Distraction

Chapter Twenty-Three

Going to his parents' house always felt just that to Patrick - their house. Kiln Howe, an ancient, sprawling farmhouse, was a great place, but aside from Christmas holidays, it held few memories for him. The family home, the place he grew up, was his house in the Square, but the McBride's moved out the year he went to university.

He knocked on the door but went straight in, laughing as the pack descended on him - Flynn and Jess, his parents' flat-coat retrievers, scurried around, while Baxter, Patrick's old sheepdog, limped along at his heel, his hips clearly no better from the latest drugs.

In the kitchen, his dad stood at the Aga, cooking bacon and eggs, and his mum sat at the table, reading the papers - a Saturday morning tradition in the McBride house.

'Morning,' Patrick said, dropping a kiss on his mum's cheek.

'Morning, darling. Coffee's fresh.' She glanced up from the Guardian's Weekend magazine, just long enough to give him a warm smile. It was always the same when she became engrossed in an article. Years of burned bacon had prompted his dad to take over Saturday morning cooking, leaving his wife to her hour of newspaper reading. Patrick suspected she'd done it on purpose, just to gain a little time off.

'You look tired,' his dad said, wagging a spatula at him. 'Late night?'

'Nothing outside of the rules. I was at Rob's for dinner.'

'How are they?' His mum asked. 'Has Vanessa forgiven him?'

Patrick clenched his teeth, having promised Robbie that, for the sake of the kids, Vanessa's little holiday would never come to light.

'They're fine. What are you reading?' he asked, pouring a coffee.

'It's the most marvellous piece about an artist. He's from Lochaire. It's about an hour from where I grew up.' She folded the pages back to the start of the article. 'He's about to be an international success, but what's fascinating is that he exhibited two paintings of a ballerina. He sold one of her dancing one for fifty thousand pounds, but turned down another fifty for the second painting, The Broken Ballerina. The price was upped to seventy-five, but he said he regretted showing it and he destroyed it. They're beautiful paintings. Have a look.'

She handed him the paper and Patrick almost choked on his coffee. Looking back at him, immortalised in oils, was Ms Olivia Wilde.

Saturday night. He could do anything, go anywhere. He could get drunk, get stoned, ring Miss Haverton and get laid. Instead, at seven o'clock Patrick sat staring at the Guardian's Weekend magazine. Was it Libby?

The rough style of the artwork generalised the ballerina's features, and certainly the girl in the Happy Ballerina could be anyone, but in the Broken Ballerina... It was her. The dancer sat on the floor, tears rolling, hugging her legs, her head resting on her knees. The same position Libby had been in when they'd sat on the lawn eating cheese on toast at Maggie's cottage and she'd told him how much she'd miss the horses at Low Wood Farm. And the artist was Paolo de Luca. Her ex, the one who buggered off to London, was called Paolo.

It had to be her.

Patrick laughed. If Libby was a ballerina, it'd explain a few things - the perfect legs, the super-skinny body.

It definitely had to be her.

But so what if it was? Why did he care? She was just some girl. She looked bloody awful most of the time, yet he'd showered, put on a half decent t-shirt, jeans that weren't falling apart and, for Christ's sake, he'd even combed his hair. Properly. He didn't even fancy her, not really, well, not the majority of the time, but when he'd walked past a florist's earlier, the heady scent instantly reminded him of hugging Miss Olivia Wilde. How did she always smell like a rose garden?