The End. I won’t say too much here, but below is the last sentence of Patrick and Libby’s story. I wrote that line when I was about 2000 words into the story – the original first 2000 words probably don’t exist anymore, they’ll have been rewritten so many times, but the last eleven words haven’t changed a jot.
“I told you I wouldn’t rely on plying you with booze.”
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Local newspapers turning everyday people into ‘celebrities’ is a sub-plot of NAS – and I wonder why more papers don’t do it. Fear of getting sued I should think. But think about it, expose on the vicar and the verger, local football star in affair shocker… it’d work.
*** SPOILER ALERT ***
The camera flashes startled her, but Libby maintained her cool smile as Paolo helped her from the taxi. Several photographers yelled to him, asking for her name. He obliged, but told them nothing more. Together they headed toward the burly doormen, Libby striding out on her highest black heels.
‘You look beautiful. A real star,’ Paolo whispered. ‘You sure you’re in love with the vet and his rural dream? This could be us, being fabulous in London and going to all the best parties…’
She laughed, in her element. Here, she didn’t worry about not having real world curves like Zoë and Grace. Here, she walked amongst neurotic models and size zero actresses. Here, Libby blended in. Tomorrow, the cannier journalists would discover Olivia Wilde was a ballerina, a ballerina who hadn’t danced for four years. Her anonymity would be over and she’d become known as the Broken Ballerina.
Inside the Kensington art gallery, Libby and Paolo drifted around, studying the bizarre paintings and even more bizarre sculptures. Just about everyone they met air-kissed and hugged him. This was Paolo, her destitute ex-boyfriend, who’d lived in more squats than he’d held down real jobs. Now he wore a cutting edge suit and Italian leather shoes. She missed his threadbare jeans and Converse boots.
‘Some art I just don’t get,’ Libby said, frowning at a three dimensional, upside down papier-mâché representation of Van Gogh’s sunflowers. ‘So which is the artist?’
‘Danny’s the guy with the red beehive by the bar.’
Libby giggled. ‘I’m so glad your art is recognisable.’
With his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist, they looked like the cosy couple they were trying to portray. Both had little to lose from any newspaper inches.
‘You really do look beautiful,’ Paolo said, kissing her shoulder.
‘Thank you.’
This is a beautiful song and I can totes picture the movie… Patrick and Libby standing in the snow, both sad, both knowing… it can’t be and this is playing in the background. *sob*
No excerpt… too spoiler-tastic. Sorry!
For some reason, I decided Libby would be able to impersonate Lady Gaga – I don’t know why, I just thought it’d be a cool quirk to have. Gaga’s You and I makes quite a cool theme for Patrick and Libby so when our Broken Ballerina gets tipsy and sings in the local pub, what better song for her to belt out to the guy who’s driving her potty?
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Scott asked.
‘Grace’s. Had some–’ Patrick shook his head, dragging Scott away from Clara’s gossip-mongering ears. ‘It doesn’t matter. Where’s Libby?’
‘Gone home. It’s fair to say she was shitfaced.’
Patrick swore. ‘What happened?’
‘She drank a lot of wine. Did you know she can play the piano? She also does a very good Lady Gaga impression and can do pirouette things with a shot of vodka in each hand and one on her head. That girl has some top party tricks.’
Patrick perched on one of the outside tables, staring at the dark windows at Maggie’s cottage. ‘When did she go?’
‘Hour ago. Xander had to carry her home.’
Patrick folded his arms, desperate not to show his jealousy. Bloody Xander.
‘Did you tell her?’ Scott asked.
‘Didn’t get chance.’
‘Well, you’ve missed your opportunity tonight.’ Scott clapped his back. ‘Gotta go.’
‘Night, pal.’
Patrick wandered across the Green, past his own house, down the lane to her garden. Maybe she’d be sobering up with a mug of tea. She wasn’t. Sod it. He crossed the lawn. Okay, this was borderline stalker territory. There were no lights on in the house. This would be classed as breaking and entering. Or checking she’s okay, not choking on her own vomit. A public service really. He smiled at himself. No, this was stalking. He wanted her to be awake.
‘Libby?’ he called softly, not wanting to freak her out. ‘Libs?’
In the living room, she lay curled up and unconscious on the sofa, her hair covering her face. Trust Xander to do a half-arsed job of taking a girl to bed. Hyssop sat at her feet, watching over her as Patrick lifted her hair off her face. Still breathing. Still wearing her biking gear. Christ, that seemed a week ago. He should go, but he rubbed Hyssop’s chin. Libby didn’t look very comfortable. He could put her to bed. When he picked her up, would she wake up?
This had to be the lamest tactic ever.
‘Libs?’ He gently shook her shoulder. ‘Libs, you need to go to bed.’
No response. She wasn’t waking up. He sighed, disappointment coursing through him, but scooped her up. She was as light as a feather. Carefully, he picked his way around the furniture and headed upstairs. Her head lolled against his shoulder. How the hell did she still smell… pretty? She hadn’t had a shower after the ride. Neither had he, but he bet he didn’t smell like an English summer’s day. There was something odd about the roses.
A stair creaked and she stirred, wrapping her arms around his neck. Oh, this was a bad idea. Her fingers laced into his hair at the back of his neck. A very bad idea.
‘…must be dreaming…’ she mumbled.
‘Yes, you’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.’ Was this the kind of dream she had? He quite liked it.
It wasn’t difficult to tell which bedroom was whose. The first one he came to smelled of that bloody awful, cloying perfume Zoë wore and high heels were scattered around the floor. In the other room, several books were piled up on the bedside table, photos of horses were stuck to the dressing table mirror and it smelled of roses and sweet peas.
He laid her down, drawing the line at even the idea of removing any clothes. Gently he stroked her hair back.
‘Night, princess.’
He kissed her, barely brushing his lips against hers. But sleeping beauty didn’t wake.
She was a habit. An addiction.
THIS. *sigh* This is where the title comes from.
She’s nearly perfect – He’s almost the one. But with witchcraft, scandal and murder in the village, will anyone find their Somebody?
Robbie took a CD from the table. ‘Track seven is noteworthy. It’s what you should be looking for instead of inappropriate, untrustworthy types.’
Libby studied the CD, Depeche Mode’s 101. Track seven was Somebody.
That evening, she put the CD into her laptop and skipped straight to track seven. Somebody. The track, recorded live, featured nothing more than the singer, Martin Gore, playing piano as he sang about what he looked for in a partner. Libby pressed repeat four times, captivated.
This was what she needed, what she wanted. She wanted somebody to share the rest of her life, know her innermost thoughts, her intimate details. She wanted somebody to put their arms around her and kiss her, tenderly.
I want my ‘Somebody’.
Lover’s Eyes – more Mumford & Sons, I know, but whenever I hear this song, I think of Patrick. Which is hardly a bad thing. 🙂
The green track beneath his wheels improved Patrick’s mood with each passing minute. Biking in Spain had been challenging, but the brown, dusty trails weren’t a patch on his familiar route across the common and down through woods. It had to be the only good thing about coming home.
Get the cat back.
It wasn’t a lot to ask, but at six o’clock after he’d informed Lynda that Boadicea was moderately stable, Grace reluctantly admitted that Olivia Wilde wouldn’t answer her calls. Irritated, he kept an eye on Maggie’s cottage, planning to ask for Hyssop back himself, but he saw no sign of Zoë or her friend. In the end, he’d gone home to an empty house. And it sucked.
Patrick stood up on his pedals, punishing himself up the hill towards the woods, but already smiling in anticipation of the next descent – the best downhill for miles around. Pedalling hard, he turned into the woods, his knees soaking up every bump in the track. He flew over a bank, turning hard right to avoid a vast Douglas Fir. He still had it. The first time he’d taken the jump, he’d ploughed straight into the trunk, dislocating his shoulder, but never again.
Trees flew past. He ducked to avoid a low branch, but kept his eye on the track, lining up the next bend, spotting the apex, mentally preparing for a brief burst of effort before a huge rolling left–
Shit.
Someone was on the track.
He yelled as he swerved, but his back wheel clipped the runner and Patrick slammed into a branch. The bike fell away and he slid down the hill, dirt and stones dragging against his bare arms and legs.
Jesus Christ.
Winded, he sat up, the skin on his arms and legs stinging, but looked for the runner. She was lying under a tree, holding her right leg in the air. He ignored the stabbing pain in his knee as he jogged up the hill, hoping she wasn’t badly hurt.
‘Are you okay?’ He crouched next to her, waiting for his sunglasses to react to the dim light in the shade of the tree.
‘I think I’ve twisted my ankle, nothing serious.’ Not a local girl. She sounded posh, not upper-class posh, but well-spoken. She touched her face, flinching.
Finally, his sunglasses adjusted and he turned her chin, examining the graze on her cheek. Was this Olivia Wilde?
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This is the song that got me writing again after a very long break – and by very long I mean time for me to enjoy my 20s, meet & marry my husband, score an ace job and have a small child. Then one day Florence & the Machine’s debut single came on the radio and my head was filled with images of Libby (who was called Alex back then) running and running from a past I knew nothing about…
One, two, three. One, two, three. The carefully chosen music on her iPod worked to keep her pace even. She’d maintain the same rhythm, only changing the length of her stride to match inclines. How could Patrick think she couldn’t do this? Because he knew she’d failed before. Well, not this time.
The lactic burn in her thighs wasn’t the worst it’d ever been, but heading up Black Fell, it wasn’t far off. Eight other runners were in front of Libby and Xander, but Grace was the required half a kilometre behind. Ten miles had gone. Libby had mud splatters up to her knees and a graze on her left elbow from stumbling over rocks. She checked her watch – still on target and feeling good. She could do this.
She leapt up onto a stile, vaulting over the top and landing on the grass, already running. Behind her, Xander swore. He bent over, clutching his side.
‘What happened?’ she asked, switching her iPod off.
‘Stitch. And it isn’t going away.’ He jogged on, his face set in a grim frown.
Their pace slowed but they ran on, heading up to the peak of Black Fell towards the fifth check point. A patch of scree slowed them further, twice making Xander mutter under his breath.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer, but glanced up at the cairn. Fifty metres to go. A runner overtook them.
‘Xand?’ she asked, concerned by his increasingly pale face.
‘Just get to the checkpoint,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll have to retire. I can get a lift from here.’
Libby’s nausea returned. ‘But–’
‘You keep running.’
‘I can’t do this by myself.’
‘Yes you can. You know the route. You’re on time.’
Libby shook her head. ‘Not without you. I’ll get lost. I’ll never find the right route down from the Crag.’ Twice she’d buggered it up in training, not spotting the gap in the rocks that led to a wall gap where the drop on the other side was only a couple of feet instead of ten. Instead she’d had to detour to reach the stile.
At the summit, Xander struggled towards the checkpoint, looking ahead to the runners already on their way to the fourth peak.
‘Okay, new plan. See the Haverton Harriers runner, three in front of us?’
Libby narrowed her eyes, but nodded. ‘Isn’t that Mike Robb, last year’s champion?’
‘Go catch him up.’
‘I can’t–’
‘Yes, you can. You’re faster uphill. He’ll leave you for dust going downhill, but if you can get somewhere near him going up the Crag, you’ll be able to follow his route to the wall. Watch him.’
The checkpoint loomed. She could retire too.
‘Wilde, you can do this. You have an hour left. You got the legs?’
She nodded.
‘Don’t kill yourself, but catch him up. You can get the guy in front of us by the time you get to the bottom of the Pike. Then focus on the guy in front of him. Aim to catch Mike Robb by the top of the Pike. Stick with him across the ridge to the Crag.’
‘I’ll get lost and die.’
‘You’ve got your GPS watch on. I’ll track you on Daisy’s laptop.’
She paused, sticking her dibber into the reader and thanking the marshals.
‘You can do this, Wilde.’ Xander kissed the top of the head. ‘Now go. Grace will up her pace at this point and she’s less than half a K behind you.’
Libby hesitated.
‘Christ, Wilde. Run!’
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Song #4 in the Nearly Almost Somebody soundtrack is another by the very awesome Mumford & Sons. It’s Broken Crown.
The thunder rolled as she climbed out of the shower, now accompanied by flashes of lightening, some lighting the sky, some forking down to the ground. She stood in her bedroom, wrapped in a towel, watching the storm, Hyssop on the dresser next to her. The black clouds seemed endless. The wrath of the Earth Goddess. You had to admire the power.
There was a knock at her bedroom door. What the–
‘You decent?’ Jack said from the other side.
She tightened the towel. ‘No.’
The door opened a couple of inches and his hand appeared through the gap, holding a glass of white wine.
‘It was in the pantry,’ Jack said. ‘It’s Mum’s elderflower wine.’
Libby took the glass and hovered by the door, unsure what to do. Well, being polite was a good start. ‘Thank you.’
‘You didn’t fancy starting a fire,’ he said, his voice a little further away. ‘You know, to see me in the uniform?’
Libby grinned and leaned against the wall. She couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see her. Sweet that he respected she was practically naked in her bedroom. ‘Are there many fires around here? Or is it all dashing off to save kittens from trees?’
‘I reckon I’ve cut more people from wrecked cars than I’ve carried from burning buildings, but I’ve never rescued a kitten. There was a tortoise on the church roof once.’
Libby took a mouthful of the wine. The elderflower tasted so crisp and fresh, the acidity level perfect. ‘Why on earth was it up there?’
‘Well, it had gone up there for the tomatoes.’
‘The tomatoes? Why were there tomatoes on the roof?’
‘Mrs Barratt at number seven had a greenhouse, one of those plastic Wendy house things. The first decent wind and it ended up on the church roof, tomato plants and all. Stan fetched it down, but he didn’t bring all the plants.’
‘But how did the tortoise–’
‘Ah, well, Mr Barratt won the tortoise in the school gala…’
The storm raged while Libby drank her wine, listening to Jack’s tales, letting his easy-going charm obliterate her misery over Robbie. Crikey, he was funny. Thunder boomed and her heart fluttered as she pictured Jack’s mouth, his tousled sandy hair… running her fingers through his tousled sandy hair, kissing his… Wow, where had that come from and what was he talking about? She shook her head, struggling to pay attention to his words, her vision blurring with a million pixelated lights as she glanced at the empty glass in her hand.
The elderflower wine was potent stuff.
And yet she buzzed with confidence. Okay, her hair had part dried into a bedraggled mess, and she hadn’t a scrap of make-up on, but the towel only covered about two feet of her – her legs looked awesome. As she opened the door, his latest story about rescuing old Mr Jenkins from a portaloo faded away. God, he was so cute. Cute, funny, twenty-nine, with lovely green eyes, English, single and honest – he was the one she’d summoned. This was meant to be. And wasn’t it the perfect time while the Earth Mother was venting her wrath at the world…
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If Hozier’s Take Me To Church is Patrick’s theme, then without doubt, Sia’s Chandelier is Libby’s – she even had the bleach blonde hair with chunky fringe (though Libby’s hair is 2′ longer and she’s not 12!).
The ballet clothes remained in the box under her bed until nine o’clock, but after half a bottle of wine her resolve collapsed. Hyssop was out, at Patrick’s no doubt, and without the tabby’s calming influence she needed to dance. She pulled on a spaghetti-strapped black leotard and her favourite long black legwarmers – they were so old they’d frayed at the heels, but she’d never throw them away. As usual, she left the shoes until last, flexing her feet, stretching her hamstrings, laying her forehead on her shins before she slipped padding between her toes and eased on her lucky black satin shoes.
In her head, the music had started, the opening strains to Swan Lake, but this time her role wasn’t a cygnet. This time, she’d take on the role she was born for, the role she’d never got to dance on stage – Odile, the black swan. She’d watched Tamara Rojo claim the role, turning through thirty-two fouettés and Libby knew, one day, she’d do the same, but she’d be better. She’d be better, because she’d be England’s own prima ballerina.
But instead of ruling the Coliseum, here she was, performing substandard, rusty turns in a cottage in the Lakes. In the home of Margaret Keeley, another dancer who should’ve been a prima ballerina but had it ripped away from her.
The imaginary music ended, but Libby shook her head and moved into first position, ready to start again. Her ankle throbbed, unused to the punishment after only a brief warm up. This time, she’d do it perfectly.
Halfway through, with sweat pouring down her back, a knock on the kitchen window stopped her dead. Was it Patrick, coming to check she was okay? Patrick? Why was he her first thought? She unfastened her shoes and kicked them under the sofa, hiding the evidence.
There was a second round of knocking. A persistent caller – not how she pegged Patrick. Robbie maybe, was something wrong?
Libby hovered by the door to the kitchen, peeking to see who it was, but the efficient LED lights under the wall units meant she could see nothing but her own reflection and the silhouette of a male. What if it were Patrick? She stepped forwards, as did he. It wasn’t Patrick. It was Jack.
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It’s been three years in the making, but I’m proud to say that Nearly Almost Somebody is finally available to buy! Hurrah.
NAS started out in life as “Distraction” and it was the book that made me think – people actually like what I write. Back in 2012 I was lucky enough to get proper feedback from a proper editor at a proper publishing house, and I took the brave decision to take my books down from the writers sites, Authonomy and You Write On (which were doing very little for my writing other than sucking up most of my evenings in chat.) I was totes determined to knuckle down and edit the hell out of Forfeit, which had some major flaws – such as no one liking my main character Daisy. But then a friend said, Wattpad had introduced a Chick Lit genre section and were looking for books so I thought, bugger it and put Distraction on there.
One month later – with zero promotion – Distraction had over 17,000 reads, was in the Chick Lit top ten and everything spiralled from that point on. Caitlin, from Wattpad HQ contacted me asking if they could make Distraction a Featured Book. Um… okay. A month later I have 5,000 followers, Distraction has 500k reads and finally hits the #1 spot in the chick lit chart. Distraction won a ‘Most Read’ award that year – as in it was one of the most read books on Wattpad. WTF. It doesn’t feature a single werewolf, vampire or One Direction band member, but those crazy Wattpad readers LOVE my book. And it made me think, maybe some other people will to. 🙂
#Forfeit had to come first – as that story takes place before Distraction – but the second #Forfeit was published, I moved onto what I think is my best book.
I’ve worked with editors to improve the plot, characters and title – I think Nearly Almost Somebody is just perfect for the story – so Wattpad fans should expect a few changes from the book they new as Distraction. That said, the love story of Patrick and Libby is largely unchanged, it’s mainly that minx Zoe who gets a little more airtime.
So ta da… I give you Nearly Almost Somebody!
Banner courtesy of the fab Chicks That Read
You can get Nearly Almost Somebody from Amazon for just £1.99 / $2.99. Paperbacks coming soon.
cx
Caroline Batten 