Chapter Twenty-One

How could it be such a perfect day when she felt so hideous? Not even a single cotton wool cloud dotted the sky, and the forecast promised a twenty-two degree afternoon. What she wanted was grey, miserable and perhaps a little drizzle. A dreadful night's sleep hadn't helped her hangover and her hangover hadn't helped her mortification over the previous day's newspaper.

Not wanting to look so depressed when she saw Matilda or Dora, Libby shook her head, dismissing her melancholy. Besides, on the plus side, it was a beautiful day, not too hot. She could take Shakes out in the morning and school an ever more responsive Dolomite in the afternoon. And she needed to see, Robbie, to have a hug, to give a hug.

In the yard, he stood by the Land Rover in a t-shirt and jeans. Someone else was strapping the girls in. Oh god, no. Robbie was too busy laughing, smiling, looking exactly like the love of his life had come home to notice Libby, but when Vanessa straightened, her ridiculously glossy black bobbed hair blowing in the breeze, she spotted Libby and her smile disappeared. For the longest time, the two women stared at each other, their eye contact only broken when Robbie kissed his wife's head, whispering something.

Libby held onto the gate, needing its support. Vanessa was back. Libby was sacked.

Run. Turn and run.

She clutched the gate. The Land Rover drove away, leaving her and Robbie staring at each other. Did she love him, was that what had happened? Is that why this was hurting so badly?

Run.

But she didn't run. She opened the gate and faced him with her head held high, her back straight and the knowledge that she'd walk away looking exactly the same.

'So how does this work?' she asked when she was six feet from him. 'Do I make it easy and quit, get made redundant because you don't need a babysitter now the mother of your children is back, or am I fired for shagging the boss?'

'I'm sorry, Lib.' He closed his eyes for a moment, before heading into the house. 'Come on.'

He'd put the kettle on and was waiting for her, his hands in his pockets, leaning against the Aga. Libby perched on the table, staring at him. Three days ago, he'd been planning to spend the night together. They'd spent the night together. He'd said what if. What if, what if, what if.

She walked out.

In the yard, Storm kicked at her door, demanding her breakfast, and although Libby already knew she was no longer employed at Low Wood Farm, she prepared the morning feed buckets, using the routine to pull herself together.

This was her fault. She should never have got involved with a married man. She should've stuck to being his friend, an ear to bend, but instead she'd welcomed the ultimate distraction and now, she'd have nothing. She should've listened to Patrick, to her own bloody conscience.

By the time she dropped the last bucket into Shakespeare's stable, Robbie was already sitting on the bench with two mugs of tea. She paused, watching Shakespeare, her equine best friend, as he hoovered up his nuts and sugar beet. No more Shakespeare, no more Dolomite. No more distraction.

And that's what hurt. She didn't love Robbie. She'd miss their chats, his advice, his friendship, but it was the job she loved, the horses. What had she done? With a bravery she didn't feel, she joined him on the bench, taking a tea, offering him a cigarette. He shook his head.

'I promised to quit,' he said.

'I should too,' she said, lighting one, 'but not today. So when did she get back?'

'I went to see her last night.'

'Why didn't you warn me?' They'd be too busy kissing and making up, no doubt.

He leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. 'They were supposed to be gone by the time you got here. You were early. Would you have preferred a text?'

She pulled her feet up, hugging her knees. 'Are you okay? Happy?'

He nodded.

'Did you tell her about me?'

'She'd seen the paper, some kind soul emailed her a link to the paper's website, but yes, I told her all about you.'

'She's very beautiful, more so than in photos. I can see where the girls get it from. I mean, Dora and Tallulah clearly take after you-'

'The stroppy, grumpy pain in the arse?' he tugged her hair.

'Opinionated, confident, outspoken. Matilda really looks like her though, doesn't she? Is that why she's your favourite?'

'It's because Matilda's a bit of a miracle.' He sipped his tea, taking his time. 'There were three others between Lulu and Tilly.'

'Miscarriages?'

He nodded. 'The first was a little boy at eight months. Van nearly died too. The second got to twenty-two weeks, but the third didn't even make it to twelve weeks. I'd started to think it wasn't meant to be, but then Tilly came along. And survived.' He smiled up at her. 'So yes, there may be a little favouritism, but to be honest, she's much sweeter than her sisters.'

'She is and from what I hear, very like her mother.'

Again he nodded.

'Will you be okay, because I'd hate to give up all of this only to have you two get divorced in another six months.' She elbowed him, forcing a smile. 'Oh, don't look so depressed. We knew this would happen.'

'Fuck, I'm sorry.' He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him, kissing the top of her head. 'This is my fault. I never should have dragged you into my messed up marriage.'

'It's fine.'

'No, it's not.' His lips were buried in her hair. 'The thing is, I love her, and I mean really love her. I'd forgotten... But, yesterday, I had to make a choice and, I had to choose her. It was the scariest thing I've ever done, because yesterday, you were the safest, most secure thing in my life. If she hadn't wanted to come home...'

'I know...' She looked around, smiling down at Cromwell. 'But I'm glad you're back together, honestly I am, even though I'm going to miss this place. It's the only job I've had that helps me forget.'

'You never did tell me what happened with the ballet.'

'Today's not the day, sorry.' She stubbed out her cigarette and relaxed back against him, his arm around her so familiar. 'God, I'm going to miss the horses, but I won't miss your bloody lists though.'

'I'm going to miss you.'

'You'll just miss having a tidy yard.'

'I'll miss you.' He removed his arm to take a piece of paper from his pocket. 'I know it's not... here, but it's better than the livery yard.'

'You've organised me a job?' Haverton Equestrian Centre. She hated the sound of it already.

'Give Helen a ring. She's okay. I promised her the best groom in the world, plaiting skills excepted, and in return I get some numpty sixteen year-old.' He stroked her hair back, frowning. 'I really am going to miss you. Maybe in a few months when things have settled down, then maybe she won't mind-'

'Don't make promises. She might be the nicest person in the world, but really, you think she'd let me come back?'

'No.'

'I'd better go.' She tipped the last half of her tea down the drain, and stood up, tears pricking her eyes.

'Come here,' he said, already pulling her to him, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tighter than he ever had. 'Thank you for looking after this place... and me.'

'You,' she said, blinking to keep her tears at bay, 'are most welcome.'

'If you ever need anything, ask.' He kissed her head, ending things how they'd started. 'I mean it.'

'Got any other brothers?' she laughed, wriggling out of his arms, facing him with a smile. This is how she'd walk away. Happy. 'Now, don't forget, put in the effort to spend time with your wife like you did with me. Give Dora more attention so she doesn't get jealous of Matilda and stop yelling at Tallulah.'

She stood on her tiptoes, kissing his cheek, then walked away, still smiling. When she was certain she was out of view, she collapsed in a gateway, sobbing as she'd only cried for ballet.

Grounding in the early evening sunshine didn't work. She needed darkness, a full moon, even twilight would add a bit of atmosphere, but Libby sat cross-legged in the middle of the lawn and persevered. Bloody Zoe hadn't helped. The day Libby lost her idyllic rural life at Low Wood Farm happened to be the day Lynda from the Post Office signed Highfield House to Zoe's agency, and Zoe already has two asking price offers in the bag. And where was Zoe in Libby's time of need? Shagging Greg the Uncompassionate at his swanky apartment in Kendal.

'On a scale of one to weird,' said a familiar, slightly Scottish voice, 'you're heading up the weird end. What are you doing?'

Libby opened one eye and took a drag on her cigarette. A mud-splattered Patrick sat on his bike, leaning against the garden fence, clearly amused.

'Bugger off,' she said closing her eye again. 'I'm meditating, not your cup of tea, I'm sure.'

'I pride myself on having a very open mind.'

She refused to look, but the clattering noises he made didn't sound like him pedalling away, more like him getting off his bike. She could do without him right now. From the scent of fresh sweat, mud and the remnants of his aftershave, she guessed he'd sat opposite her.

'Now, I'm no expert,' he said, 'but I'm fairly sure meditation isn't usually done with a fag and a glass of white wine.'

'Bad day.' Again, she opened one eye, peeking at him.

'I heard.' He sat about three feet away, mirroring her pose, hands resting on his knees.

'I'm guessing Robbie sent you.' She closed her eye, focussing on the sending her negative thoughts to the centre of the earth. 'You've got his back, right?'

'Right.'

'You can go home. I'm fine.'

'Really?'

'I've lost my job. What do you think? But you should go, I'm liable to cry and I'd hate to push your Musketear fraternal loyalties to breaking point.'

'I'll man up.'

She opened her eyes, showing the full glory of her eyes, red from crying, but Patrick merely smiled at her, trying not to laugh.

'At least tears have washed away most of that hideous black crap.' He took her glass of wine, tipping it into the grass.

'What the hell-'

'That's not going to make you feel better.' He produced a little plastic bag of grass, a joint already rolled. 'From your garden, so it's only right to share.'

'I don't like weed.'

'If you drink a shed-load of booze, you'll just cry all night. This might make you smile.' He lit the joint, taking a long drag. 'And you need to lighten up.'

'I do not.'

'Oh come on, you're so hardworking and earnest. Do you ever let your hair down, get wasted?'

'You're such an arse. I was trying to tonight, but you threw my wine away.'

'I call bull. You're all smoke, a front. I reckon you wear the black crap and dress like seventeen year-old trailer trash because you want to look bad. You want to look bad, because really you're nice but you don't want to be nice. You'll smoke this...' He held out the joint. 'Because it's bad and it'll prove you're not nice.'

'Stop trying to psychoanalyse me. I hate you.' She took a drag on the joint, trying to despise him for seeing through her, but Hyssop padded towards them. He stood on his back legs to rub his head against Patrick and Libby found herself smiling for the first time all day.

'Hey, pal.' Patrick's smile grew to a huge grin, as he petted Hyssop. 'There's nothing wrong with being nice.'

'I'm not nice.'

'Yes, you are. I wish more of the world was nice. I wish...'

'What?' She took a second, longer drag, the effects of the first already hitting her.

He smiled, taking the joint. 'There's nothing wrong with nice.'

A happy buzz enveloped her and she lay back on the grass, smiling. 'Oh god, I'm going to be wrecked.'

He lay alongside her, a couple of feet away, Hyssop curling up by his side. 'Me too. I haven't smoked in months.'

She turned her head to him. Patrick. He couldn't be her somebody, he couldn't be the one she summoned, but god, he was... something.

'Did you see the paper?' she asked.

He nodded.

'Do you know, until I came to this bloody village I'd never so much as flirted with another girl's boyfriend and now I'm talk of the town as a home-wrecker. The ironic thing is I constantly persuaded Robbie not to give up on Vanessa, I've never touched Xander and Andy was perfectly single so no scandal there. Yet read all about it and I'm an utter whore.'

'Not nice, is it? At one stage there'd be some trite about me in there every week.'

'How did you cope?' She lay on her side, propped on one elbow.

'I'd go out and get drunk, usually making things worse. There was a lot of coke involved. At least you'll be safe hiding here. I reckon you can only see into this garden from the air, so not much danger of being papped.'

'Papped?'

He nodded. 'Okay, sometimes I was too wasted to know if someone was taking photos, but at other times... there were photos... someone had to be watching.'

'That's weird. You're not a celebrity. You're a vet.'

'It's what Wray's done with the paper. Neighbours are selling out neighbours. I've heard he pays them for gossip shots he can use to back up his stories.' Patrick rolled onto his side, mirroring her position. 'And it looks like he has his you in his sights.'

'So lesson one, when your name has been trashed in the local rag, don't go and make things worse by getting wasted with unsuitable types who have a reputation worse than your own.' She took another drag on the joint. 'Oops. What's lesson two?'

'Don't do anything in public. You'll be fine here. There's a law which stops the press invading your privacy. They can only take photos in public places. I sued over the first story they did on me using that. They settled out of court and that pissed Michael Wray off. He hounded me and I was stupid enough to keep getting drunk and up to no good in very public places.'

'What was your worst story?'

'Definitely the Miss Haverton piece, but getting nicked for coke at the football last year wasn't great.' He put out the joint.

'I hear Andy wasn't impressed.'

'He was just pissed off because he couldn't turn a blind eye. Or have any of the coke later.'

'What?' Libby stared. 'But Andy's a police officer. He can't...'

Patrick grinned. 'Earnest, hardworking and naive.'

'Oh bugger off.' Libby stuck her tongue out at him. 'What happened with Miss Haverton?'

'No comment.'

'Was everything they wrote true?'

'Pretty much, I gave them so much material they didn't need to sensationalise it.

'So, Porthos, at the football, Jack, Grace and a few others were doing coke. Why didn't you?'

'Aren't I allowed a night off?'

Despite the fug of dope enveloping her brain, Libby didn't miss his tell, the twitch in his right eye. It was tiny, and would be barely noticeable on anyone else, but unless Patrick was smiling, his emotions were buried, his face impassive and that made his tell all the more obvious to her.

'You had a few beers,' she said, 'a few shots of tequila, and I heard you walked back alone. From what I've heard, that wasn't your style at all.' She poked a finger in his ribs. 'You, don't match your reputation. It seems to me that since you came back from Spain, you've turned nice. What happened?'

In response, he lay on his back, clearly avoiding her, as he stared at the sky, his hands behind his head.

'I went to my brother's to sort myself out. I just wanted to work, relax and well, not be here.'

'Why did you need to sort yourself out?' she asked, trying not to stare at the patch of torso peeking between his t-shirt and shorts.

'Things had got a little wild. Charlotte, my sister-in-law, decided I needed some therapy so they cold-turkeyed the house, no booze for anyone. There are no TVs at their place so they talk, a lot. It drove me insane to start with.'

'And what did the therapy reveal?'

'Charlotte decided I'm a hedonist.'

'Zoe reckons the entire human race is made up of hedonists.'

'According to Charlotte, I don't know where the off-switch is. I'm a danger to myself.'

'And what about according to Patrick? Do you have an off switch?'

His face softened into a smile. 'Actually, yeah, I do. The football proved that. But Charlotte's Google-informed psychoanalysis did make me realise I'm used to getting my own way. Mum says I never liked being told no.'

'So you're an indulgent, selfish bastard?'

He laughed and shook his head. 'No. I just like getting what I want.'

'Like Hyssop? You must be losing your touch.'

'He visits every day. I've still got it.' Patrick grinned, finally turning his head to face her. 'Why were you meditating in the garden?'

'I've just lost my job and a very good friend.'

'I meant why the garden.' He sat up, preparing to roll another joint. 'Maggie used to sit in the exact same spot and channel Mother Nature, or something.'

Libby opened her mouth, wanting to lie, but he'd been so open and honest about Spain, how could she? And as Patrick skinned up with practised ease, sticking the papers together, crumbling the dried weed, his long fingers rolling it all into a neat joint, she told him about inheriting Maggie's spell book and the Good Luck spell which had kick-started her life in Gosthwaite.

'Don't you dare tell anyone, especially not Grace.'

He lit the joint, his eyes twinkling. 'Think you're the nice white witch and she's the evil one?'

'Something like that.' Libby's cheeks heated up.

'You two really ought to be friends. You'd like her. You both run, you're both into this Wicca nonsense, Christ, you even look the same, with your ridiculous fringes.'

'We're nothing alike.'

'You'd be surprised.' He twirled her lighter through his fingers. 'Libs, I've been thinking about the elderflower wine.'

'Maggie's gift or the one I was poisoned with?'

'That's what I've been thinking about. What if they're one in the same?'

Libby's hand paused as she stroked Hyssop. 'Okay. I'm listening.'

'Let's pretend it was the same bottle. Question one, why did it have belladonna in it?'

'Maggie laced her drinks with it to get rid of migraines.'

'Grace said it was on the side, untouched.'

Libby frowned. 'But...'

'Question two, why would Sheila have it?'

'She said she kept it as a headache cure.'

'Meaning she knew that bottle had belladonna in it. She must've prelaced it.' He passed her the joint. 'Question three, when did she take it back?'

'She said after Maggie died.'

'But the bottle wasn't there when I found the body. She'd already taken it, either while Maggie was at the Ostara festival or lying dead at the bottom of the stairs. Now, let's revisit question two. Why did she take it back?'

'Well, if she wasn't just pilfering a dead woman's belongings then she probably regretted giving it.' Libby stared at him. 'But why would she regret giving it?'

'Look, this might sound... but Grace reckons that it could be because you're skinny, but the way you reacted after one glass was fairly full on. Maggie used to knock a bottle of that stuff back at a time. Grace thinks it was too strong for Maggie's usual dose.'

'So Sheila got the dose wrong. Realised her mistake and came to take the bottle back, while Maggie was still at the festival.' Libby liked the neat explanation.

'Realised her mistake or regretted trying to poison her friend?' Patrick asked. 'Now, why would Sheila want to poison Maggie?'

Libby stalled. 'Because she found out Maggie had an affair with her husband. You know this is ludicrous, right?'

'Yep.'

'We're just guessing, making wild allegations based on the assumption that the elderflower wine bottles were one in the same.'

Patrick nodded. 'But what if we're right?'

'Do you think she took the emerald too?'

*

He'd only meant to stay for an hour, to make sure she wasn't going to go nuts, but Patrick stayed for three. They'd made cheese on toast, smoked some more and eventually wound up on the sofa listening to music, talking about Robbie's horses. Libby lay curled up at one end of the sofa, nursing an empty mug, her eyes half-closed.

'I should go,' he said. 'Will you be okay?'

She nodded. 'I liked him and the stables. It was the best distraction, but I'll survive.'

'The best distraction from what?'

'Being bloody miserable.' She yawned. 'Now I just need a distraction from my distraction.'

Why did she never tell anyone anything? He played with the Fatima's Hand attached to his keys, a little talisman Maggie had given him to promote honesty. He'd mentioned, in passing, how much it irritated him when people wouldn't 'fess up to doing something that resulted in an animal winding up in his surgery. The dishonesty often slowed the diagnosis. Not that he believed in the whole Wicca thing, but he still carried it with him, just in case. Come on, Fatima.

'And why are you bloody miserable?'

She didn't answer, but curled up a little more.

'Libs?' Was she asleep?

'You'd be a good distraction,' she mumbled.

He sat frozen for a moment, not having a clue how to react, but her mug slipped as her hand relaxed. She'd passed out and relief flooded over him. He could pretend he hadn't heard her, or that she'd even said it.

Carefully, he took the mug and covered her with a throw. Asleep, she seemed as angelic as she did when she smiled, and how much prettier did she look without the hideous black crap? He sighed, still crouching beside her.

It didn't matter how angelic she looked, or that she made him laugh - she was off limits and Michael Wray's new target. Even a harmless trip to the cinema with Libby Wilde could lose him everything.

'It's not going to happen, Libs,' he whispered. 'I can't be your distraction.'

But the dope-high made it irresistible for him not to take the opportunity and he dropped a brief kiss on her lips.