Nearly Almost Somebody

The Vet's in Disgrace

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 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.’