Free Nearly Almost Somebody by Caroline Batten

Zoë.
    ‘It’s me,’ she said when he answered.
    ‘Ach, hello you,’ Paolo replied. ‘How’s the countryside?’
    His familiar voice elicited emotions she’d been unaware she’d bottled up, and fat tears tumbled down her cheeks. She didn’t speak for a moment.
    ‘Sorry,’ she said, sniffing. ‘I just wanted–’
    He shushed her. ‘No apologies. Where are you?’
    ‘The cottage.’
    ‘I...’ he started, but a creaking sound suggested he’d shifted, ‘am lying on my battered second-hand leather sofa, in my new loft-style apartment in Shoreditch listening to folk music. ’
    ‘Why? You hate folk music.’
    ‘I’m trying to incite a cultural riot inside my heart.’
    ‘You’re crazy. What on earth does that mean?’
    ‘I miss you,’ he replied softly.
    ‘I miss you too. I have no friends and living in the country isn’t proving very idyllic.’
    ‘Then come to London. You can share my sofa.’
    ‘Is that all you have?’
    ‘There’s a bed too.’
    Despite the misery swamping her, she laughed. ‘Shame it’s in London. You could’ve picked any other British city and I might’ve jumped in my car tonight. How can you afford a loft-style apartment in Shoreditch anyway?’
    ‘Remember the Love Triangle?’
    ‘The threesome series?’ Libby blushed, remembering the huge oil paintings. ‘How could I forget?’
    ‘Sold the lot for five grand.’
    ‘I’m so proud of you. You’ll be rich and famous in no time.’
    He laughed. He used to run his fingers through his hair when he laughed like that. She closed her eyes, remembering, imagining.
    ‘I still love you,’ he said.
    Her tears tumbled again and she didn’t respond. How many times had he whispered those words – a hundred, a thousand? But they were words she’d never returned. How could she pretend to love him when her heart still belonged to ballet?
    ‘Come here, Lib.’
    But what if Paolo was it, the best distraction she’d ever get from ballet? They were friends, good friends, and intense lovers. Who could ask for more than that? Okay, she suspected what he truly loved was sketching the clean lines of her body, but wasn’t that good enough?
    No.
    He was nearly perfect, nearly as good as ballet, but nearly wasn’t enough.
    ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘But let someone new in.’
    As she ended the call, she grabbed a bottle of red from the wine rack. Shiraz? Perfect. It’d stand its ground against the cumin and coriander in the salad. Did she care it cost only four pounds seventy-nine? Not that night.
    Still reading the label in the dim light, she groped for the corkscrew but sent it skidding off the counter just as Hyssop came in through the cat flap. The corkscrew narrowly missed his head and he yowled, darting between Libby’s legs, almost knocking her over. Only years of dance training kept her vertical and she balanced on one foot, arms outstretched, as Hyssop clawed his way onto the worktop.
    Jesus, was that how he killed Maggie? Something scared him, he ran to her for security and she fell? Libby bent down to retrieve the corkscrew, but one arm of it remained on the floor, shattered. She closed her eyes, swearing. She could go to the pub and ask them to open the wine, but what if Grace was there?
    Seconds later, she rang her neighbour’s doorbell. She’d not seen much of Sheila since they’d moved in, but the fifty-something mother of four sons had dropped off a homemade carrot cake and made Libby promise to pop round if she needed anything. Libby smiled as the door opened but had to stifle a giggle when she saw Sheila’s I ♥ Gary Barlow t-shirt. That explained why Back For Good and Rule the World were played on repeat most nights.
    ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Sheila, but do you have a corkscrew I could borrow?’
    ‘Come in, come in,’ Sheila said, wiping her hands on a tea towel, ‘but excuse the mess. Two teenage boys under one roof and it’s a full-time job tidying up after them. And Jack’s no better,