Chapter Twenty-Four

Saturday night. He could've done anything, gone anywhere. He could've got drunk, got stoned, rang Miss fucking 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. So you quit?'

'For about a year, I tried so hard to keep going, refusing to admit it was killing me, 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 ready to 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, so I quit. One day, I was understudy for Odette, the next I wasn't a dancer anymore.'

'But why just abandon your whole life?'

'Because I was Olivia Wilde, the ballerina. I doubt I would've been the next Darcey Bussell, but that kind of talk got bandied around me at school. But oh look, I'm not a principal ballerina. I failed.' She forced a smile. 'I don't do failure very well.'

'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 'You had an accident,' he said, quietly.

'I should've found a way to carry on. Tamara Rojo broke her foot. She dances through it. I wasn't tough enough.'

'You need to give yourself a break.'

'But it was my own stupid...' She knocked back her last half a glass of wine in one.

He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table. 'Don't clam up again.'

'Oh, piss off.' Anger filled her eyes as she moved to sit cross-legged on her chair, picking at a French bean. 'I haven't had enough to drink for this conversation.'

He topped up her glass. 'Don't let me stop you, princess.'

Libby defiantly glugged her wine.

'Feel better? Now, spill.'

'The guy who dropped me was Tristan, my boyfriend. I should never have got involved with my own dance partner. It's too distracting, especially when things go wrong. He thought he'd teach me a lesson. It went a little further than he intended.'

'Nice guy. What was he pissed off about? Aside from being called Tristan.'

She didn't smile, but turned her head, staring out of the window. 'He expected me to love him more than ballet. To skip class for him. Basically, he was pissed off because he loved me, but I didn't love him back.'

'I'm seeing a theme here. Tristan, Paolo.' Patrick sat back. 'Little ice maiden, hey?'

'Seriously, piss off. I'm not an ice-maiden. I just loved my job. The routine, the perfection, the pain, the adrenalin rush, the performances, the music, the lights... It was worth every sacrifice and I've sacrificed too much to waste my time, missing class to go to Paris for the weekend.'

'Sacrificed what, a social life?'

'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. 'Sorry for calling you an ice maiden.'

'You're forgiven.'

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. 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 thinks 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 smiled, 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. He left the pan on the draining board and dried his hands, watching as Libby 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.

He couldn't imagine her not falling in love. It was so easy to picture her holding hands on walks through the woods, having easy conversations over dinner in the pub. Now, he just had to stop picturing him doing it with her. Off limits.

'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 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. Fuck. 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-five year-old him would've quite happily shagged.

His favourite photo was a snap 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 picked up the empty wine bottle. 'More wine?'

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 tits 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 a 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. He'd fuck her and fuck off. It's what he always did.

Being friends was better.

*

The following morning, Libby stared at the orange leaves on the ground, trying to focus on her stride, her breathing, the next bloody big hill, but her mind kept flitting back to the night before, to Patrick. She'd bared her soul to him, told him everything, and yet he'd gone home without even kissing her cheek. From what Clara had told her, Patrick ought to have tried to shag her by now. Oh, he'd made it perfectly clear that he hated how Libby looked, but he'd also said she was very pretty.

She shook her head. She should be concentrating on the Fell Race not Patrick. In six weeks, she'd have to run fifteen miles over some bloody big hills and despite the training, the idea still terrified her.

She and Xander regularly clocked up fifty or sixty miles a week - running long, varied terrain circuits, short steep uphill repetitions, sprints, jogs, all of it with little regard for rain or hail. She'd learned two things: always carry extra layers and just keep going, no matter how much it hurts. Just keep going. She jogged next to Xander, wishing she'd never said she'd do the bloody race, let alone that she'd beat Grace.

'You're quiet today,' Xander said.

'Too tired to talk.'

'It's been an easy run.'

'Late night, too much wine.' She held up a hand. 'I know. No lectures.'

Too much wine with Patrick. Oh god, there he was. Outside the vet's, Patrick leaned against the railings, talking on his phone. He'd been mountain biking and had the mud splatters to prove it. Xander pointed to the police car and they jogged over, curiosity piqued.

As they neared, Patrick hung up, giving Xander a terse hello and Libby a small smile. This really wasn't how she wanted to look when she saw him: red, sweaty, hair scraped back and make-up free. In an effort to hide her face, she stretched her hamstrings.

'What's going on?' Xander asked.

'Burgled last night. A load of drugs gone. Ketamine mostly.' Patrick ran his fingers through his curls. 'Grace is adamant she put the alarm on yesterday, but it was off when she arrived today. Not what I needed this morning.'

'Hangover?' Libby asked, trying not to show how badly she wanted to run her fingers through his hair too.

He nodded.

Xander looked from her to Patrick, but didn't say anything, just smiled at the floor.

Libby frowned at the alarm box on the wall. 'Zoe and I got burgled last Christmas, in Manchester. They took the usual, laptops, iPads, but it was our bloody passports that was the worst. We were going skiing a few weeks later and had to get new ones. Zoe couldn't find her birth certificate, so we ended up not been able to go. The buggers had turned the alarm off. It's so easy to override them these days, especially older systems like yours.'

Patrick and Xander both raised their eyebrows.

'What?' she laughed. 'I worked for an alarm company for a while. Only the engineers should have override codes, but you can get them off the internet. You need a better system.'

'Point noted, Safecracker Barbie.' Patrick smiled pulling her ponytail. 'Did you do it?'

Libby didn't laugh. Grace and Andy came out of the surgery and Libby wanted to run. She wrapped her arms around herself, needing the reassurance, but as she did, Patrick and Xander stood either side of her. Flanked by her superheroes.

Grace looked Libby over with disdain, but smiled at Xander. 'Good run? I did the Crag Loop last night.'

It'd been over three months since Libby and Jack... but if Grace's animosity hadn't lessened, her bodyweight had. She had to have lost at least a stone and her fell-running capabilities suddenly seemed a lot more realistic.

'You managed the Loop yet, Libby?' Grace asked flashing a saccharine-sweet smile.

The intimidating Crag Loop made up half the race circuit and as yet, Xander wouldn't let her attempt it. Libby stood a little straighter. 'I will beat you.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake,' Patrick snapped. 'Will you two pack it in?'

Xander took Libby's arm. 'Careful,' he whispered as they walked away. 'You've got a way to go before you can beat her.'

Libby glanced back, just catching Patrick's comment to Grace.

'I don't know, Gracey. She's a bloody determined.'

Libby jogged beside Xander, heading to the back garden.

'Well, this explains a few things,' he said as they did their usual cool down stretches. 'Daze sulked all night at the football because Patrick didn't hit on her once. I know she wouldn't, but she does like the attention.'

Libby frowned at him. 'What are you talking about?'

'You and Patrick.' Xander's smile grew. 'I wholeheartedly approve, by the way, because if you can keep him away from Daze, I'd owe you. Big time.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you, but we're just friends. I'm not his cup of tea.'

'Doesn't look that way to me,' Xander said. 'Maybe he just needs a nudge. You should have a party. He loves parties.'

Libby sat on the grass, stretching down to put her head over her shin. A party? Would that be the answer?