Chapter Fifteen

Xander shook his head, but it only made Libby smile.

'Too happy,' he said. 'Seriously, you always have this stupid grin. A couple of weeks ago, you looked ready to top yourself.'

Libby fixedly focussed on the bridleway. Did she look happy? Most likely. Was she? Most definitely. For the past two weeks her life had surpassed the idyllic rural dream. The sun had shone, her job was great, Jack had finished at the house, Andy stayed away, and every day, she got to shag Mr Robbie Golding.

Twice he'd surprised her by turning up after lunch. The first time, they'd enjoyed another romp in the hay barn, and the second time ended up with a much less itchy romp up against the wall in Jupiter's stable. After her initial experimentation with Andy, the up-against-the-wall-shag had risen tenfold in Libby's estimation.

But the evenings were the best. With Tallulah at Pony Club Camp, Libby would pop back to Low Wood Farm after Robbie had tucked Dora and Matilda into bed. He'd often cook dinner and after, they'd talk, laugh and behave utterly inappropriately in front of the fire.

Two weeks. For two weeks, she'd enjoyed a horribly secret, but blissful relationship with Robbie. Okay, relationship might be pushing it. They'd never spend the night together or hold hands walking down the street. All she'd get would be illicit moments until his wife came back, but he'd raised Libby's standards. You were either Somebody or a Distraction and now she knew enough to make the distinction. Robbie taught her to expect more.

'Ten miles,' Xander said, still shaking his head. 'I've been asking for ten miles and you still haven't told me. Who is he?'

She slowed to a jog as they approached the Square. 'Are you all set for the party? Burgers, chicken drumsticks, pasta salads... cake?'

'All in hand.'

'And you haven't forgotten that two of Matilda's friends can't eat dairy?'

'Cheese separated from the meat and rolls.'

'And the cake?'

'Pastry chef has promised a fairy princess palace with glitter, sugar work and Smarties.'

'Awesome.' Libby stopped outside her garden and pulled her right foot up behind her. 'Ring me if you need anything.'

Suddenly he pulled her into a hug, kissing the top of her head. 'Thank you, for everything you've done for Rob. I know you two are BFFs these days, but I bet he won't say how hard he finds it without Van. You doing things like Tilly's party, it means a lot, and I can see how much happier he's been for the last...'

Libby didn't like the way he stepped back frowning. Oh god, had he guessed? She flicked her plait off her shoulder refusing to shift her gaze under Xander's scrutiny.

'I've got to go,' she said. 'I'm varnishing skirting boards today.'

She braved a smile before, jogging into the garden, trying not to panic, but Xander was still stood staring at her with his hands on his head. He'd guessed.

*

The camera clicked. Pay dirt.

'It's me. I got her.'

'Who with?' Michael Wray asked.

'You're going to love this.'

The expectant pause hovered between them.

'Alexander Golding.'

*

Three fields from away from the farmhouse, shielded from the world by dense oak woods, Libby sat by the river, adoring the warmth of the August sunshine. She ought to put her vest and shorts back on, just in case, but the glorious decadence of being naked in the open was too good an opportunity to miss. She smiled as Robbie, still shirtless, poured glasses of Prosecco. A lazy picnic by the river, what better way to spend their day off?

'A girl could get used to this,' she said, kissing his shoulder.

'So could a guy.' Robbie handed her a glass, but despite the setting, the beautiful day, the spine-melting sex, the frown he'd had earlier made a return.

'What's wrong?'

Sighing, he took a newspaper from the rucksack. 'Trouble. Not front page news, but page five. You and Xander.'

'But I've never touched Xander.' Her words were little more than a whisper as she took the paper.

The headline said Running Around and underneath were three photos of her and Xander in various stages of hugging. The third snap showed Xander kissing her head.

Trophy hunting new-comer, Libby Wilde, bags another Gosthwaite celebrity... After a torrid affair with PC Andy Chapman... reports of them naked on Black Fell... Local girl, Grace Newton, confirmed Wilde and Golding run together most mornings. 'I'm not saying they're up to anything, but they do seem very close, and he's not the first man she's lured from his girlfriend. But I'm sure her and Xander just like running together.'

'What the hell is that rag doing?' Libby pulled on her vest, shame scouring her. Poor Xander, poor Daisy. 'We're not famous, or even Z-list celebrities.'

'But it sells papers.'

'Why me?'

'You're new.'

How could she leave the safety of Low Wood Farm? People would stare, whispering behind her back. This was why Robbie had suggested a picnic in the woods.

'You know it's not true?' she asked quietly.

'Of course. When was it?'

'Yesterday. That's all it was, a hug and he kissed my head.' She buttoned up her shorts, and sat staring at the river, hugging her knees. 'Oh god, I'm the village whore.'

'Lib...'

'No, I am.'.

'It's just a silly local news story.'

'But it's true.' She lit a cigarette with shaking hands. 'All I wanted was a new start. Find a decent job, make a few friends, maybe meet someone. Now, I'm a home wrecking tramp.'

'No-'

'The worst of it is that it's true, just the wrong brother.' She sipped her wine, determined not to cry. 'What if we get caught?'

'No one can see us here.'

'What if they see us somewhere else, if we get lazy? They'll put us in the paper too.'

'Does it matter?'

Libby stared at him. Did it matter? Of course if mattered. It would destroy his marriage. 'How did you meet her?'

Robbie propped himself up on one elbow. 'What?'

'I'm an ego boost. Let's not forget what you really want.'

'Libby, this isn't the time. We've just-'

'How did you meet her?'

For a moment, Robbie stared her. 'We... we were doing a photo shoot at Oscar's, the wine bar in Haverton? My parents own it and I used to manage it. She was the model we'd been sent.'

'Did she look beautiful?'

He nodded. 'I couldn't take my eyes off her. All legs in a little black dress. This is weird, Lib.'

'I won't rip your marriage apart. What happened?'

He lay on his back and lit one of her cigarettes. 'While I was still working out how to get her in bed, she came over. She thought I was the model she'd be working with and just stood there, twittering about the last shoot she did and how she hated waiting around because it made her nervous. All I did was stare at her. She has the greenest eyes, like Tilly's, and I loved listening to her talk.'

'Why?'

Robbie glanced round. 'Her accent. It's cute. Adorable.'

Libby tried to ignore the jealousy building inside her as Robbie's eyes softened. He wasn't hers. He loved Vanessa. 'So did you ask her out?'

'I... to begin with I just wanted to get her into bed.'

'You cad.' Libby tickled him.

'In my defence, I was twenty.' He smiled. 'But when she said she was nervous, I asked if a drink would help and went behind the bar. She realised I wasn't the model and she blushed.' He laughed, gently. 'Christ, when she blushed... that's when I knew.'

'She was your Somebody.'

Slowly, he nodded, his eyes filled with pain and Libby pulled him close, hugging him.

'She'll come back, Rob.'

'You don't know that.'

'Oh I do, because the more time I spend with you the less I understand why she went in the first place. Shagging you is better than dancing at Covent Garden. How's your ego?'

'Boosted.' He kissed the top of her head. 'Do you want to stop this? Us, I mean.'

'No.' She didn't think she could if she tried. 'I need the distraction.'

'From ballet?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me about it.'

She shook her head, holding him a little tighter. 'Maybe one day, but not today.'

*

The green track beneath his wheels improved Patrick's mood with each passing minute. Biking in Spain had been challenging, but the brown, dusty trails weren't a patch on his familiar route across the common and down through woods. It had to be the only good thing about coming home.

The day before, he'd got up early, planning a ride out, but his parents turned up and subjected him to an hour-long meeting on The Rules:

* Practice Hours are 9-5. Monday to Friday.

* Monday afternoons are at the Haverton surgery, pro bono.

* On call Monday-Thursday, rotating weekends with Fergus and Sarah.

* No newspaper articles

* No scandal

* No hard drugs

* Alcohol would be permitted when he wasn't working the next day

* Must consent to random drug testing

He wished he could tell them he understood, that he got it now, but he couldn't tell them because his mother would barely look at him. She'd hugged him, kissing his cheek, telling him it was lovely to have him back, but she wouldn't look him the eye.

I really am very ashamed to call you my son.

To make matters worse, once he'd finished with The Rules, he'd gone into the surgery, putting the kettle on as Grace unlocked the front door. He hadn't done that in a while - been there before her. Okay, she'd been happy to see him - throwing her arms around his neck and making him laugh, kind of happy, but then he'd asked about Hyssop.

'He's fine,' Grace had said. 'Her next door is looking after him.'

'I left him with you, not some stranger.'

'What could I do? He moved back in to Maggie's and she wanted to keep him.'

'And since Jack's allergic to cats, you didn't put up much of a fight.' He'd tried to stay calm, determined not to yell as he would have in the past, but Grace had let him down. Badly. 'Who the hell's her next door, anyway?'

'Don't you get the Haverton Eye emails in Spain?'

He'd shaken his head. Grace knew he hadn't paid any attention to that trash since they'd posted the pictures of him and the Cumbrian Businessman of the Year's wife, but when she'd dug a copy of the Gazette out of the recycling box and showed him page five, he'd had to smile. Xander was messing around with some blonde that wasn't Daisy.

'I'm guessing from the quote, there's no love lost between you two,' he'd said.

'It was payback.' Sighing, she showed him a photo from the blog on her phone.

Jack had been shagging around again - what a shocker. Patrick had peered at the tiny image, focussing on Olivia Wilde who was wearing nothing more than towel.

'Who is she?' he'd asked.

'Zoe, Maggie's niece, the one who inherited the house? It's her mate. Six weeks ago she was in the paper leaving PC Andy's house at seven in the morning, his hands on her arse, next minute she's got her hands on Jack's arse.' She'd tried to sound as though she didn't care, but her eyes filled with tears.

'Gracey, you've always been too good for Jack. Move on.' He'd held her face as he'd kissed her forehead. 'And get me the cat back.'

Get the cat back. Was it too much to ask? Apparently so. Grace had reluctantly admitted this Olivia Wilde wouldn't answer her calls, so Patrick had gone home to an empty house.

And it sucked.

He stood up on his pedals, punishing himself up the hill towards the woods, but already smiling in anticipation of the next descent - the best downhill for miles around. Pedalling hard, he turned into the woods, his knees soaking up every bump in the track. His flew over a bank, turning hard right to avoid a vast Douglas Fir. He still had it. The first time he'd taken the jump, he'd ploughed straight into the trunk, dislocating his shoulder, but never again.

Trees flew past. He ducked to avoid a low branch, but kept his eye on the track, lining up the next bend, spotting the apex, mentally preparing for a brief burst of effort before a huge rolling left-

Shit.

Someone's on the track.

He yelled as he swerved, but his back wheel clipped the runner and Patrick slammed into a branch. The bike fell away and he slid down a bank, dirt and stones dragging against his bare arms and legs.

Jesus Christ.

He sat up, the skin on his arms and legs stinging, but looked for her. She lay under a tree, holding her right leg in the air. He ignored the stabbing pain in his knee as he jogged up the hill, hoping she wasn't badly hurt.

'Are you okay?' He crouched next to her, waiting for his sunglasses to react to the dim light in the shade of the tree.

'I think I've twisted my ankle, nothing serious.' Not a local girl. She sounded posh, not upper-class posh, but well-spoken. She touched her face, flinching.

Finally, his sunglasses adjusted and he turned her chin, examining the graze on her cheek. Was this Olivia Wilde? Pretty. And her skimpy, skin-tight running gear covered little but showed off how toned she was. No wonder Jack had been tempted.

'It's a wee graze,' he said. 'You won't be scarred for life.'

She winced as she sat up. 'Are you okay? You're bleeding.'

He lifted a hand to his forehead and frowned at the drop of blood left on his finger. That explained the axe ripping his skull open. 'I'll live.'

He held out a hand, helping her to her feet, watching as she tentatively put her right foot on the ground. She swore and he tried not to smile. Was this fortuitous? Olivia Wilde needed his help and she had his cat. One good deed...

'Oh god, that bloody hurts.' She closed her eyes for a second, before taking a deep breath. 'Old injury. It'll be okay, just needs a couple of days to recover.'

'Think you can walk?' He hoped not. Helping Ms Wilde would hardly be a hardship.

She frowned, peering down the track, then shook her head. 'But it feels a bit melodramatic to ring the Mountain Rescue for a swollen ankle.'

'Wait here.' He scooted down to collect his mercifully still intact bike.

Her frown grew as he returned. 'I don't like bikes.'

'It's this, or walking.'

She swore several more times, but perched on the crossbar and clutched the inside of the handlebar. 'Please, be careful.'

Instead of going down, he pushed the bike back up the hill, detouring out of the woods as soon as he could, onto the smoother, grassy bridleway down to the village. He couldn't help smiling. Despite his banging head and burning pain on his grazed arm and leg, the day was already a hundred times better than yesterday. He had a damsel-in-distress on his crossbar.

'Okay, hold tight and... just don't do anything stupid.' He climbed on the bike, trying not to grin as he put his arms either side of her to take hold of the handlebars.

'Oh god,' she groaned, cowering into him.

A pretty damsel-in-distress who smelled of... roses. How could she smell of roses when she'd been running? As he changed gear, his face next to hers, he took a deep breath. Not just roses, roses and sweet peas, like the roses and the sweet peas his mum grew. She smelled like a god-damn flower garden, a Wilde flower garden. And this flower garden would owe him a favour.

Like giving me my cat back.

He peeked round at her, trying not to laugh. 'Why've you got your eyes shut?'

'Because this is terrifying. I haven't ridden on a crossbar since I was about twelve.'

'You run half-naked through the woods at seven in the morning and you think this is dangerous?'

He laughed, loving how she leaned against him. Should he seize the opportunity of a captive audience and ask for Hyssop back? Plenty of time for that.

'Open your eyes,' he said, his lips brushing her ear. 'It'll be less scary. We're really not going that fast.'

She opened her eyes and squeaked, cowering against him even more, her head against his shoulder. 'Oh god, we are. I really hate bikes.'

'Tough, I'm not carrying you back to the Square.'

He took another sneaky peek at her as they coasted down the track. Christ, she was small, skinny small, and he didn't think legs like that existed outside of air-brushed adverts - long, trim and very toned, the body of an athlete. Okay, her tits were underwhelming, but better that than the fake things Ms Haverton had stuck to her chest. Overall, Ms Wilde was a very nice package.

'How do you know where I live?' she asked.

'You're Olivia Wilde, aren't you? The girl who's been misbehaving with Jack and Xander.' He regretted his piss-taking when she straightened her back, putting an inch or two between them. 'Sorry. I don't really know anything. Just rumours.'

But she didn't relax which would make this a very bad time to ask about Hyssop. She might say no, just to be obtuse. He leaned forward to give his most sincere smile, to show her he wasn't a bad guy, but she looked away, her eyes shining.

'Hey, look. I'm sorry.' Why did girls always cry?

'Look, it's...'

'Don't worry about the paper. Everyone knows they make up half of what they print.' Unless it was about him, then it was usually true.

She didn't speak for the rest of the ride down, though after an unavoidable cattle grid made her shriek with pain, she did at least lean against him again.

Roses and sweet peas.

Carefully, he stopped outside her house and helped her off the bike. 'Do you need a hand to get into the house?'

She turned, hopping on her left foot, and smiled.

And when she smiled, pretty became angelic.

Jesus.

*

In the woods, with his back to the light, all she knew was he looked tall, had curly hair and a slight Scottish accent. On the bike, she'd discovered he was fit. She'd ogled the thigh muscles, admired the arms, and couldn't resist leaning back against his shoulders, but the rest was a mystery. A mystery until she turned around and he lifted his sunglasses.

Ohmigod.

A mop of black curls, hazel eyes, great cheekbones... Crikey, he even had an adorable smattering of freckles across his nose.

'I'll be fine, thanks,' she said, trying not to stare.

He flashed a smile as he held out his hand. 'Nice to meet you, Olivia-'

'Oh, I only get called Olivia when I'm being fired,' she said, shaking his hand. Rough hands, nice. 'It's Libby the rest of the time.'

'Then it's nice to meet you, Libby. I'm Patrick.'

Patrick? She glanced to the corner house next to hers. 'You're Patrick, the vet?'

He nodded, still smiling, but preparing to leave. 'I'm Patrick, the vet.'

Aware she was definitely staring, but too bemused to do anything else, Libby watched him peddle away, heading for the lane between their houses.

'Oh, and Libby?' He paused. 'I want my cat back.'

Bemusement vanished. 'He's not your cat.'

Smiling up at the sky, he circled around, cycling back to her. Crikey, he had something about him and not just a fit body. The irritating thing was she knew from his easy-going smile he only wanted one thing. Her cat.

'How is Hyssop?' he asked.

'Healthy. Happy. At home.'

Patrick laughed. 'I want him back.'

'Not happening.'

He glanced at his watch. 'As much as I'd like to debate this now, how about we discuss it tonight? Seven o'clock, Alfred? I'll buy you a drink to say sorry for nearly killing you.'

Libby faced up to him, with her hands on hips. 'Alfred's a bit tricky. As I'm sure you know, Grace and I don't get along.'

'Yes, she mentioned why. She still won't take Jack back.'

Libby folded her arms, desperate to flee. She had to walk away. Now.

'I wouldn't worry about it. I've been telling her to dump him for years.' Patrick leaned on his handlebars, his eyes filled with amusement. 'Black Bull?'

'Even worse. Andy might be there.'

'You've been here two months and you've already stirred up a hornets' nest.'

'I'll give it a miss, thanks.'

'Alfred it is. Grace won't say anything if I'm there. Tell you what, I'll call for you on the way then you don't even have to walk in on your own.'

'Wow, you're almost making it sound like a date. Will you bring flowers? I adore peach roses.'

'It's not a date.' He grinned, blatantly looking her over. 'It's a custody battle.'

'Planning to ply me with booze until I say yes?'

'Will it work?'

She shook her head.

'Then I won't rely on booze.' He shot her a wink then pedalled away again. 'Seven o'clock.'

Seven o'clock. She had a... custody battle with Patrick the vet. It wasn't a date, but guilt swamped her as she hopped into the house. Hyssop, as ever, padded down the stairs to meet her, mewing a hello. She sat on the bottom step, stroking his head.

'Do you want to go back to Patrick?'

He mewed again. Was that a yes or a no?

'I mean, because, if you want to, then I'd understand. You've probably known him for longer, but...' I don't want you to go.

Hyssop rubbed his head against her chin before plodding back upstairs, no doubt curling up as he usually did, on her bed. It was as if he'd said, don't worry, I'm staying. No way was Patrick taking him, no matter how much he fluttered his eyelashes. God, but he had amazing eyelashes.

She should tell Robbie. He wouldn't mind. When she got to work, she'd tell him. But despite plenty of opportunities, she hadn't told Robbie. He'd come back in the afternoon and helped her round the yard, good-naturedly telling her off for over-using her ankle. After work, he poured her a glass of wine, but when he asked if she was coming round later, she'd lied and said Zoe wanted to go out for a drink. He'd nodded, his disappointment clear, but by then it was too late to tell him the truth.

It wasn't a date.