Nearly Almost Somebody Read Free Page B

perched on Scott’s knee and delved into her vast bag, pushing aside nappies and baby wipes as she frowned at Patrick. ‘You look like crap.’
    ‘I love you too.’ But he meant it when she produced a pack of Anadin Extra.
    ‘And how’s my favourite Musketear?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Robbie with exaggerated innocence. ‘Ready to whisk me away from all this?’
    ‘You’d run a mile if I asked.’ Robbie gave her a wink.
    Patrick knocked back two pills with a mouthful of lager. He hadn’t heard anyone call them by the old nickname in years. Scott must’ve confessed. The Musketears – infamous for watching each other’s backs and leaving broken-hearted girls in their wake. Those were the days.
    Out of habit, he evaluated the females at the party. Amongst the usual village faces, only a few fit the twenty to thirty-five demographic, but he wouldn’t want to see any of them in the morning – although, a pretty blonde over by the pond had potential. She seemed a little austere in her prim white dress with her hair in a severe bun, but the way she toyed with her straw, rolling it between her dark plum lips, had him take a second look.
    ‘Who’s Grace Kelly?’ he asked Robbie.
    ‘Rachel something. She’s with Jonty.’
    ‘Don’t be fooled by the respectable exterior,’ Clara said. ‘From what I’ve heard, she’s a ho-bag. She was last year’s Miss Haverton.’
    ‘A ho-bag beauty queen?’ Patrick nodded. ‘I could go for that.’
    ‘What you should go for,’ Clara said, giving him her stern, school-teacher frown, ‘is a single sexy blonde, not Jonty’s or anyone else’s. Get a girlfriend of your own. You might like it.’
    The hypocrisy of Clara nagging him was almost amusing. She’d spent most of her life shagging around but the minute she got married, she expected him to do the same. Sod that. Patrick concentrated on last year’s Miss Haverton as she glanced around, double-backing when she spotted him already watching her. A smile played at the corner of those perfectly pouty lips.
    Hello, princess. You might be with Jonty, but maybe I can have you too.
    ‘I bet she would though,’ he said to Clara.
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s with Jonty.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘You think she’s going to ditch him for you? Jonty’s twenty-four, a celebrity chef and a millionaire. You’re a vet. You shove your arm up cows’ bums.’
    ‘And?’ Patrick smiled as Clara cast a disdainful eye over his ten year old t-shirt, threadbare, ripped at the knee jeans and battered shell-toes.
    She shook her head. ‘Jonty looks like he’s climbed out of a Dolce and Gabbana ad. You look like a… homeless skateboarder. Honestly, are you so hard up you can’t afford a new t-shirt, or is this your tight-arsed Scottish side coming out?’
    ‘He’s not even slightly hard up,’ Robbie said. ‘He just spends it all on mountain bikes. Give it up. You know he’s right.’
    ‘Jonty gets his hair cut.’ Clara tugged Patrick’s hair. ‘Have you even brushed yours today?’
    Patrick looked her in the eye, smiling. ‘And?’
    ‘The only respectable thing about you is your t-shirt has actually been ironed.’
    ‘And?’ He raised his eyebrows expectantly. ‘Money, table.’
    ‘I’ll put twenty on Miss Haverton being a gold-digger.’ Scott had his chin resting on Clara’s shoulder. ‘She’ll stick with the twenty-four year-old with too much bloody money.’
    Patrick gave a derisory laugh. ‘Bitter words from a very nearly thirty year-old with too much bloody money. But I’ll take your cash.’
    ‘He was born into it. I’ve earned mine.’
    Clara leant away from her husband, her eyebrows raised in mock-astonishment. ‘You’re a six-figure corporate lawyer who earns immoral bonuses. It’s people like you that’ve brought this country to its knees and stop people like me getting pay rises.’
    ‘Come on, Clara.’ Patrick prodded her. ‘Who’s she going to go for?’
    She sipped her wine,