Distraction

Chapter Twenty-One

How could it be such a perfect day when she felt so hideous? Not even a single cotton wool cloud dotted the sky, and the forecast promised a twenty-two degree afternoon. What she wanted was grey, miserable and perhaps a little drizzle. A dreadful night's sleep hadn't helped her hangover and her hangover hadn't helped her mortification over the previous day's newspaper.

Not wanting to look so depressed when she saw Matilda or Dora, Libby shook her head, dismissing her melancholy. Besides, on the plus side, it was a beautiful day, not too hot. She could take Shakes out in the morning and school an ever more responsive Dolomite in the afternoon. And she needed to see, Robbie, to have a hug, to give a hug.

In the yard, he stood by the Land Rover in a t-shirt and jeans. Someone else was strapping the girls in. Oh god, no. Robbie was too busy laughing, smiling, looking exactly like the love of his life had come home to notice Libby, but when Vanessa straightened, her ridiculously glossy black bobbed hair blowing in the breeze, she spotted Libby and her smile disappeared. For the longest time, the two women stared at each other, their eye contact only broken when Robbie kissed his wife's head, whispering something.

Libby held onto the gate, needing its support. Vanessa was back. Libby was sacked.

Run. Turn and run.

She clutched the gate. The Land Rover drove away, leaving her and Robbie staring at each other. Did she love him, was that what had happened? Is that why this was hurting so badly?

Run.

But she didn't run. She opened the gate and faced him with her head held high, her back straight and the knowledge that she'd walk away looking exactly the same.

'So how does this work?' she asked when she was six feet from him. 'Do I make it easy and quit, get made redundant because you don't need a babysitter now the mother of your children is back, or am I fired for shagging the boss?'

'I'm sorry, Lib.' He closed his eyes for a moment, before heading into the house. 'Come on.'

He'd put the kettle on and was waiting for her, his hands in his pockets, leaning against the Aga. Libby perched on the table, staring at him. Three days ago, he'd been planning to spend the night together. They'd spent the night together. He'd said what if. What if, what if, what if.

She walked out.

In the yard, Storm kicked at her door, demanding her breakfast, and although Libby already knew she was no longer employed at Low Wood Farm, she prepared the morning feed buckets, using the routine to pull herself together.

This was her fault. She should never have got involved with a married man. She should've stuck to being his friend, an ear to bend, but instead she'd welcomed the ultimate distraction and now, she'd have nothing. She should've listened to Patrick, to her own bloody conscience.

By the time she dropped the last bucket into Shakespeare's stable, Robbie was already sitting on the bench with two mugs of tea. She paused, watching Shakespeare, her equine best friend, as he hoovered up his nuts and sugar beet. No more Shakespeare, no more Dolomite. No more distraction.

And that's what hurt. She didn't love Robbie. She'd miss their chats, his advice, his friendship, but it was the job she loved, the horses. What had she done? With a bravery she didn't feel, she joined him on the bench, taking a tea, offering him a cigarette. He shook his head.

'I promised to quit,' he said.

'I should too,' she said, lighting one, 'but not today. So when did she get back?'

'I went to see her last night.'

'Why didn't you warn me?' They'd be too busy kissing and making up, no doubt.