Nearly Almost Somebody Read Free Page A

on to the latest over-officious DEFRA legislation and Patrick scanned the other guests, looking for an escape route. Gosthwaite’s social set milled around, clutching glasses of Pimm’s – the majority, especially the crag-faced farmers, fidgeting uncomfortably in their smart-cas ensembles. Two of the grooms from the riding school, both layered in fake tans, nails and ponytails, gazed with blatant longing towards the large wooden picnic table where a couple of Patrick’s friends lounged around looking infinitely more relaxed in shorts and t-shirts.
    Patrick pushed back his mop of black curls as Robbie Golding beckoned him over with an icy bottle of Beck’s. Okay, to hell with being pleasant to Gosthwaite’s answer to landed gentry.
    ‘Tom, I have to go. Rob needs to talk to me about his new mare.’ And without waiting for a response, Patrick pushed past him, collapsing into an oak chair between his two best and oldest friends.
    ‘Liar, liar, pants are on fire. I haven’t got a new mare.’ Robbie laughed.
    Patrick sat down, watching Gosthwaite’s hottest blonde, Daisy Golding, saunter across to the gazebo bar. She might look like an angel with her cloud of white curls, but the way she held herself, her pale blue mini-dress clinging to her perfect tits, he bet she’d be absolute dirt. Patrick swore as Robbie’s younger brother, Xander, joined her. Why was she married? And worse, why she was so adamant about being faithful?
    ‘She’s absolutely wasted on him,’ Patrick mumbled.
    ‘That’s my brother you’re dissing,’ Robbie said, gently punching his arm.
    Patrick raised a hand as a sincere apology.
    ‘You know you’d kill her if you had to spend a day with her,’ Scott said cracking open a bottle. ‘Too high maintenance.’
    Doesn’t stop her being hot .
    ‘Beer?’ Scott offered.
    ‘Cheers, fat boy,’ Patrick joked, referring to Scott’s increasing waistline and earning himself another faux punch on the arm.
    With several mouthfuls of cold lager easing his hangover Patrick relaxed, planning to enjoy getting drunk with his friends – a rare occurrence. These days, he had to play with new acquaintances while they went home, walking adverts for married with children. Well, they would be if Scott didn’t stifle a yawn every two seconds and Robbie wasn’t clenching his jaw in anger. Following his line of sight, Patrick watched Robbie’s wife, Vanessa, blushing as a tall, dark-haired guy kissed her cheeks three times.
    ‘Who the hell’s that?’ Patrick asked. And why was Vanessa tipping her head to the side. Was she flirting?
    ‘The viola player from the bloody string quartet she’s in.’ Robbie slugged his beer. ‘Jason Benoît. French twat. The Argonauts are in tow.’ He nodded to a middle-aged man whose girth appeared to exceed his height and a teenager with hair marginally greasier than his skin. ‘Those two play the violins while that wanker...’ he tipped his bottle in Jason’s direction. ‘...makes a play for my wife.’
    ‘She’s playing the cello, not him.’ Scott stretched. ‘He’s got a ponytail, for Christ’s sake. As if she would.’
    But Robbie still scowled.
    Looking for a change of subject, Patrick studied the dark circles under Scott’s eyes. ‘I went to bed at four. What’s your excuse for looking like shit?’
    ‘Work. A telecoms buyout. And Will likes to party as late as you. He’s his mother’s son.’
    ‘Don’t blame your son, or me. You were watching the cricket.’ Scott’s wife, Clara, joined them, setting a baby monitor on the table. ‘He’s finally gone down. If he wakes up, it’s your turn.’
    Patrick slugged his beer, happily eyeing Clara’s long lean legs, capped by tatty denim cut-offs. If only all primary school teachers were five-nine, blonde Scarlett Johansson lookalikes. Fit as, but been there, done that and now she was Scott’s wife, strictly off limits.
    ‘Got any paracetamol?’ Patrick asked her, praying she would.
    Clara