Page 168 of Love ad Lib
Libby:I’m sorry I went so mental at you.
Libby:Hey! Funny story! Claire’s pregnant again!
Libby:I want to move to Somerset even though I know you don’t want to.
She pocketed the phone without hitting send and made her way to the pub, striding angrily through the puddles as if they were responsible for her own ineptitude in love.
Brandon helpedhype Libby up before the show and kept her energy high throughout. But it was tough going as a large section of the audience were drunk tourists. Every suggestion for a scene was related to sex. After ‘pornstar’, ‘double-headed dildo’, ‘anal’, ‘wank’ and ‘horny nuns’ had debuted, Brandon brought out his ukulele and she improvised a song consisting entirely of swear words back-to-back. It brought the house down.
When the performance ended, the crowd drifted downstairs calling for more alcohol. As the room emptied, Libby noticed a familiar face sitting in a corner at the back.
Estelle stood and crossed the room.
‘You were fucking amazing!’ she cried. ‘Even with all those dickwads in the audience.’
She froze as Estelle lifted her off the floor in an overly enthusiastic hug.
‘What are you doing here?’
Estelle let her back down. ‘Come to see you of course. Have you got five mins?’
Libby glanced at Brandon.
‘I’m just going downstairs to grab a drink,’ he said. ‘Either of you want one?’
They shook their heads and he nodded and disappeared.
Estelle sat at one of the tables and kicked a chair out.
‘Take a seat. How are you doing?’
Libby wasn’t sure how to answer. Should she be truthful? She sat. ‘Not great, to be honest.’
‘I’m sorry, Libby. For everything.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m the one at fault.’
‘Bollocks. And that’s the last word on the matter. I’m bloody over the moon you don’t publish Polly Hart books. That shoots you right up in my estimation.’ She paused. ‘Have you even read any of them?’
Libby grinned. ‘I finally read one the other day.’
‘Scarred for life, were you?’
A giggle escaped. ‘Her books are insanely popular you know?’
‘Yeah, yeah, all read by old gits like Gram-Gram or hopeless romantics like Eveline, who keep wishing that someone called Gerald Buttwad—with floppy hair, corduroy trousers and a Labrador called Bunty—will turn up at church one Sunday and sweep her off her feet.’
Libby snorted. ‘After she accidentally knocked him off his bicycle with her Morris Minor.’
‘Into a field of buttercups and daisies.’
‘On her way to deliver homemade pork pies to the Foxbrooke wedding fayre.’
‘Holy shit, Libby,’ Estelle laughed. ‘You should be writing these.’
Libby shook her head.
There was a pause as the women smiled at each other. Even though she hadn’t known Estelle long, Libby didn’t want to lose her as a friend.
