Nearly Almost Somebody by Caroline Batten Page A

the eye for a moment. ‘Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?’
    Because you were flirting and I liked it . ‘Felt inappropriate.’
    He nodded.
    ‘I didn’t mean to lie,’ she added quickly, ‘about my name. I’d assumed you would’ve worked it out from the newspaper.’
    ‘Hadn’t read it.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Shakespeare’s the bay in the end box. The tack room has everything labelled. I’ll meet you in the ménage in ten minutes.’
    ‘And sorry. For calling you an arrogant bastard.’
    Shrugging, he walked away. ‘I doubt it’ll be the last time.’
    Grateful he couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, Libby crossed the yard. Why had she called him an arrogant bastard, even if he had been toying with her? He was a prospective employer – she ought to act accordingly. Relieved at her chance to ride, she crouched down to hug the old dog.
    ‘Thank God I didn’t bugger that up, mister. Do you think my run of good luck can last another day? If it isn’t over, then maybe there’s hope for Zoë and me.’
    The night before, Libby had returned from the Mill, tipsy and stewing in Clara’s revelation that Maggie had been a ballerina. The second Zoë walked through the door Libby demanded to know why she hadn’t told her.
    ‘How could you be so insensitive? You must’ve known I’d find out.’
    ‘Let it go, Libby. Either join a dance class, or forget it.’
    ‘I can’t forget it, and I can’t go back to class.’
    ‘You need to move on, or you’ll end up just like her, miserable and bitter with just a cat for company.’
    ‘Should I just throw myself down the stairs now?’
    ‘It’s better than living half a life.’
    It had been the worst argument they’d had since Zoë lost Libby’s sparkly black leg warmers in Year Nine, but back then, they’d made up before supper. This time they’d gone to bed, slamming doors, still not speaking, and even Hyssop’s purring hadn’t lulled Libby to sleep. But she knew why Zoë had omitted a key fact about Maggie. There’s no way Libby would have moved to a Home for Retired Ballet Dancers.
    ‘You need a nanny, not her,’ she heard Andrea snap, but couldn’t make out Robbie’s reply.
    Hating herself for eavesdropping, Libby tiptoed nearer.
    ‘My wife’s leaving in two days and I’m not letting some clueless kid look after the girls. Or some battleaxe who thinks she can boss them, and me, around all the time. I need someone bloody good to look after the horses. The others weren’t a day over nineteen and only the stupidest of the lot could actually drive.’
    ‘Robert, be careful,’ Andrea went on, ‘because she might be twenty-five, well-educated and polite, she might have a full, clean driving license and an actual bloody car, but... she–’
    ‘She what?’
    ‘She looks like she charges by the hour.’
    Robbie merely laughed.
    Charges by the hour? Thank God it wasn’t Andrea who was employing her.
    Fleeing to the tack room, Libby ran her hand over Shakespeare’s saddle, the heady mix of leather, saddle soap and linseed oil reminding her of own childhood stable in Wiltshire. At eleven years old, she’d stood in her empty tack room, ready to leave for ballet school, certain she’d made the right decision. But now? What if horses could’ve been her life instead? Would she be happy?
    What ifs? She shook her head, laughing at herself. Her parents hadn’t brought her up to dwell on what ifs; she’d been taught to Just Bloody Do It. And don’t bugger it up.
    With Shakespeare gleaming after a quick brush over, she slipped on his tack, her fingers fumbling to fasten the buckles. She hadn’t been this nervous during her BHS exams. Shakespeare rubbed his head against her shoulder, almost knocking her over as he sniffed against her pocket. She laughed and obliged, sneaking him a Polo mint.
    ‘Please look after me, mister,’ she said, kissing his nose.
    He stood like granite in the yard, never fidgeting while she adjusted her stirrups, and as he