Nearly Almost Somebody Read Free

the remainder of the wine into the two glasses. ‘I’ve told him we’re over.’
    ‘About time. So now what?’
    Zoë took a deep breath. Was she really going to say this? ‘How do you fancy moving to the Lakes, to Great-aunt Maggie’s cottage?’
    Libby’s eyes widened. ‘You want to leave the city?’
    ‘It makes financial sense. If I live in the cottage for over six months, I avoid a ton of tax.’
    ‘What would I do up there?’
    ‘Well, you’d be rent-free. You could do what you liked. Just think about what you really want to do.’
    ‘Where is this cottage of Great-aunt Maggie’s? I’m not sure I can do living in the countryside. I haven’t lived anywhere remotely green since I was eight.’
    ‘This is the good bit. It’s in a place called Gosthwaite.’ Zoë opened her laptop. ‘It’s a village on the east side of the Lakes so handy for the M6.’ Zoë panned around the Google Streetview of a village green. ‘There’s the King Alfred pub and that’s the war memorial in the middle of the green, and that’s my new cottage tucked in the corner.’
    In a cobbled green mostly edged with smart Georgian places, Maggie’s house was the last in a row of small houses. Libby’s mouth gaped.
    ‘That’s not a cottage. Cottages are cute. That has grey pebble dashing and it’s at the end of a terrace. Look at it, it could have been built in the sixties.’
    ‘It’s a double-fronted nineteenth century workers cottage and it’s directly across from the pub.’ Zoë elbowed Libby. ‘Well?’
    ‘I can’t picture you in the countryside.’
    ‘Me neither, but think how amazing it’ll be. Big fish, little pond. We’ll be the most fabulous things the village has ever seen.’
    ‘How medieval are we looking? Emmerdale in the Eighties?’
    ‘Gosthwaite’s quite cool. There are five pubs, a post office, greengrocer, butcher, baker, arts and craft candlestick maker, two cafés and a couple of restaurants.’
    Zoë flicked through Google Images, flashing over pictures of walkers, mountains, and pub interiors. Libby stopped her at a photo of a young girl and pony clearing a jump.
    ‘Horses?’
    ‘You know I hate the stinky creatures, but I think there’s a livery yard in Gosthwaite and a riding school in Haverton, that’s the nearest town.’ Zoë tempered her smile. ‘What do you think, ready for a change?’
    ‘I have BHS stage two, but I might need stage three to get a decent job. For the first time I’m actually glad Mum made me go to Pony Club Camp every summer.’ Libby didn’t take her eyes off the pony. ‘That’s what I can do next. I’m going to live in the countryside and work with horses. Awesome.’
     
    * * *
     
    The next morning Libby woke to find Paolo gone. On the pillow lay a sketch of her smiling as she stood en pointe with her hands on her hips. In his beautifully expressive handwriting, he’d written a dedication: To my Broken Ballerina, I’ll love you forever. Px .
    It was going to take some man to distract her from Paolo.
     

Chapter Three
     
    At Low Wood Farm, Patrick McBride wandered through the garden, barely registering the borders overflowing with foxgloves or that the lawn needed scything rather than mowing. Like he cared if the Golding’s usual quintessentially English standards were slipping – it was a sunny June afternoon and at their annual barbeque the booze supply would be endless. For that alone, Patrick couldn’t be more thankful. His pallor matched the grass as he made his way towards the gazebo bar. Hair of the dog time.
    ‘Now then, Vet’nery.’
    Bollocks .
    The owner of Manor Farm, Tom Ellwood, stood between him and the bottle of Becks that would offer salvation. While Tom rocked back and forth on his heels and remarked on the perfect haymaking weather they were enjoying, Patrick took slow, steadying breaths, trying not to inhale the fumes from the other man’s glass of whisky. That really was the animal that bit him on the backside.
    Tom moved