Chapter Twenty-Three

Going to his parents' house always felt just that to Patrick - their house. Kiln Howe, an ancient, sprawling farmhouse, was a great place, but aside from Christmas holidays, it held few memories for him. The family home, the place he grew up, was his house in the Square, but the McBride's moved out the year he went to university.

He knocked on the door but went straight in, laughing as the pack descended on him - Flynn and Jess, his parents' flat-coat retrievers, scurried around, while Baxter, Patrick's old sheepdog, limped along at his heel, his hips clearly no better from the latest drugs.

In the kitchen, his dad stood at the Aga, cooking bacon and eggs, and his mum sat at the table, reading the papers - a Saturday morning tradition in the McBride house.

'Morning,' Patrick said, dropping a kiss on his mum's cheek.

'Morning, darling. Coffee's fresh.' She glanced up from the Guardian's Weekend magazine, just long enough to give him a warm smile. It was always the same when she became engrossed in an article. Years of burned bacon had prompted his dad to take over Saturday morning cooking, leaving his wife to her hour of newspaper reading. Patrick suspected she'd done it on purpose, just to gain a little time off.

'You look tired,' his dad said, wagging a spatula at him. 'Late night?'

'Nothing outside of the rules. I was at Rob's for dinner.'

'How are they?' His mum asked. 'Has Vanessa forgiven him?'

Patrick clenched his teeth, having promised Robbie that, for the sake of the kids, Vanessa's little holiday would never come to light.

'They're fine. What are you reading?' he asked, pouring a coffee.

'It's the most marvellous piece about an artist. He's from Lochaire. It's about an hour from where I grew up.' She folded the pages back to the start of the article. 'He's about to be an international success, but what's fascinating is that he exhibited two paintings of a ballerina. He sold one of her dancing one for fifty thousand pounds, but turned down another fifty for the second painting, The Broken Ballerina. The price was upped to seventy-five, but he said he regretted showing it and he destroyed it. They're beautiful paintings. Have a look.'

She handed him the paper and Patrick almost choked on his coffee. Looking back at him, immortalised in oils, was Ms Olivia Wilde.

Saturday night. He could do anything, go anywhere. He could get drunk, get stoned, ring Miss Haverton and get laid. Instead, at seven o'clock Patrick sat staring at the Guardian's Weekend magazine. Was it Libby?

The rough style of the artwork generalised the ballerina's features, and certainly the girl in the Happy Ballerina could be anyone, but in the Broken Ballerina... It was her. The dancer sat on the floor, tears rolling, hugging her legs, her head resting on her knees. The same position Libby had been in when they'd sat on the lawn eating cheese on toast at Maggie's cottage and she'd told him how much she'd miss the horses at Low Wood Farm. And the artist was Paolo de Luca. Her ex, the one who buggered off to London, was called Paolo.

It had to be her.

Patrick laughed. If Libby was a ballerina, it'd explain a few things - the perfect legs, the super-skinny body.

It definitely had to be her.

But so what if it was? Why did he care? She was just some girl. She looked bloody awful most of the time, yet he'd showered, put on a half decent t-shirt, jeans that weren't falling apart and, for Christ's sake, he'd even combed his hair. Properly. He didn't even fancy her, not really, well, not the majority of the time, but when he'd walked past a florist's earlier, the heady scent instantly reminded him of hugging Miss Olivia Wilde. How did she always smell like a rose garden?

This was stupid. For two weeks, he avoided her, trying to forget he'd heard her say, you'd be a great distraction. Why the hell had he kissed her? Then Robbie begged him to check on her. Christ, when Andy went to push the strap off her shoulder... If he closed his eyes, Patrick could still picture the fear on her face. He'd never wanted to kill anyone or anything in his life, not until that moment. It terrified him.

But he'd promised to keep an eye on her and a couple of times since then, they'd had coffee. A couple? Okay, four. They were friends, that's all, brought together by their relationships with Robbie. And a murder. He tried not to smile. Had he been using Libby to solve the mystery of Maggie's death, or Maggie's death to solve the mystery of Libby?

And was this the answer? Patrick stared the paper again.

Sod it.

Clutching the paper, he headed round to Maggie's cottage, walking as casually as he could to the back garden gate. She might not be in. She might have a date.

She was in.

She and Zoe sat at the rickety old table. As ever, Zoe looked like she ought to be gracing the fuselage of a WWII fighter, her scarlet lipstick perfectly matching her cleavage enhancing top, but it just didn't work for him. Maybe it was because he could remember her as a kid, running around in a tutu.

Tutus, Flashdance - it all made sense. It had to be her.

'Welcome to the Gin Terrace,' Libby said with a perfectly clipped, fifties heroine accent. 'You've arrived in time for cocktails. G and T, darling?'

He laughed as he crossed the lawn. 'Why the hell not?'

Zoe stood up. 'I'll get it.'

As he sat at the table, he looked Libby over with a mixture of amusement and horror. In a simple black t-shirt and ripped at the knee jeans, no hookeresque bra straps on display, she lacked her usual trailer trash styling, but made up for it with twenty black bangles on each wrist and near black polish on her nails. Christ, she'd had black streaks put in her hair. There were about six of them, scattered randomly. She'd gone even more rock chick. Why? It was all a front. He'd already discovered she preferred R&B.

'Nice hair,' he said examining one of Libby's new black locks. Sadly, the fringe still covered half her eyes.

'It's for my new job. Cool, hey?'

'Not even slightly. What's the job?'

'Oscar's Bar and Bistro in Haverton. Rob sorted it. I'm sure it'll suck, but it's a job. This might be the last Saturday night I ever have off and Zoe's dateless since Greg's wife wants to try again. We're having a girly night in. You can be an honorary girl, if you like.'

'An honorary girl? My weekend's made.' He leant on the table, still holding the paper. 'Libs, your ex... Paolo, is he an artist?'

Libby's frown told him enough, but when she pulled her graceful legs up onto her chair, hugging her knees, he knew it was true.

She nodded. 'Why?'

'And is this you?' he asked, dropping the paper on the table, already open at page twenty-five. 'Are you the Broken Ballerina?'

Libby stared at the paper, her hand shaking as she gulped her drink.

*

The words were a blur, but she stared at the photos. Two large oil paintings, one of her doing a rather good arabesque and in the other she sat in tears as she told Paolo how once upon a time, she used to be a ballet dancer. Oh, Paolo. Libby's fingers brushed over the photo of him. He'd had his hair cut a little shorter. She preferred it before.

'You're a ballerina?' Patrick asked.

'No, I'm a broken ballerina.' She held the paper up to her face and screamed before taking a deep breath and facing him. 'Sorry. Shock.'

'What's going on?' Zoe asked, handing Patrick his drink, and already spying the paper, she snatched it off Libby. 'Fuck me. He finally painted you.'

Libby rested her forehead on the table. Oh god, Paolo had painted her, not just painted her, but made her famous too. Okay, he hadn't named her, but Patrick had recognised her, what if others did? 'How could he do this to me?'

'They're quite good.' Zoe peered at the photos. 'Not at all chocolate boxey considering they're of a ballerina. I never realised he was actually talented.'

'The article's not just about him being talented.' Patrick explained what Paolo had done. 'He basically burned seventy-five grand to protect you.'

Which would be Paolo's style. Libby closed her eyes. Oh Paolo. Why couldn't she have loved Paolo? Good-looking, great in bed and he loved her. Why couldn't she love him back?

'I bet he regretted it,' she said, picking up her phone, 'because he knows I'm going to kill him.'

Paolo answered instantly.

'Ach, I'm sorry,' he said, his familiar voice like molten chocolate for her soul. 'I've just been thinking of that time we went to Devon in Mikey's campervan. You were so angry, but remember how I painted you? Need me to do it now?'

God, he'd promised not to sketch her for a week, but she'd found his pad and threatened to walk all the way home. She didn't. Under a starlit sky, they'd built a fire on a deserted beach and he'd painted her. Literally. With his watercolours, he painted elegant swirls and flowers over her arms, legs and torso, until she lay naked but decorated from the neck down. They'd washed it off in the sea, shagging in the water. It was no wonder he'd talked her back into bed so many times. He knew how to decimate her defences: a knee-weakening kiss, a sexy endearment whispered into her ear, a hand brushing over her neck. It didn't take much. Patrick watched her. She couldn't weaken. Not this time, Paolo.

'Sorry?' she snapped. 'I trusted you to keep a bloody secret, not plaster it all over page twenty-five of the bloody Guardian.'

'It got a wee bit out of hand.'

'A wee bit? You could've bloody warned me-'

'I rang you last week. Twice. You didn't answer.'

'Well you should've rang a third time, of course I'm going to ignore your calls. I'm trying to move on with my life-'

'Me too. Painting you is part of that. I'm trying to let go.'

Libby sighed. 'Why didn't you sell the painting?'

'I said I'm trying to let you go. I haven't yet.' His voice softened. 'Come to London.'

'Sofa still free?'

'And the bed.'

Was this a sign, to tell her to move to London? She closed her eyes, refusing to look at Patrick again. I want more. 'I can't.'

'I love you.'

'Let it go.'

She hung up, staring at the sky to banish the tears.

'And how is our perpetually tortured artist?' Zoe asked. 'Still pining for you?'

'So what if he is?' Libby strode along the patio, trying to ignore Zoe's amused smile and Patrick's growing frown.

'You should've told him years ago,' Zoe said, picking up her ringing phone. 'He might've made you happy.'

Maybe he would. As Zoe headed into the house, Libby began dead-heading the faded chive flowers. She ought to change the subject before Patrick started asking questions.

'God, I could kill the Scottish fuckwit. Bloody untrustworthy men.' Libby flashed Patrick a smile. 'No offense meant to Scottish non-fuckwits present. Although I expect you're just as untrustworthy.'

'Absolutely,' Patrick replied. 'But I'm not Scottish.'

Libby's fingers hovered around a purple flower. 'What?'

'Technically speaking, I'm not Scottish. My mum and dad are both Scottish and I went to Edinburgh University, so the accent's inevitable, but I was born here.'

'You're English?' Libby's heart had stopped.

'I'm English.'

Oh god. 'I... have to... check the potatoes.' She ran inside and slumped against the kitchen units, waiting for Zoe to get off the phone. 'It's him.'

'What's him?' Zoe asked, hanging up.

'Patrick. He's the one I summoned. He's twenty-nine, good-looking, single, incredibly honest and despite his appalling behaviour, he has decent morals. He's a vet, for god's sake. You can't get better with animals than that. He's got hazel eyes and now, it turns out, he's bloody English.'

Zoe pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

'Oh, you cow,' Libby threw a tea towel at her. 'You knew.'

'I wanted to see what would happen when you found out.'

'I swear you only keep me around as some kind of Psychology case study.'

'I could get a PhD out of you.'

Surely, this was her sign. She should stay in Gosthwaite. 'What am I going to do?'

'You could try shagging him,' Zoe suggested.

Libby dug around in her bag, searching for the little red pouch containing her summoning spell. She's stopped carrying it, doubting its effectiveness, but Patrick fit everything she'd wished for. And more.

Oh please, let him be my 'Somebody'.

She tucked the pouch into her back pocket as Patrick came in, frowning at her. Sticking to her potatoes ruse, Libby opened the oven, poking at the dauphinoise with a knife.

He's English.

'Almost done.' Libby closed the oven door, her face composed.

'Change of plan. I'm going out,' Zoe said, putting her barely touched drink on the table. 'Hot date.'

Libby groaned. 'Booty call from Greg?'

'Better than that.'

'Who?' Libby put her hands on her hips, her nails tapping.

'Tomorrow.' Zoe glanced at Patrick. 'Boy present.'

'Don't mind me,' Patrick said. 'I'm an honorary girl.'

Zoe flashed her coyest of smiles. 'I can't say too much. It has to be secret.'

'Another married man?' Libby asked.

'Yup. And he's a god-damned silver fox.'

'Older, how much?' Patrick asked, clearly warming to his honorary girl role.

'Sugar daddy kind of older.'

'You're a very bad girl, Ms Horton.'

'And what about dinner?' Libby asked, despising the way Patrick smiled at Zoe.

'Patrick looks like a red meat kind of guy,' Zoe said before heading out of the room.

Oh god. What was Zoe up to? Patrick sipped his drink, trying not to smile. And what was he after? Clearly, he didn't fancy her. He couldn't have been more disparaging about her new hair.

'Are you hungry?' she asked.

'Starving.'

'Would you like to stay for dinner? Steak with dauphinoise potatoes and green veg.'

He nodded, looking her over. 'You don't strike me as the steak and dauphinoise type.'

'It's all part of my fell race fitness regime. Saturday. Red meat and carb night. I'll run it off tomorrow.'

He grinned at her. 'Ob... sess... sive.'

'Bite me.'

'There's more meat on a potato. I'll pass.'

She handed him a bottle of red. 'Here, make yourself useful.'

Although she did a sterling impression of sounding pissed off, Libby struggled not to smile. Patrick didn't bother.

'So, little miss ballerina, I have a million questions.'

'You can keep them to yourself. I don't want to talk about it.' She stood on the opposite side of the island to prep the vegetables. 'Any of it.'

'Dinner's going to be fun. What's in your back pocket?'

'None of your business. Broccoli and French beans okay?'

'Fine. Why did you go all weird when I said I wasn't Scottish?'

'It was a surprise. Did you get out for a ride today? Awesome day.'

He laughed. 'Oh come on, Libs. There's a big fucking elephant in the room and it's wearing a tutu.'

She banged her head against a cupboard door.

'Okay, let's start easy,' he said. 'If Paolo's so in love with you, why did he go to London?'

'None of your business.'

'Libby...'

She sighed, lacking the energy to distract him. 'He said he wanted to become rich and famous. Really, he went because I didn't love him. God, he's actually done it, become rich and famous. All I've done is become slightly infamous.'

Patrick studied the paper, peering at Paolo's photo. 'He's good-looking, talented... what's wrong with him, rubbish kisser?'

Despite everything, she smiled. 'No. He's pretty fabulous in every way. I actually questioned my attraction to men when I didn't fall in love with him.'

'How seriously?' He leant forward, his elbows on the worktop, his grin infectious. 'Any girl on girl action?'

She laughed, flicking her hair back. 'Sorry to disappoint you. I didn't question it for long. He's hot.'

'He can't be all that hot. You're here. He's there.'

'He's a good friend, but he just... he was almost perfect, but just not quite. If you know what I mean?'

He nodded. 'Almost isn't good enough. What wasn't perfect with Paolo?'

'He's too emotional. We fought a lot. Mostly over his obsession with painting me. I met him the first week I moved to Manchester and we went out for a year. I actually thought I could just fall in love with someone...' She checked the steaks, fussed over the vegetables.

'But?'

'He ticked all my boxes, but he literally spent all the time we weren't in bed sketching me. It's actually quite draining to be stared at that much. He said I was his elusive muse.'

Patrick laughed and she relaxed. God, it was nice to talk to someone about Paolo. Zoe only ever mocked Libby for sticking with him for so long.

'We split up, but for the last two years neither of us went out with anyone else. We've had more absolutely never, ever again last... nights than I've had my roots done.' Libby gazed out of the window, smiling. Bloody Paolo. 'When he told me he was leaving for London, I told him I used to be a ballerina and he drew me. He said he finally understood me. I guess he understood me enough to paint me, the bugger.'

'You spent three years with the guy and you didn't tell him until he said he was leaving?' Patrick's eyebrows had disappeared under his black curls. 'Why?'

'I don't see why people need to know everything about me.'

'Well it helps them get to know who you really are.'

'What if I don't want people to know who I really am?'

'Then you'll never be happy.' He rested his chin on his hand, still leaning on the island. 'What is all the secrecy about? You were a ballerina, so what? Or are you in some ridiculous witness protection program?'

'It's not even remotely exciting,' Zoe said, tottering in wearing a skin-tight black dress and five inch heels. 'But good luck trying to talk any sense in to her. I've failed on many occasions. I'm off. While 'dile.'

Libby kissed Zoe's cheek. 'Later 'gator.'

'Careful, you don't give him a heart attack,' Patrick said, frowning at the metal studs on Zoe's heels.

'But surely that's the point of a sugar daddy,' Zoe called as she walked down the hallway.

Patrick appeared to be unable to take his eyes off her arse.

'You're not rich enough for her.' Libby frowned at him, holding up a sirloin steak. 'How do you want it?'

'I'd be scared she'd eat me alive afterwards. Medium rare, please.'

'I'm not promising it'll end up that way, but it's something to aim for at least.'

This would be a disaster. She'd never be able to cook, not with him watching. His t-shirt was snugger than his usual tatty efforts, and it showed off his perfect body. She could see the muscles in his back working as he pulled the cork from the bottle. God, what must he look like with his kit off. Her cheeks burned.

Somehow she held it together and ten minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table with pretty perfect-looking steaks and potatoes that made her mouth water from the mere aroma. He poured the wine and held up his glass.

'Thank you, it looks great.' He chinked his glass against hers. 'The elephant's doing pirouettes, by the way.'

He wasn't going to let this go and she couldn't go through the entire meal deflecting his questions. She took a deep breath.

'Look, I was a ballet dancer, but talking about it makes me cry, so I don't talk about it.'

'Everything makes you cry. I'm used to it.'

He sliced into his steak and Libby smiled. Medium rare, miracles do happen.

'So this is why you need the distractions?'

She nodded. Don't cry.

'What happened?'

Maybe she should've told Paolo the truth years ago. Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe she'd never be happy until people knew who she was. The Somebody song popped into her head. She'd wanted somebody to know her innermost thoughts, know her intimate details. Was this her chance?