Distraction

Chapter Twenty-Two

As the assistant to the head girl at the Haverton Equestrian Centre, Libby's job was to ensure the yard and equine employees were immaculately prepared: hooves oiled, tack spotless and yard hay-free. None of that bothered her, but the attitude of the riders did. At weekends and evenings lazy kids moaned their arms ached if she asked them to carry their Welsh Mountain's saddle, and on weekdays, yummy mummies climbed out of their Range Rovers, expecting their Thoroughbred Crosses to be stood waiting. Why did no one want to groom and tack up their own horses? She'd begged to do it when she was a kid.

She hated Haverton Riding School. Helen, her boss, was work-shy, quick to delegate and far too soft with Kayleigh, her overweight, spoiled ten year-old daughter. Kayleigh, the worst it makes my arms ache offender, felt she was within her rights to order Libby around like a slave, a habit that quickly caught on with Melanie, the head girl.

Libby longed for her days at Low Wood Farm. Hell, she'd started to long for her days with the North West's most caustic wedding planner.

But that wasn't all she longed for.

It'd been over two weeks since she'd lost her job and Patrick had come to check she wasn't going bunny boiler. She hadn't seen him since, but she hadn't stopped thinking about him. She didn't know if she'd dreamt it, or if it really happened, but she seemed to have a memory, or something, that he'd kissed her and said he couldn't be her distraction.

Why? She wanted to ask him, but she never would. Had he kissed her? Why had he? He made no secret of disliking how she looked. He didn't fancy her so why kiss her? She had no idea, but she kept picturing him stretching, revealing that patch of perfect torso, the hair leading down to the good stuff... Oh god.

The only good thing to come of Vanessa's return, was Daisy had relented on Xander's running ban. He'd turned up the morning after Patrick got her stoned, announcing Fell Race training had begun. And god, did he mean it. Four times a week, he pushed her harder than most dance instructors had. She hadn't had abs so defined since she left the ballet.

In ménage , Kayleigh was putting her pony, Ferrero, over the jumps. Libby watched with mounting annoyance as Kayleigh's legs remained resolutely still, but the crop in her hand bashed the little Fell pony's flanks.

'Kayleigh,' she called. 'Less whip, more leg.'

Kayleigh pulled up Ferrero, scowling at Libby. 'I do know how to ride.'

'No, you know how to sit on your arse and hit that pony around the course. You're fat, lazy and a woefully ineffective rider.'

Libby wanted to regret the words the second they came out, but she didn't. And when she realised an apoplectic Helen stood six feet away, she regretted them even less.

'Olivia, how dare you-'

'Tell the truth?' Oh, what the hell... 'If you weren't such a fat, lazy and woefully ineffective riding instructor, you'd already know that I'm right.'

She walked away as Helen spat out the dreaded four words: Olivia Wilde, you're fired. At least Robbie's three month guilt money meant Libby wouldn't starve while she looked for a new job.

A new job? She ambled up from the post office, Gazette in hand, scanning the situations vacant ads. Care worker, care worker, domestic staff - all required qualifications she didn't have. The escort ads in the Manchester Evening News were looking promising. Maybe she could get a job in a hotel - being a receptionist at one of the high end boutique places around Windermere might be nice. Would Robbie fudge a reference for her? Say she worked at the Mill, not the yard. Oh, a hack on Shakespeare would cheer her up. Libby sighed, folding up the paper.