Distraction

Chapter Thirty-Three

Wrapped in a thick and cosy ruby red cashmere blanket her mother had sent, Libby curled up on the new wicker sofa in the garden, trying to read The Crucible by the light from the kitchen, but her only real mission was to survive until bedtime. Her headache had gone, but her slightly queasy stomach remained despite a bowl of Zoe's all-curing chicken noodle soup. Eight o'clock, surely she could go to bed at nine.

'You have a message,' Zoe said, coming out, blatantly reading the text. 'It's off your boyfriend.'

'I haven't got a boyfriend.'

'Okay, your friend who's a boy, you know the one you don't get to shag, it's off him. Need a drink. You busy.'

Libby snatched the phone. Crikey, it really was off Patrick. What was wrong? What on earth had happened the day before? All day, she'd not been able to dismiss a silly thought that he'd carried her home. But it was wishful thinking. Xander had carried her home. She vaguely remembered that.

Just in garden. Come round?

How many minutes did she have? Two, ten, twenty? She sprinted into the house already stripping off her tatty old exercise clothes, her comfort clothes. What to wear? With no idea how long she had, she couldn't waste time choosing. Jeans, a snug black jumper, a squirt of perfume and two layers of mascara on top of the three she'd applied that morning. Sadly, the oversized beanie she'd been wearing all day had made her fringe stick out at seventeen different angles. She clipped it back and pulled the hat back on. She'd have to do.

With only seconds to spare, she sat back down on the bench and picked up her book.

'Why are you sitting out here? It's freezing.' Patrick stood leaning on the gate, a bottle in his hand. 'You do realise that book's upside down.'

Arse. 'Come in. I have a new, super warm blanket.'

'This...' he said, holding up the bottle, 'is totally against the rules, but I've had a very, very bad day.'

The bottle wasn't wine. It looked like whisky. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm prepared to drink straight from the bottle, but since it's a thirty-one year-old Laphroaig, we ought to give it the dignity of a glass.'

We? Libby couldn't bear the thought of a glass of wine. Neat whisky might actually make her sick. She didn't even like whisky. As Patrick wandered across the lawn, she ducked inside for two tumblers, hoping to avoid drinking any of the rancid stuff.

'Hope you don't mind, but I don't drink at home and with a thousand pounds bounty on my head-'

'Our heads. I understood you're only worth five hundred by yourself.'

He gave a hollow laugh as he added an inch of amber liquid to each of the glasses. 'I'm fairly sure you're hung-over to hell and really don't want this, but as a hair of the dog, it kicks arse.'

'I'll give it a go, but I'm not promising anything.'

He remained leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. 'Do you ever just watch TV?'

'Never have. Too busy dancing or thinking about dancing or talking about dancing. I'd rather read a book out here.' She curled up. 'What's up?'

'Once, you asked if I liked being a vet. Well today, I don't.' He rubbed his forehead.

'Did something die?'

'Baxter, my dog.'

Oh, the friendly collie.

'I was sixteen when I got him as a puppy. He was my dog, but he ended up living with Mum and Dad when I moved back here. I was too busy having fun to look after him.'