♥♥♥ Author's Note ♥♥♥
So here's another 'bonus' chapter - this time I'd really like your opinion. My very first Beta reader of Distraction said she was a little underwhelmed with why Libby gave up ballet. Okay, it's believeable, but she was expecitng something a little more dramatic. So I had this idea... Check it out and let me know what you think!
Oh, this is Chapter Twenty-Four, when Libby tells Patrick about being a ballerina.
♥♥♥ Happy Reading ♥♥♥
Saturday night. He could've done anything, gone anywhere. He could've got drunk, got stoned, rang Miss Haverton and got laid. Instead, Patrick had chosen to visit Miss Olivia Wilde and now he sat willing her to speak. What the hell was wrong with him being English? And what was with the secrecy over being a ballerina?
Libby opened her mouth, no doubt to voice her usual none of your business response, but instead she ate a forkful of potatoes, never dropping her eye contact with him. What was going on behind those pretty grey eyes?
'I grew up in Brize Norton.' She took a sharp breath, as if the admission shocked her. 'It's honestly not that interesting.'
Oh, it is. 'Go on.'
'My mum was a senior officer in the RAF, my dad god-knows what for the MOD. I learned not to bother asking.'
'Brothers or sisters?'
'Two brothers, Lucas and Connor, but they're ten years younger than me, so I was an only child for ages. Originally, I wanted to fly planes, like Mum used to, so she taught me to toughen up. Judo, kick-boxing, generally how to take someone down-'
'Like Andy?'
She laughed a little. 'Like Andy. But she didn't want me to grow up a tomboy, so she picked girly hobbies. Horse-riding, Brownies, piano lessons and ballet. I was eight when I saw my first ballet. The Nutcracker. I took one look at the Sugar Plum Fairy and decided to be a ballerina not a fighter pilot when I grew up. I worked hard, took it seriously and got into the Royal Ballet School.'
'Is that where Zoe went too?'
'We met on the first day and we've been best friends ever since. God, I missed her when she left London, but we stayed friends. She went to university and I turned professional. I joined the corps of the English National Ballet.' She sipped her wine, smiling at the ceiling. 'It was like some kind of fairy tale and I was starring in it. They paid me to dance and by the time I was twenty-two I was a senior soloist, well on my way to being a principle.'
'What happened?'
She dug into her steak, her frown deepening, but she wasn't crying and after several mouthfuls she carried on. 'One day, we were rehearsing and my dance partner... he dropped me. I landed badly and fractured my ankle in three places.'
'Ah, the ankle that hurt when I mowed you down. Surely they pinned it?'
'Yes, but it was never the same. When you're in a company, you work hard. Class, rehearsals, performances. It adds up to eight hours dancing a day.'
'Jesus.'
'And my ankle couldn't take it. It hurts too much to dance.'
Something was off. Her tone had turned monotonous, as if she were reciting a script, and she'd become fascinated with her French beans, picking at them with her fork. How many owners had he questioned and seen that same guilt over the half-truth they'd answered with?
'And that's it?'
A frown scarred her face and he didn't miss the tell-tale wobble of her bottom lip. Maybe he shouldn't push it, but Libby didn't strike him as the kind of girl who'd quit because her ankle hurt.
'There's something else, isn't there?' he asked, quietly.
'How's your steak?'
Ah, the old distraction technique. 'It's perfect. And?'
He expected to play a little more of the quick fire question game, but she looked up, her eyes filled with uncertainty.
'Libs?' You can tell me.
'I quit because...' She paused to suck in a deep breath. 'Because it's really hard to dance when you can't hear the music.'
He stared at her, disbelieving what he'd heard. She couldn't be deaf. He'd have known. He almost had a sixth sense in understanding what was wrong without being told. It was his job. 'But you're not deaf.'
'Not entirely, no.'
'But...' He sat back, trying not to look shocked. Poor Libby.
'If you could see the look on your face, you'd understand why I don't tell anyone. I don't need you to feel sorry for me.'
Clearly not looking shocked was impossible and how could he not feel sorry for her?
She tucked her hair behind her ears, her brow etched with deep lines. 'Look, just forget about it. Your food's getting cold.'
'But...' Christ, he had to come up with something better than but. 'Sorry, Libby. I'm... I had no idea. You never seem to-'
'Well, I'm not actually deaf. I have about fifty percent hearing. Thirty-forty, left-right, if you want specifics.' She picked up her fork, her cheeks flushing as she nodded to his plate, but her shoulders had relaxed, as if she'd unloaded her burden. 'Seriously, cold food sucks.'
Doing as he was told, he shovelled up the cream-laden potatoes. All the times they'd hung out, he'd never suspected. At the football, the evening she'd lost her job, the night Andy harassed her - never a hint she couldn't hear. She'd listened as if... Patrick almost laughed at himself. She listened. She listened more than anyone he'd met. Always attentive, never looking away when people spoke. Even now, she habitually glanced up through the fringe.
'You lip read,' he said.
She nodded. 'And I study people. It fills in the gaps, the words I miss. It's trickier if there're other noises around and my hearing's better at either end of the spectrum, so kids and men are okay. Some women are a nightmare. I can barely hear Zoe at times.'
The time he'd called round to ask Zoe for Hyssop, Zoe had rapped on the table to get Libby's attention. 'But she knows?'
'Of course she knows.' She didn't look up as her cheeks flushed. 'I can hear you.'
What, more than anyone else? It was only the mouthful of sirloin that stopped his grin.
'It's your accent,' she explained, 'and you speak really clearly. Rob does too.'
Robbie? At Matilda's birthday party, Libby had ignored Robbie. Patrick had assumed she'd done it to snub him, but she'd had her back to them. Robbie hadn't spoken loudly enough. She hadn't heard him.
'Rob doesn't know, does he?'
She shook her head. 'I thought I'd have to tell him, but I can hear him and the kids so I just didn't. I hate people feeling sorry for me. Crikey, he feels bad enough about sacking me. Can you imagine how guilty he'd feel if he'd had to sack the deaf girl?'
'He should feel guilty. You shouldn't have lost your job.' Patrick kicked her ankle under the table, teasing her. 'And stop being so dramatic. You're not deaf.'
And the angelic smile returned. 'No, I'm not.'
With her tension released, he relaxed. 'What caused it, some virus?'
'No. Otosclerosis. The bones in my ear fused together. I hadn't even noticed my hearing getting bad. When I broke my ankle, a doctor in the hospital picked up on it.'
'Is it a genetic thing?'
'They think it's hereditary, but there's no family link. There often isn't.'
'Can't they do anything about it?'
'They did.' She put her fork down, resting her elbow on the table. 'I had the surgery, got the implants, but this is what I'm left with.'
Shit. If medical science had done its best, he couldn't offer her anything but a shoulder to cry on and he wanted... well, he wanted to fix her. The notion surprised him, but then again, it was his job to fix broken things. Christ, this was a cracking steak. For someone who didn't look like they ate much, the girl could cook. A half-deaf ballerina who could cook -didn't see that one coming.
'Olivia Wilde, it's very nice to finally meet you.' He held out his hand, grinning as she shook it. 'But you can actually hear. Don't orchestras make enough of a racket?'
'If it was just me on stage, then yes, but with thirty others dancing around me on a Victorian stage? There's too much background noise. The beat gets lost.'
'But can't you do that? Dance on your own, I mean.'
She shook her head. 'You have to be famous to get away with odd solo role. Besides... I... in the end, I just wasn't as good as I used to be. God, I tried so hard to keep going, but the black cloud on the horizon kept getting bigger and bigger. In my last ballet, I was a cygnet in Swan Lake. My ankle was agony plus I had a broken metatarsal and two stress fractures in my right shin.'
'You danced with a broken foot?'
'I had to. I wasn't letting some corps wannabe steal my place.'
'You're certifiable.'
She laughed. Finally. 'One night, I'd taken so many painkillers, my head was fuzzy and I missed my cue. I mean, ninety-eight percent of the audience wouldn't have known, but I buggered it up and I have the DVD to prove it. I'd rather not dance than be second best.'
'Ob... sess... sive.'
Her smile grew. 'I don't like making mistakes.'
'You have very high expectations of yourself.'
'Oh, come on. Your mum's a vet, your dad's a vet and your big brother is a vet. You wanted to be one too. How would you have felt if you'd failed?'
An excellent point. Christ, this could be him if his dad sacked him. What would he do, if he couldn't be a vet? Somehow he doubted he'd be dealing with it even half as well as Libby. And she wasn't dealing with it at all.
'Why don't you teach ballet?'
'And why would I want to teach ballet? Every day I'd send a mini-me off to live my dream. Every day I'd be reminded I was a failure.'
Her bitterness surprised him.
'It's not your fault, Libs. You need to give yourself a break.'
She let out a huge sigh. 'I know, but it's hard. I loved my job. The routine, the perfection, the pain. God, the adrenalin rush of being on stage, under the lights, hearing the music... I miss it, but I've sacrificed too much to waste my time being some second-rate failure.'
'Sacrificed what?'
'My family.'
'Why aren't you in Sydney?'
'I don't want to give you the satisfaction of getting full custody.'
She returned the kick to his ankle under the table and for a moment they grinned at each other. Jesus, they'd be flirting next.
'Why are your family in Sydney and you're not?'
'They emigrated when I was sixteen. I refused, point blank, to leave the Royal Ballet School so they went and I stayed.'
'You could've gone after your accident. Think how big a distraction a whole new country would've been.'
'Don't take the piss.' Sadness filled her face.
'Sorry.' He meant it.
'I can't face my mum. I rejected them for ballet and I can see the disappointment in her face. I failed in my dream and I failed my family.'
He closed his eyes, knowing the same shame she was feeling. He was a coward. Here he was giving her a hard time for keeping things to herself, but he had no intention of telling anyone that he had a noose hanging over his head. Failed? Libby hadn't failed. Life had dealt her a crap hand. Patrick was the one who'd failed. He'd let everyone down. But no more.
His plate was empty, hers almost as she put her knife and fork together.
'Man, that was fit as, by the way,' he said. 'The steak was perfectly cooked and the potatoes... actually, can I have the rest of yours?'
She laughed as he switched their plates and began hovering up her leftovers. 'Zoe taught me. She still says I'm rubbish, but I think my paella rocks.'
'A bold statement you'll have to prove.'
Her answering smile definitely crossed the flirting border.
'I can't help noticing that you're not crying,' he said, trying not to grin.
'Yes, I'd noticed that too. I suppose, things have changed.'
'Why?'
'Moving here. This life.' She paused, toying with her glass. 'Rob.'
He drained his wine. 'You're not still likely to go bunny boiler, are you?'
'No. He just raised my expectations. He...' She pressed her lips together, staring at her fingers as they tapped against her glass.
'Do you think your dad being so secretive made it impossible for you to be open?'
'I hate you,' she said, blushing a little.
'Rob raised your expectations and...'
'I don't want to have this conversation.'
'For god's sake.' He pushed his empty plate away, laughing. 'Let me guess, Mister Romantic has shown you that you can love something more than ballet.'
Her cheeks turned another three shades pinker.
'What would've happened if Vanessa decided not to come back? Would you have played happily families?'
'Probably. I liked the life.'
'Marriage, kids, dog, cat, tumbledown farmhouse?'
She nodded.
'Why do all girls want the married thing?'
'What's wrong with it?'
He shrugged. 'I ran two hundred miles from the last girl who suggested it.'
'Commitment-phobe.' She tucked her hair behind her ears and gathered up their plates, but he didn't miss that her smile had fallen.
'Hey, your dream is to have what Rob has. This is the guy you were shagging while his wife buggered off with a viola player. What's so great about that set-up?'
'Who was she, the girl you ran away from? The one who scarred you for life.'
'Nicole. We met at vet school.' He cleared the table, putting the peppermill and placemats away as she quietly directed. 'But she hasn't scarred me. She was my almost. I still don't get what's so great about persevering with the same person forever.'
'Commitment-phobe.' She flashed him that angelic, shy smile. 'How are they, Rob and Vanessa?'
'Happy. Very happy. More so than I've known for a long time.'
'I'm glad.' And she nodded, looking genuinely pleased.
Together they pottered around the kitchen. He washed the griddle pan as she stacked the dishwasher. He liked that she got on with it, not needing to fill the silence with inane chatter. Nicole used to hate silence, but Libby lived in it. He left the pan on the draining board and dried his hands, watching as she wiped down the worktops. She even managed that with effortless, graceful movements.
He'd come to assume she'd didn't possess anything other than jodhpurs and mini-skirts, but jeans worked on her. Okay, they covered her perfect legs, but they were tight and low cut, showing off her trim waist as she reached up to put things in the cupboard. In fact, Libby looked hot in jeans. Shame about the bloody awful black stripes in her hair.
'So,' he asked, 'is the rock chick look part of denying you were ever a ballerina?'
'No. Seventeen year-old trailer trash has always been my off-duty style. I've always hated being nice.' She stuck her tongue out at him, but then laughed, flicking her hair back.
'You don't look much like a ballerina, aside from being so thin.'
'Don't say it like that. I've never been anorexic in my life, or come close.'
'I can't see you in a tutu, looking pretty.'
The dish cloth hit his shoulder. 'I'll show you, mister.'
She ran upstairs and he half-expected her to come back down in a tutu. Instead, she returned with a thick photo album and they headed outside with the wine. In the fading light of the late September evening, he sat on the rickety bench as she opened the album near the back, pointing to a photo of a Libby he'd never seen before - maybe he'd seen a hint of it when she was in her running gear. In a pink and purple dress, stood on the tip toe of one foot with the other leg lifted behind her, she looked... beautiful. Jesus Christ. He poured more wine, trying not to show how floored he was.
'See? Me in a tutu, pretty.'
'Passable.' Perfect. No. Don't get hung up on her. Not her. Robbie's too good a friend to break the Off Limits rule. And Michael Wray would be on us like a rash. 'Christ, you were even thinner then. You're just sticks with muscle. And you can see your chest bones. That can't be right.'
'I was a ballet dancer. It's what we look like. Do you have to focus on the fact I have no tits?'
Without bothering to be subtle, he glanced down to compare now with then, making her laugh. He shrugged, trying not to smile. 'Not so bad now.'
'Try admiring my fabulous legs and perfect arm positions. This is when I was the Sugar Plum Fairy, my dream come true.' She gulped her wine. 'You've no idea how much I miss it, but hey, I couldn't drink bottles of wine back then.'
'It's a whole different world.' He shook his head and flicked back to the start of the album. 'Can I?'
She nodded.
He absorbed himself in Libby's life, smiling briefly at the snaps of little Libby in her first tutu, laughing at the stick insect teenager. In one photo, she stood with an equally stick insect girl with dark hair and bad skin.
'Christ, is that Zoe? I never knew her when she was a teenager. She's thinner than you.'
Libby took a long drag on her cigarette. 'I know you mock me, saying I'm too skinny, but that's just the way I am. I eat well and exercise a lot. Zoe's different. Thanks to Maggie's hideous influence, Zoe's had a hard core battle with food since she was seven.'
'Maggie, why?'
Libby explained how those long summers that little Zoe Horton had spent in Gosthwaite, were really six weeks of bullying hell and guilt swamped him. He'd have been thirteen the day he, Zoe and a few others went blackberry picking. With purple fingers and faces, they'd eaten until their stomach's hurt. When Zoe's tutu got stuck in the brambles, he'd rescued her, but she'd started crying, upset over the shredded netting. A soft touch for tears, even then, he'd walked her home to explain to Maggie what had happened. But Maggie hadn't cared about the tutu, only the evidence of the blackberries around Zoe's mouth. Her first question wasn't for her great-niece's well-being. It was, what have you been eating. Poor Zoe.
He skipped forward and smiled at a portrait of Libby dressed in a black and purple tutu. Her poker straight hair was white blonde, her lips bare, her eyes coated with the usual black eye make-up. Stood on her toes, hands on hips with the nonchalant attitude he knew so well, she looked about twenty and someone the twenty-six year-old him would've quite happily shagged.
His favourite photo was taken in rehearsal. She sat with a friend against a mirrored wall, wearing a leotard and legwarmers like she'd worn the night Andy hassled her. Her hair was pulled back, her face make-up free and her smile... That was her, the real Libby, the one he'd seen when she wasn't hiding behind the black crap and fringe.
She leant in, peeking at the photo and her subtle floral perfume filled his head.
'You actually look very pretty when you're not wearing the black crap,' he said, unable to stop himself.
'We had to attend grooming classes, to make sure our eyebrows were waxed, our complexions flawless. It took a lot of effort to look that perfectly natural, I can tell you. I rebelled against it.'
She flicked over the page, flinching at the photo of her lying in a hospital bed with her foot in plaster. The girl in the photo smiled, the one next to him looked to be on the verge of tears for the first time.
'You okay?' he asked, his voice quiet. Don't cry, Libs.
'I had no idea my life was ruined at that stage. I thought I'd be out of action for a few weeks, then back at class.'
Patrick nudged her. 'It's not ruined. It just needs to be different.'
The last photos were of her in a white tutu. 'Then it was over.'
'Your life's not ruined. You'll see.'
She closed the album and sat back.
'What's it like?' he asked.
'Being a ballerina?'
'Not being able to hear properly.'
'Isolating.' She turned to him and placed her hands over his ears. 'Put your hands over mine.'
The white noise surprised him but not so much as watching Libby's mouth move and not hearing her words. He strained to listen, to block out the sound of... what was that? Blood pumping through his head?
'...best way to explain it.'
Her fingers were in his hair, her face a foot away from his, his hands covering her soft, small ones. He couldn't breathe. Was it claustrophobia, caused by having one of his senses taken away?
'... forgotten what's it's like... get used to it...'
Or was it her? She'd stopped talking and they were simply stared at each other. He could just kiss her. He could hold her hand, walking through the woods, have easy conversations over dinner in the pub. Kiss her. No, that wasn't an option. She's off limits.
He pulled away.
'More wine?' she muttered.
Without waiting for his answer, she ducked inside, taking the album with her. Christ, he had to be careful. A few glasses of wine would be okay, but they shouldn't get pissed because if they did... He'd seen the signs: the smiles, the gazes. He'd probably given enough himself. She might be recovering from Robbie, but Libby so would. And he would too. Thankfully, when she returned, her smile in place once again, she lit the patio heater and they sat in separate chairs around the table. Safer.
'God, everyone's going to know, aren't they? What if Lynda asks me and I cry in the middle of the post office?'
'I'd be surprised if anyone else recognises you. I only did because you mentioned Paolo the other week and... you sit like that a lot.'
'No, I...' Libby lifted her head off her knees, glancing down at her arms hugging them. 'Oh.'
'You know, I think you're going about this whole distraction thing all wrong. You can't just pretend the last twenty years of your life didn't happen. You'd been dancing when Andy came round, hadn't you?'
She nodded.
'You need to get it back in your life.'
She shook her head.
'Don't you think it's a wee bit fateful that you've ended up in Maggie's cottage?' He waited, but she shook her head. In denial. 'Clara's mum used to be a ballerina too.'
'I know.'
'She has a dance studio in Haverton.'
'I know.'
'You could go there. To dance.'
'No. What I need is a decent career.'
She forced a smile to stop her lip wobbling and he knew to shut up. He didn't want to ruin a perfectly good evening by making her cry.
'Okay, a new career,' he said. 'A... Artist? Architect? Air Hostess? Actor? Anaesthetist? Do you have any GCSEs?'
'Bugger off, of course I do. I also have Dance, English and French A-Levels, all As, and a First Class degree in Performing Arts and Dance. Not sure if that'll get me into medical school though so forget Anaesthetist. And we can skip B. I'm starting my barmaid life tomorrow and as we've already discussed, I don't have the boobs to be a beauty queen.'
He laughed along, loving how she didn't take herself too seriously. 'C... Clown? You have the make-up skills for it.'
She punched his arm and they settled into an easy routine mocking one another. Although the lingering regret of a missed opportunity didn't abate, he kept his distance. She was Michael Wray's target and Off Limits. Besides, he liked spending time with her. If he shagged her, it'd be over. Being friends was better.
♥♥♥ Author Note ♥♥♥
So what do think? Should I make Libby half-deaf? I kinda like it, but maybe it's an unness rewrite.
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