Distraction

Chapter Thirty-Nine

For Patrick, tomorrow arrived, not with an internet search for mini-breaks to Courcheval, but performing surgery on a Weimaraner. The timing couldn't have been more impeccable. He arrived back home, as Libby ran out of the square, purposefully not looking his way. Two hours later, as Libby jogged back into the square, Lynda from the post office rang in tears - Boadicea had been hit by a car.

Patrick rang Lisa, already dreading her appalling coffee and inane drivel. She answered immediately, but sounded cagey when he asked her to come in. Maybe she wouldn't show and he could get Sam to assist. Every cloud.

He'd prepped the room and had his sleeves rolled up, when Grace arrived. 'What are you doing here?'

'Lisa can't make it,' she said, pulling her hair into a bun. 'And I needed to talk to you.'

'Can it wait?'

'Lynda's not here yet.'

'Out with it.'

'As practice manager, I'm making some changes. You hate Lisa working here and she leaves every night in tears. She's emailed me, detailing the many, many occasions where you've displayed tribunal-worthy behaviour. She wants to go back to Haverton. I want to come back here.'

'And how's that-'

'The office crap, which it turns out I rather like, I can do at Haverton on Monday afternoons.'

'Out of hours?'

'It's fine.' She pulled on her blue scrubs. 'At least I'll know the in-patients are taken care of.'

'Ah, you don't trust me.' He tried not to smile. He'd get Grace back. 'And what about...' The minor inconvenience of you being in love with me.

'I can work with you, if you can work with me.'

'It won't be weird?'

'Has it been for the last year?'

'No more spells?'

'Like you believe in them anyway.'

They hovered by the front door, waiting for Lynda.

'You really like the office crap?' he asked.

'I finally get to fix the rota which has bugged me for months. Oh, and your dad's agreed that one Monday afternoon a month, you get to do your pro bono do-gooding here, not Haverton. There are people on benefits in Gosthwaite too.' Grace glanced across at Libby's house. 'Have fun last night?'

'Did you?'

'I'd have thought you'd have taken her to dinner at your parents' yesterday, but Paolo rang her, said she was at home.'

'It's complicated.'

'No, it's not. The minute I saw her, I knew you'd like her.'

'Why?'

'She's your type.'

'My type?' He had one?

Grace laughed. 'I've listened to you bang on about women for two years. Miss Haverton's slutty underwear, Tabitha Doyle's bitchy attitude, Daisy's innocent looks. I know what you want. You want a nice girl and take away her make-up and clothes, that's who Libby is. Plus, you're right. She is like me. That's why you get on so well.'

'It's still complicated.' He relaxed as Lynda's car headed across the square. 'What about you and Paolo?'

She shrugged. 'He's fit, fun, but he's still in love with her, and I want Jack back.'

'Why? He can't keep it in his pants.'

'Jack's insecure and me working with you didn't help.'

'He knew?'

'I think everyone except you did.'

Patrick shook his head. 'Seriously, this is going to be okay?'

She nodded and headed outside.

In a blur of activity, Grace comforted a sobbing Lynda with reassuring words, while Patrick opened the back door. Boadicea lay whimpering, blood seeping from a gash across her side. Her two front legs were clearly broken and her face an unrecognisable mush. Patrick glanced at Grace, an unspoken communication she'd understand. The dog needed to be put down. Together, they carried Boadicea into the surgery, gently laying her on the table.

Once he'd sedated Boadicea, Patrick did a gentle but thorough examination.

'It's not like her, but she just ran out into the road. Brenda from Inglenook couldn't stop in time.' Lynda sobbed. 'Will she be okay?'

He hated this part of his job. 'Lynda, she's broken both her legs, and from the sounds of her chest, has a punctured lung.'

'But you can operate?'

Patrick gripped the table. 'Yes, but-'

'Then do it. Please, just make her better.'

'Lynda, I'm really sorry, but she's sustained a nasty head injury. I'm not sure-'

'Please?'

Grace put her arm around Lynda. 'You're talking about expensive-'

'She's my baby. I don't care about the money.'

'...and invasive surgery,' Grace went on. 'You have to think what's best for Boadicea.'

'It's not in her best interests, Lynda.'

Lynda looked up at him, her eyes pleading, tears tumbling down her cheeks. 'She's all I have, Patrick. I've already lost my mother this year. I can't lose her too.'

When did he become a soft-touch? 'I'll treat her today, see what we can do, but by six o'clock tonight, if I think we're prolonging her suffering, I will tell you. I won't have her in pain, if it's not going to make her better.'

'Thank you.'

'Lynda,' he said, his voice grave. 'I'm serious. I don't agree with this. And at six o'clock, if I think... you either take my advice, or you take her elsewhere.'

'He's right, Lynda.' Grace led her away. 'Why don't you go home, have a cuppa? There's nothing you can do here. I'll ring you when we know more.'

With a sobbing Lynda gone, Patrick set to work. He wouldn't be talking to Libby anytime soon.

Grace glanced out of the window. 'Ah, that didn't take long.'

Patrick scowled as Paolo jogged across the square and knocked on Libby's door. Later, he'd sort this all out later.

*

Libby sat on the edge of Zoe's bed. There was nothing more effective at distracting her from her own misery as the misery of others. On Christmas Day, her and Zoe had got utterly hammered, eventually pulling on little black dresses and heading to the Alfred. Libby had played Christmas classics on the piano and half the pub sang along. Zoe had flirted so much they didn't buy a single drink all night. Okay, several times, Libby might've wailed on Zoe's shoulder, drunkenly vowing to talk to Patrick the minute he got home - thank god, Zoe had confiscated her phone - but despite that, they'd had fun.

A raging headache attacked Libby's brain and she promised her lungs she'd never, ever smoke again, but no matter how bad she felt, Libby had climbed out of bed, she'd had a shower, she'd had breakfast. Zoe hadn't. She'd been Libby's rock the day before, but now, Zoe lay staring at the wall with tears pouring down her cheeks.

'Zo?' Libby stroked her friend's hair. 'Zo, you can't just shut down. So you fucked up. If you want to fix it, you have to pull yourself together. And to start, you have to eat.'

Zoe visibly flinched.

Libby lifted her feet onto the bed, leaning against the headboard. 'Look, we both know you don't want to eat because you think control comes from not eating. And we both know why. We've been through this too many times, Zo, and you know I love you, but I'm not prepared for the cucumber, celery and black tea stage. You're a bitch when you go through that bit.'

There was a half laugh.

'So if you want control. Take it. Control isn't not eating, or only eating foods with less than five percent fat. Real control is eating just enough. I have real control. Now, sit up.' Libby closed her eyes, praying she wasn't making things worse. 'Now, Zoe.'

Zoe did as instructed, frowning at her. 'I don't-'

'Control.' Libby held up a bowl. The strands of tagliatelle dripped with butter, lemon and chicken jus. 'Real control would be to eat half of this. Not a third, not three quarters, but half. Half, I've calculated, would be a perfectly healthy portion. And by healthy, I mean just a bit less than necessary.'

Zoe hadn't taken her eyes off the dish, but her chin had raised. 'Half?'

'Exactly half.' Please, Zoe, fight.

'Did you cook the chicken?'

'No. Paolo did.'

'It might be worth eating then.' Zoe took the bowl.

Libby left, trying not to smile and trying not to be too hopeful. This was Maggie's fault, and for a brief moment, Libby wished could bump off the old witch herself.

Downstairs, she curled up on the sofa, once again succumbing to tears. How desperately did she want to say to Patrick, okay, let's do the secret fling? She could do it. She'd take what she could have. But then she'd remember how easy it was to make a simple hug from Xander could be made to look like a kiss. She couldn't cost Patrick his job and respect of his parents.

'Here,' Paolo handed her a bowl of pasta and pressed play, sending Dorothy skipping down the Yellow Brick Road. He smiled at Libby, shaking his head at her tears. 'It's like suicide central in here.'

'And you think the Wizard of Oz will cheer me up?' She dried her eyes and stabbed a piece of chicken.

'It's a cultural phenomenon I've never seen. How's Zoe?'

'Eating, but I haven't seen her like this since the flat got broken into.' She pulled her legs up, sitting cross-legged. 'So...'

'So?' He smiled at her, his fork loaded with pasta. 'You're dying to ask about Grace.'

'Well, you must like her to come up to the middle of nowhere again. How much do you like her?' Libby twirled a strand of pasta, not knowing if she wanted to hear the answer. She didn't love Paolo, but she quite liked him loving her.

'She reminds me of you. I want to paint you again.'

'Why?'

'You're different. You've changed.'

'I'm sat here crying and miserable. Just like before we left Manchester. Nothing's changed.'

'Everything's changed. You're happy. You know what you want.'

I want what I can't have. Nothing's changed. 'When are you going back?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Can I come too?'

'Why?'

'Job interview. I'm going to see my old boss on Thursday. I need a place to stay.'

Paolo picked at his pasta. 'Are you going to stay-stay, or just stay?'

'I love him.'

'Just stay then.'

'If I had any sense, I'd stay-stay. Sorry.' Libby munched a piece of chicken.

He smiled. 'You can still share my bed.'

Libby sat cross-legged, facing him. He glanced at her, briefly, before resuming his fascination with the Wicked Witch of the West. His dark hair, slightly curling at the ends, fell to his chin, the back a little longer. When did he last have it cut? She'd done it for him once, but the next day he shaved it all off, proclaiming her the worst hairdresser in the world.

'Why do you put up with me?' she asked.

'Because I love you.'

'I'll go to a hotel.'

'No, you won't.' He paused to sip his tea. 'But I need a date on Wednesday. It's a friend's exhibition. Come with me?'

'Of course.' Libby paused for a moment. 'Do you know Seamus Doyle?'

'Aye, his wife's a patron of the arts. Not my art, but she loves the stuff.'

'I want to meet him. Can you get him invited? Do you think he'd come?'

Paolo nodded. 'But what's the big deal with Mr Doyle?'

'I want to talk to him, to ask him about Maggie. He's the last key person in her life. She loved him, but couldn't have him.' I know how she feels. I'm turning into Maggie.

'For you, anything.' Paolo kissed her cheek. 'I invited Grace, but she said London makes her nervous. Shame, she'd like it.'

'In a parallel universe, Patrick and Grace are madly in love, living in the country, saving animals. We're in London, being fabulously talented and going to all the best parties.'

'We could have that in this universe.'

'You said I had hobbit feet. You've blown it in this universe'

But Patrick had kissed her toes. He'd said she was perfect. Libby curled up and let the tears roll down her face. She could do with the Wonderful Wizard of Oz to fix her problems.

*

As Dorothy found her way back to Kansas, the old Zoe put the half-empty, half-full bowl of pasta on the coffee table. For weeks she'd been wearing conservative dresses, prim skirts and fifties cardigans, anything to fit in at the golf club and not look like a gold-digging whore. But not anymore. In skinny jeans, a slinky red top and the metal-studded Louboutin's, she sat on the window sill and applied her trademark scarlet lipstick. Paolo gave a low whistle of appreciation and Zoe shot him a slow wink.

'Why the scarf?' Libby asked, trying not grin.

'Hide the bloody love bite.'

'I take it from the shoes, you're choosing Jonathon.'

Zoe flicked back her immaculately straightened hair. 'Yes. I'm not giving up everything just because I fancy Ed.'

'Fancy Ed?' Libby frowned. 'I thought it was more than that. A physical and emotional bond, you said.'

'It's irrelevant. Real control?' Zoe nodded to the bowl of pasta. 'Real control is walking in that house and never fucking Ed again. Real control is marrying Jonathon and getting everything I ever wanted.'

'Good for you, hen,' Paolo said. 'That way you only have to bump off the dad to get the money. If you chose the son, you'd have to bump off the dad and the son.'

Zoe laughed. 'If I chose the son, I'd have to bump off the dad, the son, the brother, his wife and their two grubby children. This requires much less effort.'

Libby bear-hugged her. 'I'm proud of you. You didn't give in to food.'

'Thank you,' Zoe whispered. 'But what are you going to do?'

'Go to London and avoid getting me or Patrick in the bloody newspaper. I'll come back in six months.'

'That's a crappy plan.'

'It's all I have.' Libby forced a smile. 'On the upside, I have a date on Wednesday. Paolo's taking me to some fancy-schmancy art exhibition.'

He smiled. 'You might not be able to avoid the newspapers there.'

'Why?' Libby asked.

'Sorry, but they're still looking for you.'

'Who is?'

'The Daily Mail, the Sun. They want to know who the Broken Ballerina is. They might guess when they see you.'

Oh god. 'Then I'm not going.'

'Why hide?' Paolo asked. 'I know you wanted to forget all about it, but you're moving to London-'

'No.'

'Paolo's right,' Zoe said, tapping her phone against her thigh. 'If you're going back to the company, you may as well let the bloody world know you were a ballerina. And if you were a bit of a household name, let's say if the Guardian ran with an exclusive, would it hurt your chances of getting the odd role? I mean, that's what you really want, isn't it?'

Libby stared at her.

A slow smile spread over Zoe's face. 'Real control isn't avoiding the press. It's using them to get what you want.'

Twenty minutes later, Zoe arrived at Jonathon's. He'd stood leaning in the doorway as she parked, but strolled over to open her door. Ever the gent, he helped her out, a gentle hand lifting her chin to kiss her. A warmth filled her insides and it wasn't down to some desire to tie him to the bed. She loved him. She really did. A less gentle hand brushed over her breast squeezing it just a little. But Jesus, she did love shagging him.

'You're back,' he said. 'I'm glad.'

Zoe kissed him, loving his hands roving over her arse. 'I'm sorry, I had to leave yesterday.'

'How's Libby?'

'Madly in love with Patrick. Paolo's with her.' Zoe smiled up at him, raking her fingers through his hair. 'Did you have a lovely time?'

'It was good, actually. Ed finally got into the spirit of Christmas and Paula knocked dinner together.' He leant in, whispering in her ear. 'They're going out for lunch, but I want to make love to you, to worship you for hours.'

Zoe nodded, her insides liquefying.

'You still need to open your present.'

'But I already did.' She glanced down at her Cartier watch. 'I adore it.'

'You have another.' Smiling, he held a hand over her eyes, leading her around the side of the house.

Inside the open garage doors sat a brand new BMW Z4 - shiny, black and wrapped in a big red bow. Tears filled her eyes as she turned to him.

'Jonathon, I really do love you.' She held his face. 'And not because you buy me cars and watches. I want to make you happy, forever.'

For several minutes, she kissed Jonathon, whispering how much she adored him and the things she'd do to him when they were alone later.

'Ooh, Granny Zoe, can we go for a drive in your new car?' little Harriet asked.

Granny? Jesus, that kid was priceless. Zoe ignored her, instead kissing Eliot and Paula a happy Christmas. Ed wandered up, his tousled dark hair reminding her of the previous day and creating a dull ache between her legs. More than anything in the world Zoe wanted to feel Ed's dick inside her again, but she did nothing more than politely kiss his cheek.

'Mummy's home,' she whispered.

Devastation flashed in his eyes and his fingers dug into her arm, but Zoe refused to weaken. Jonathon was real control.

*

Knocking on the imposing blue door of Kiln Howe terrified Libby, but she held her head high as the barking of dogs grew louder. Someone was coming. She prayed it wasn't Patrick's father. The door opened and Patrick stooped, holding back two energetic black retrievers. She blinked. It wasn't Patrick; he was at the vet's.

'You must be Sam,' she said, still staring.

His smile grew. 'And you must be Libby. He's not here.'

'I know.' She tipped her head to the side. Same black curly hair, same nose, same hazel eyes. 'You two look really alike, really, really alike.'

He laughed. 'It's very nice to meet you at last. I've heard a lot about you.'

Libby blushed. 'Is your mum in? I wondered if I could borrow the painting.'

'I can't see why not. It's yours after all.'

'Well, not really. I gave it away. Patrick bought it and gave it to your mum. It's hers.'

'Well, I'm sure she won't mind. Come in.' Sam stood aside, still holding the dogs. 'Mum!'

Elizabeth appeared promptly followed by Malcolm McBride. Oh god, no. Libby cringed.

'Hello, Miss Wilde,' he said.

'For God's sake, Dad, her name's Libby.' Sam shook his head. 'She wants to borrow the painting.'

'Just for a day or so.' Libby daren't look Malcolm McBride in the eye. He probably believed she was a prostitute.

'Of course.' Elizabeth beckoned her in. 'Tea?'

Libby hesitated. Crikey, all she'd wanted was to take the painting. Sam took her arm, leading her down the hallway.

'We don't bite,' he whispered. 'Though I wouldn't take any of the ginger snaps. My wife, Charlotte, is likely to take you out with a teaspoon.'

Libby glanced up at him, as bemused by his similarity to Patrick as she was with his words.

'She's pregnant,' he explained. 'They stop her feeling sick.'

Libby couldn't help laughing and Sam's enormous smile, so like Patrick's, took over his face. 'Congratulations.'

Malcolm hovered at the door to the kitchen, holding out his hand. 'It's very nice to meet you, Olivia.'

Stunned, Libby shook his hand, not missing that Patrick's hazel eyes and thick black lashes came from his father.

*

After three hours of surgery, Boadicea had stabilised, giving him and Grace a little hope and a chance to relax. She rang Lynda to tell her surgery went well, but not to expect too much. The next few hours would be critical.

'Oh my God,' Grace squealed as she got off the phone. 'It's snowing. It never snows at Christmas.'

Over a well-earned coffee, they watched the snow falling. The minor flurry, against his expectations, did settle and developed into a veritable blizzard over the next thirty minutes. Libby's ancient Golf wasn't parked outside the house. Was she driving? Maybe he should ring her. Grace could watch Boadicea while he picked Libby up. He stared at his phone. But if he were alone with her, what the hell would he say? Don't go to London. Stay here. They could go on a date, just not around here. And as for the future... What would Rob do? He'd tell her he loved her and everything would be fine. How did Rob do that? How could he just know a girl was right?

By five o'clock the blizzard eased off and Patrick couldn't help feeling cheered by the snow. It changed the community. The orange glow from the street lamps and multi-coloured lights flashing on the Square's Christmas tree added a cosy glow. Merry drinkers spilled from the Alfred and three sets of children were building snowmen, but despite the laughter, the square remained peaceful, muffled under its white duvet.

Creeping slowly up the Square came his parents' Range Rover. Perfect timing. Maybe his mum or dad would keep an eye on Boadicea while he rescued Libby. The car pulled up outside and Sam jumped out, carrying the Broken Ballerina.

'What the hell...'

Libby climbed out of the car, jogging ahead of Sam. He took the painting into Maggie's cottage and when he returned, Libby kissed his cheek, thanking him. Briefly, as though she knew he was watching, she glanced at Patrick. Her face as sad as it had been the morning before.

What are you doing, Libs?

She gave him the smallest of smiles. He needed to talk to her. They had to sort this out. The arrival of his parents distracted him for a moment and when he looked back, Libby had gone. He forced a smile for his mum, but the sudden intrusion irritated him.

'Darling, Libby's a sweetheart,' she said. 'How's Boadicea?'

He let Grace fill his mum in, Patrick turning his attention to his buoyant brother.

'Bro, how's the dog? Can we go for a pint?' Sam hugged him, slapping his back, before whispering, 'I love Libby.'

'What the hell's going on? Why's she got the painting?'

'She wants to borrow it. She had tea and it's fair to say, Dad's smitten with her. It started snowing so we gave her lift. Left her death trap at Kiln Howe. Thought we'd take you to the pub. Seriously, Dad's smitten.'

Patrick glanced towards Libby's closed door. 'Why does she want the painting?'

'Wouldn't say. She was more interested in your niece or nephew.'

'She was distracting you, getting you to talk about what you wanted to so you wouldn't pry. It's a skill of hers.'

'Who cares? You need to talk to her. She'd make a great sister-in-law.'

Sister-in-law? Jesus.

'I don't know if you've noticed, bro, but there's snow outside.' Sam's eyes glinted. 'Fight?'

'I get Grace. You can have Charlotte and Mum.'

'Oh, our mother and a pregnant woman?'

'As if I'd throw anything at Charlotte.'

Sam merely raised his eyebrows.

Ten minutes later, led by the two McBride brothers, the entire Square became embroiled in a snowball fight.

'It's like when the boys were little,' said seventy year-old Mrs Jenkins, as her and Andrea from number twelve pelted Malcolm with snow.

Despite waging war and orchestrating his troops against Sam, Patrick didn't miss Libby's front door opening. She came out, bundled up in her down jacket, a hat pulled low over her eyes. Sadly, Grace had spotted her too and a white ball smacked against Libby's woollen hat, making her shriek.

While Patrick debated high-fiving Grace and reprimanding her for friendly fire, Libby retaliated, sending a snowball flying towards Grace. She ducked and the missile landed squarely on Patrick's shoulder. Libby's hand went to her mouth, shocked she'd hit him.

My brother loves her, my best-friends love her, even my dad is fairly enamoured...

She laughed.

He hadn't seen her laugh, not really laugh, since Christmas Eve. Grinning, he scooped up a double handful of snow. Libby ran.

Still laughing she dashed behind the war memorial, dodged behind cars, but as they neared the surgery, her hiking boots failed to grip the snow and she slipped, giving him chance to catch her. He grabbed her jacket and dumped the snow over her head, sending the ice cold flakes down her collar. She squealed and with one leg, kicked his legs from under him.

As he fell backwards, his fingers tightened, clutching at her jacket and pulling her with him. He thudded onto the snowy pavement and she landed on top of him. Hidden by his Land Rover from the rest of the Square, they were cocooned in their own winter wonderland and her body relaxed against his.

'How the hell do you do that?' he asked, laughing. Snowflakes dusted her hat, her eyelashes, her nose. Why couldn't it be like this all the time? 'I've missed you.'

'It's been twenty-four hours.'

Thirty-one actually. 'A very long twenty-four hours.'

'I hear you're going to be an uncle.'

'I hear you had tea with my family.'

'You and your brother look so alike, I thought he was you when he answered the door.'

'He likes you.' She'd make a great sister-in-law.

Patrick suppressed a shiver and tucked her fringe under the hat, taking his time to just look at her, to breathe in her perfume. You're not ballet, are you? Had she really meant that? Her pretty grey eyes gazed down at him. Sod it. He kissed her. Roses and sweet peas.

Oh Christ, she kissed him back and for a few blissful seconds it was Christmas Day again. The whole world was new and they could do anything they wanted. A war cry brought him crashing back to reality.

'We can't do this,' she whispered, pulling out of his arms and sitting up.

'I know, but I was thinking... we could escape for a couple of days.' Jesus, he hadn't intended to throw that out there so early. In bed later, maybe.

'What do you mean?'

'Go somewhere. Get away from prying eyes.'

She glanced at her hands, playing with a handful of snow. 'Come to London with me?'

'You're really going?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because I want to see if... You said I should stop looking for distractions and stop pretending my past didn't happen. You're right. My life isn't ruined. It just needs to be different.'

'But why London? You can teach here.' He sat up, sighing.

'But what if I can have my old life back? If I use the Broken Ballerina to market myself, maybe I might just get another fifteen minutes, maybe I could get a few roles, small solos.'

'You want to dance again?' You're not ballet, are you? She did mean it.

'Just for a few months-'

'If you do, you won't come back.'

'Maybe, I don't know.' She took a deep breath. 'But... I hear they have cows in Surrey.'

What the fuck? He stared at her. Was she serious?

'It's okay,' she said, standing up and shaking her head. 'Whatever I'm imagining in my pretty little head, it's never going to happen.'

'Libs, be fair.' He sat on his heels, leaning against his Land Rover. 'I'm trying to hang on to my life here. I'm not going to throw it all away and move to London.'

She nodded and headed back to cottage.

'Libby...'

She turned back to him. 'Look, I really like you, I think you already know that, but I really, really like you and I don't want, I can't cope with the random attention you're willing to give.'

'Lib-'

'Patrick, I love you.'

Why did girls have to do this? 'Can't we just-'

'You might be happy with the under the Wraydar fling, discreet nights out where no one sees who you're with, but I've tried that and I hate it. I deserve better.' She wiped away tears with the back of her hand. 'The thing is, I admire what you're doing, I really do, but I don't think this is just about the ultimatum and I have no intention of ending up like Nicole, wasting four years of my life, only for you to run two hundred miles because you're scared of commitment.'

And she walked away.