgery.
'Dad?'
'If you're ringing to ask if I've seen the paper, the answer is yes.' Malcolm clicked his tongue, his standard pause before a telling off. 'This is the same wee lassie that nearly destroyed Robbie and Vanessa's marriage, is it?'
'Yes, but it's not-'
'More than a dram of trouble in that one.'
'Dad, half of the article is made up. Libby's not-'
'It's not about what's true. It's about what people read.'
'But this doesn't count, right? I mean, I've not done anything. I can't stop Wray digging up old stories.'
'Let's class it was your first and last warning. You'll be docked two week's pay.'
'That's not in the rules.'
'Strictly speaking there's a newspaper article about you. That's in the rules.'
'Fine, two weeks.'
Patrick managed a polite goodbye, before hanging up. He had to stay away from Libby. He had to, absolutely. No more popping round to see how she was, no more shoulder to cry on, no more Olivia Wilde. He returned to the surgery in a worse mood than he'd left. That coffee had better be ready.
*
Libby sat curled up in an armchair with a cup of tea, staring at the TV. She hurt. Her body ached, her head throbbed, but none of it compared to the pain she felt thinking of Patrick's disgust. He was right. They were friends. Were. Past tense.
Whatever you're imagining in that pretty little head, it isn't going to happen.
Mortification burned through her. She'd thrown herself at Patrick and he'd turned her down. If he turned her down when she looked hotter than she ever had, how had she deluded herself to think he'd want her on a normal day?
And Andy. She cringed, curling up a little tighter. When they were kicked out of the Alfred, had she really just laughed as he gave her a piggyback across the Square? Had she really just shrugged when the police turned up telling them to turn the music down? It seemed untrue, too unlike her, but there was that stupid newspaper, reporting exactly that.
What the hell had she been thinking?
Patrick's rejection, that's what she'd been thinking.
More guilt surged through her when Zoe came home from work and dinner hadn't even been thought about.
'You're shagging your boss?' Libby sipped her tea as Zoe flopped onto the sofa.
'He's... it's complicated.' Zoe kicked off her heels, sighing. 'Greg's seen his arse. He's allowed to shag his wife, but I'm not allowed to see anyone else. Wanker.'
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'The usual reason. You wouldn't have approved.'
'We're prostitutes apparently.'
'So I gather. Not a great day. I had two sellers ask to switch to Greg. None of the other staff will speak to me. How are you?'
'I feel like crap.' Libby sniffed. 'And Patrick hates me.'
'Where's Paolo?'
'Gone to Grace's.'
Zoe nodded. 'Here's the plan. We finish decorating the house and get it on the market as soon as. Let's get the hell out of here. We're not cut out to be country folk. Where do you fancy next?'
Libby was about to say, anywhere, when the cat flap rattled. Hyssop had finally come home. He padded in, mewing hello as he jumped on her knee. Leaving Gosthwaite meant leaving Hyssop and running on grassy bridleways.
I don't want to leave.
No matter what had happened, Libby wanted to stay in Gosthwaite. She wanted to be happy and she had an odd feeling that this is where it would happen.
Zoe stretched, preparing to stand up. 'I'm going out. I need a cheer up shag.'
'The Silver Fox? Isn't his wife going to have something to say?'
'No. As I said, it's complicated.'
'What do you see in him anyway? Isn't he about fifty?'
'He's fifty-five and plays a lot of tennis so he's got a great body. He's intelligent, funny, considerate and he likes buying me shiny trinkets. Best of all...' Zoe's grin grew. 'He's the most amazing shag. He's into BDSM.'
'What, you let him hit you?' Libby stared, repulsed, but Zoe laughed.
'Fuck me, no. He's the one who likes being tied up.' Her eyes twinkled. 'I am the mistress of all his fantasies and oh my God, does he have some filthy fantasies. Needless to say, it's not his Times-reading wife's knitting bag, at all.'
Libby opened her mouth, but speechless, she closed it again.
'Your face.' Zoe stood up, laughing. 'Anyway, I was thinking we could try Kendal next. A little more like civilisation than here, but I wouldn't have to give up a good thing.'
Libby watched Zoe leave, frowning at the heels she had in her hand. Well, Jonathon Carr's sexual preferences and trinket buying explained Zoe's addiction to the metal-studded Louboutin's - hardly the getup for a respectable estate agent, but for the dominatrix mistress of the boss, perfect. Sometimes she wondered if she knew Zoe at all.
*
The chill wind, blowing under her mac, only added to the thrill of not wearing anything more than a leather Basque and stockings under her wrap dress. A whole new, addictive world had opened up to her and Jonathon Carr was showing her the way. Zoe was half-tempted to send Greg a photo of her knickerless fanny, showing him what he could no longer have. But screw Greg. He'd never leave his wife and she had a much better-endowed fish to fry now.
She waited, leaning against the porch wall, and squeezed the love balls, a gift from Jonathon that he'd slipped inside her before she'd left work for the day. And after the day she'd had, Jonathon had better be ready to do her bidding. As if he wouldn't. A shiver of excitement ran through her body and she focussed by counting the passing seconds, getting to eight before he opened the door.
She stepped inside. 'Where is she?'
'Drawing room.'
'Out of it?'
'No, she has a friend here.' He seemed nervous. 'This really isn't-'
'But I need you to fuck me,' Zoe whispered as she unfastened her dress, revealing the basque and how it barely encased her tits.
'Zoe...' He glanced down the hallway, but Zoe took his hand, bringing it down between her legs.
'Who's in charge?' she asked, pressing his fingers inside her, letting him feel the balls.
His breathing became ragged and his eyes glazed over. 'You are.'
'You're going get me off, right here, right now. It won't take long, then you can go into the drawing room and tell your wife and her friend that you're going out.' Zoe revelled in the power she could exert over him. 'You can buy me dinner and we'll come back later. You owe me eight seconds of my life back. I had to wait.'
His thumb brushed over her clitoris as his other hand eased her tits out of the leather bodice. 'I'm sorry, my lady.'
'You'll pay for it later.'
His mouth closed over a nipple as his rock-hard erection pressed against her leg. Later, she'd tie him to the four-poster and that fabulous dick would be at her mercy. The mere idea of it had her coming in seconds.
She might actually be falling in love with this amazing man.