Chapter Two

As the assistant to the North West's most celebrated wedding planner, Libby's job was to ensure the venue was prepared and the big day ran smoothly. Stupidly expensive Georgian mansion? Tick. Thousands of elegantly arranged deep plum, Schwartzwalder calla lilies? Tick. Groom's tongue down the Chief-Bridesmaid's throat? Tick. Libby texted the Bride-To-Be to meet her in the wedding breakfast room. Moral code getting the better of Libby Wilde? Tick. Pressing send, she went outside to hide.

Ten minutes later, the North West's most celebrated wedding planner stalked across the terrace towards Libby, who watched the Bride battering the Groom over the head with one of the elegant Schwartzwalder calla lily arrangements. The guilty Chief-Bridesmaid hovered on the side-lines, presumably trying to decide if she should step in and rescue the Groom or try to apologise to her ex-best friend. The Bride shrieked language most lobster fishermen would blush at, while the North West's most celebrated wedding planner hissed the dreaded phrase, Olivia Wilde, you're fired. Libby had heard those words three times in the last five months, making a grand total of eleven times in three years.

'So what if he's shagging the bridesmaid? It wasn't your job to tell the bloody bride. It was your job to make sure the flowers looked incredible and they got married. It was your job to make sure I got paid.'

Seeing little point in arguing her case, Libby welcomed the distraction of the Bride-Not-To-Be throwing open one of the French doors.

'Thank you for saving me from that lying bastard,' she said. 'He said last time was a mistake. I should've known better. People don't change.'

Libby walked away with her head held high. She might be unemployed again, but morally, she was doing just fine.

That evening, the Jumble Bar, a low-key affair tucked away in Manchester's Northern Quarter, lacked Libby's usual boho crowd. Instead the outside tables were filled with corporate types. Women with five inch heels perched at the end of their St Tropez'd pins, sipped agave syrup mojitos while men in striped shirts knocked back pints of cutting edge real ale. This was her regular watering hole, but for the first time, the pink dip-dyed ends to her bleached locks and heavy black eye make-up fit in like a punk at the Proms. At least a few of the men had eyed up her bum as she'd weaved between their tables. They weren't her type, but she welcomed the ego boost after being fired. Again.

Taking a glass of Chablis from the barman, Libby perched on a stool at the bar and while she waited for her friend, Zoe, flicked through the Evening News until she reached the job ads. Sales, sales, data entry, sales, care home staff, sales, girls wanted... The MEN had sits vac ads for prostitutes? By the time she drained her glass only three ads were circled. Three. So this was what her life had come to. Twenty-four and seriously considering a career in the escort business for lack of other options.

Arse.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry, babe.' Zoe's Essex twang filled the bar. 'Can we sit outside? Been a mentally weird day and I could murder a fag.' She led the way to the last empty table, placing two Selfridges carrier bags and a rather lovely looking tan bag on the seat next to her.

'What,' Libby asked as she lit a cigarette, 'is that?'

'A Mulberry Bayswater.' Zoe caressed the tote before helping herself to a Marlboro.

'And what are you doing? You haven't smoked since school.'

'As I said, weird day. First, Richard texted me to say he's busy tonight, and second, my great-aunt died.'

'Oh God, that's awful. I mean about your great-aunt. Were you close?'

'Are you taking the piss? She was a right miserable cow.' Zoe leant forwards. 'But get this. Her and Mum didn't get on, so Maggie only went and left me her house.'

'You've inherited a house?'

'Yep. Mum's totally pissed off. She assumed she'd get it because Mags had no other family. She's already had the place valued.'

'And?'

After leaving a dramatic pause as a waiter dropped off her usual Bacardi and soda, Zoe's sloe-black eyes glinted. 'It's only worth two hundred bloody grand.' The two friends squealed. 'Which I reckon totally justifies treating the old MasterCard to a Mulberry handbag.' Zoe tipped her head, looking over Libby's clothes. 'Nice outfit by the way, babe.'

The purple mini-dress and denim jacket were both swiped from Zoe's wardrobe. In fact the bangles jangling on both Libby's wrists, the diamante drops in her ears and the aubergine polish were all Zoe's too. Only the black sequin ballet flats were Libby's own.

'I want to feel guilty,' Libby said, 'but you were half an hour late.'

'Just don't lose those earrings,' Zoe replied. 'They're the only present Richard's ever given me.'

'And what did the Dick text you?'

Zoe pulled out her iPhone. 'Having drinks with the boss. Can't do tonight.'

Libby wanted to throttle Richard for treating Zoe like crap and slap Zoe for putting up with it. Zoe was a five ten, pretty brunette who cooked like Nigella and earned silly commission from house sales. Maybe that was the problem; maybe Richard resented Zoe for being better at selling houses than him.

'He's shagging someone else again, isn't he?'

'Probably.' Zoe picked at a beer mat, letting out an enormous sigh. 'Lib, it's half-six, why've you got the full rock chick eye make-up on already? Don't you have a pre-wedding dinner at eight?'

'Nope.'

'Fired? For god's sake...' Zoe leant forwards and gently, but repeatedly, banged her forehead on the table. 'What for this time?'

Libby explained and handed her the paper. 'But see, I'm already lining up the next disastrous employment opportunity.'

'Dental receptionist I can buy into because you have immaculate teeth, but youth worker? Really? They'll take one look at your hair and assume you'll sell Es to the kids.'

'Ha, ha.'

'And travel agent? After what happened with the cruise company?' Zoe tossed the paper onto the table. 'You'll be bleeding lucky to get another job in this climate. A hundred and fifty people applied for our last admin post. But you could always try-'

Libby shook her head. 'Something will come up. It always does.'

An hour later, two of the corporate men were teaching a wide-eyed Libby to play poker. Initially, they'd flirted openly but their amour stalled when Libby cleaned up on the third hand.

'Christ, you're lucky.' Mike, an accountant, folded his arms, sulking as he watched her scoop up eighty pounds of his cash.

Luck had nothing to do with it. He checked his phone every time he bluffed and couldn't help a little smile into his pint when he had a good hand.

Libby flashed her most innocent smile. 'Can we play again? This is fun.'

Zoe pushed Libby's hair aside, to whisper in her ear. 'As much fun as it is to watch you hustle that self-satisfied arsehole, Paolo's just rocked up.'

Stood in the doorway, scanning the room, Paolo de Luca raked his dark hair out of his eyes, ignoring the lascivious glances he attracted from the girls beside him.

'Hide me, Zo? Pretend we've gone over to the gay side?' Libby raised her eyebrows, smiling hopefully. 'It's been four months. That's the longest I've gone without shagging him.'

'So tell him to piss off and take some other idiot home,' Zoe said. 'Move on.'

Zoe's theory, validated by a psychology degree, maintained a girl only got over a man when she had a new one to distract her. Move on. Libby knew she should but Paolo had the sexy, struggling artist act down to perfection and despite being raised near Inverness, he was practically Italian. He stood in front of her, holding out his hand and she dropped her cards on the table, letting him pull her to her feet.

Not that she'd expected a polite, haven't-seen-you-in-four-months peck on the cheek, that wasn't Paolo's style, but when he hooked his hand behind her neck and kissed her, Libby's knees buckled. Move on. Who was she kidding? She couldn't move on while he still had the ability to decimate her defences - it'd be tantamount to infidelity. Resigning herself to yet another short-lived fling with him, she wrapped her arms around his neck. This time, though, she wouldn't sit motionless while he sketched her every day. Definitely.

'Don't mind me,' Zoe said, giggling. 'While 'dile.'

Libby dragged her lips from Paolo's, vaguely aware of Zoe heading towards the bar. 'Later 'gator.'

Paolo rested his forehead against hers. 'We need to talk.'

*

Zoe came back to her apartment around two in the morning to hear the familiar strains of Tchaikovsky's Dance of the Cygnets tinkling down the hallway. This wasn't a good sign. If Libby was watching the DVD, it was okay. If she was sitting on the sofa with her feet twitching, desperate to copy herself on screen, then it was bad.

But it wasn't bad - it was worse than bad. Not only was Libby mirroring her younger self on the TV, but she was doing it en pointe. Zoe stared. Wearing ballet shoes, a black leotard and long black legwarmers, Libby used every inch of the wooden floorboards as only a professional dancer knew how.

This was worse than Zoe had ever seen.

'It always kills me that I got this bit wrong,' Libby said, adding a smile.

Libby's fake smile - the smile that said I'm fine. It was a lie. Libby wasn't fine. Zoe sank into the sofa wondering how to handle the situation. Every morning, Libby would lock herself in the bathroom and perform ritualistic barre exercises using the towel rail. Zoe pretended not to know, both of them happier that way, but when Libby brought her misery into the living room, how could she ignore it?

'You know I've always thought you got it right,' she said. 'It's the other three that have their timing just wrong.'

But they both knew that wasn't the point. Zoe watched in silence as Libby finished the piece and collapsed on the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest.

'Lib, it's been three years. You really need to get back in a class or something. You can't keep doing this.' When Libby leaned down and started undoing her shoes, Zoe knew they weren't going to talk about it. They never did. 'Paolo still here?'

Libby lit a cigarette and nodded.

'I thought you were never, ever going there, ever again. Ever.'

'I know, but he's moving to London. A friend of his has a gallery and he wants to show Paolo's paintings. I know we're not a proper couple but he's leaving, never going to see him again kind of leaving.' Libby flexed her ankles. 'I've not actually lost the plot. He asked me to tell him something, something about me I've never told him before so I... danced for him.' Libby looked at the ceiling, trying not to cry but huge drops tumbled down her cheeks.

'And? Did he draw you?' Zoe asked, suppressing a giggle.

Libby wiped her eyes, smiling as she nodded. A real smile. 'While I danced. He called me his broken ballerina.'

Zoe feigned a swoon. 'He really ought to be in Paris, living the perpetually tortured dream. Why don't you run off with him? He might make you happy.'

'He's not ballet and he drives me potty.'

'At least he loves you.' Which is more than I've got. Zoe picked at her nail polish.

Libby nudged her. 'My life's a mess. I'm jobless, fairly unemployable and my not-boyfriend is abandoning me but right now, you, young lady, look more depressed. Where've you been 'til now?'

'Richard rang about twenty minutes after you left.'

'A booty call,' Libby said, not hiding her disgust.

'He's a shag at the end of the day.'

'He's certainly a dick. Why are you back already?'

Zoe poured the remainder of the wine into the two glasses. 'I asked him to move in. He said no.'

'I'm so sorry, Zo.'

Zoe took a deep breath. 'How do you fancy moving to the Lakes, to Great-aunt Maggie's cottage?'

Libby's eyes widened. 'You want to leave Manchester? What about your job?'

'I'll sell houses in the Lakes.'

'What would I do?'

'Well, you'd be rent free. You could do what you liked. Just think about what you really want to do.'

'Where is this cottage of Great-aunt Maggie's? I'm not sure I can do living in the countryside. I haven't lived anywhere remotely green since I was eight.'

'This is the good bit. It's in a place called Gosthwaite.' Zoe opened her laptop. 'It's a village on the east side of the Lakes so handy for the M6.' Zoe panned around the Google Map of a village square. 'There's the King Alfred pub and that's the war memorial in the middle of the square, and that's my new cottage tucked in the corner.'

In a cobbled square mostly edged with smart Georgian places, Maggie's house was the last in a row of small houses. Libby's mouth gaped.

'That's not a cottage. Cottages are cute. That has grey pebble dashing and it's at the end of a terrace. Look at it, it could have been built in the sixties.'

'It's a double-fronted nineteenth century workers cottage and it's directly across from the pub.' Zoe elbowed Libby. 'It has two double bedrooms but it's hideously dated. It needs rewiring, new kitchen, bathroom, the works. I'll sell this place and pay off the mortgage. In six months, the cottage will be fabulous and worth about three hundred grand. I'll sell it and buy somewhere more fabulous.'

'How medieval are we looking?'

'Gosthwaite's quite cool. There are five pubs, a post office, green grocer's, butchers, bakers, arts and craft candlestick makers, two cafe's, a couple of restaurants.'

Zoe flicked through Google images, flashing over pictures of walkers, mountains, and pub interiors. Libby stopped her at a photo of a young girl and pony clearing a jump.

'Horses?'

'You know I hate the stinky creatures, but I think there's a livery yard in Gosthwaite and a riding school in Haverton, that's the nearest town.' Zoe tempered her smile. 'What do you think, ready for a change?'

'I have BHS stage two, but I might need stage three to get a decent job. For the first time I'm actually glad Mum made me go to Pony Club Camp every summer.' Libby didn't take her eyes off the pony. 'That's what I can do next. I'm going to live in the countryside and work with horses. Awesome.'

*

The next morning, Libby woke to find Paolo gone. On the pillow lay a sketch of her smiling as she stood en pointe with her hands on her hips. In his beautifully expressive handwriting, he'd written a dedication: To my Broken Ballerina, I'll love you forever. Px.

It was going to take some man to distract her from Paolo.

♥♥♥ Author's Note ♥♥♥

So what do you think of Libby? She's kind of cool, right. But so sad. :(

You know what she needs? Yeah, a vet. A very hot vet...

Don't forget to Vote! And comment. I love comments. Even the 'your book is like so rubbish' kind. :)

♥♥♥ Happy Reading ♥♥♥