Nearly Almost Somebody by Caroline Batten

‘What did you do after university?’
    Libby, startled at the sudden topic change, knocked her napkin off the table. ‘The usual, I suppose. Going for everything and settling for any role I could get.’ She ducked down to retrieve her napkin and composure. ‘Hey, I inherited something from Maggie. Her spell book.’
    Clara dropped her frustrated pout. ‘OMG, is it full of love potions and curses?’
    While they dined on crab and langoustine ravioli, but only after swearing Daisy and Clara to secrecy, Libby regaled them with a glossed over account of the spell she’d performed and the others she’d like to try.
    It wasn’t something she’d planned to share, but at least it stopped Clara asking questions and the last thing Libby wanted to do was spoil a perfectly lovely afternoon by discussing her own ruined life.
    Gosthwaite’s where ballerinas come to die.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Libby perched on the herb garden wall, waiting for Robbie. All that stood between her and a job at Low Wood Farm was a quick riding test. Usually a formality, Andrea had said. She turned out to be Robbie and Xander’s mother, but crikey, she wasn’t like them at all. The woman had a disdainful glare that could wither roses, but after thirty minutes grilling Libby, she’d almost defrosted, and even managed a reluctant smile before she went to fetch Robbie.
    Libby had never wanted a job so badly. Low Wood Farm was a dream with its whitewashed farmhouse, cobbled yard and tidy stables. Horses and Herdwick sheep grazed in the fields while chickens pecked at fallen pony nuts and an ancient Labrador lay in the sunshine. Maybe one day, she’d have a place just like it.
    The kitchen door opened and Libby fought a smile. Had Robbie worked out it was her already? He came out, studying her CV, but when he looked up, he stopped. Okay, obviously he hadn’t realised she was Olivia Wilde. For a moment, he simply stared at her, but then his eyes narrowed and he leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded.
    ‘No,’ he said.
    What the hell? She stood up, placing her hands on her hips. ‘I think there are laws about saying yes or no based on what someone looks like.’
    He looked her over, giving a derisory laugh. What was wrong with her? She wore a sensible pink t-shirt with black jodhpurs, her hair in a neat plait. She looked pretty and professional. He hadn’t minded her hair or make-up the day before when he kept topping up her glass and pinching her cigarettes. Why did it matter today?
    ‘You want more reasons?’ He held up her CV. ‘ Olivia Wilde.’
    ‘Libby’s an accepted abbreviation.’
    ‘St Mary Magdalene’s in Wiltshire? Even Google’s never heard of it.’
    Bugger. ‘It’s a tiny independent school. I’m not surprised.’
    ‘You’ve had five different jobs in the three years since you went to some unnamed university in London, and not one of them had anything to do with your BA in Performing Arts.’ He shook his head, but his eyes glinted. ‘Even if you didn’t have a suspiciously vague CV, you’re tiny, too small.’
    ‘I’m five-five, above average height for a girl in the UK.’ She rapped her nails against her hips and raised her chin. Was he taking the piss?
    ‘You couldn’t handle the horses. Can you even carry a bucket of water?’ He waved a hand, dismissing her, but... his mouth was twitching at the corners. He was taking the piss.
    ‘I’ve been carrying water buckets since I was six and I can handle any horse.’ Her cheeks reddened as she folded her arms, steeling herself. If he wanted to play that game... ‘But maybe not working for an arrogant bastard like you.’
    He laughed and looked up to the sky. ‘Do you really have BHS Stage Three?’
    ‘I did an intensive course at the Lancashire Equestrian Centre. Give Bridget a call. But I’ve owned ponies for most of my life and I used to compete at local shows.’
    ‘I suppose you’re light enough to ride Lulu’s horses.’ He simply looked her in