Not that I would have had the slightest option, even if I’d been oiled up and buck naked. The only way to the bedroom and more clothing was back down the hallway and up the stairs by the front door. Where the builders were. I braced myself and tried to act as if I were always very comfortable to be caught half-starkers and with no makeup. Like I was part Swedish or something.
Anselo came in first, lugging a toolbox. He didn’t smile at me, but he did nod, which I suppose was a step up courtesy-wise. Behind him was a very young man, no more than eighteen, with amazing colouring: dark red hair, freckled coppery skin and coffee brown eyes. He too, I noticed, had a gold hoop in his ear. In fact, he had several.
He also, without asking, dragged a chair from the living room and used it to prop open the front door. I resented this. Even though this wasn’t my house, I was the one living here. The furniture and I both had a right to be treated in a less cavalier manner
I was torn. If I protested, I’d draw attention to myself and my old-man underwear. But if I didn’t, this could be a bad precedent. If I didn’t set the rules of engagement now, it’d be too late.
‘Any chance of knocking next time?’ I said, still from the safety of the kitchen. ‘And that chair may not be Chippendale, but I don’t think Clare wants it damaged.’
Anselo turned to me for a beat. Then he said something to the boy, who went outside and came back with an old towel, which he draped over the chair back, so it was protected from the pressure of the door. Then both of them went outside again, presumably to unload more stuff from their truck or van.
I walked quickly down the hallway, hoping to make it upstairs before they came back. But I had only just set foot on the first stair when they reappeared in the open doorway. I had to turn to face them.
‘Morning,’ I said. Someone had to say something.
Anselo’s expression suggested he’d be counting the minutes until I left them alone to do their work. The red-haired boy just looked at me, without much interest. If I’d been sixteen, blonde and busty, things might have been different. But then again, who knows?
‘This is Tyso,’ Anselo said.
Yet another member of the odd names club.
I gave the boy a small wave. ‘Darrell.’
Anselo blew out a short breath, as if talking to me were a waste of his time. ‘We’re bringing in some materials. We’ll store them outside in the courtyard.’
As if that were his cue, Tyso headed back out the door. I noticed that along with the gold earrings, he had a green handkerchief knotted around his neck. It occurred to me that I knew nothing about Gypsies, apart from crossing the palm with silver and baking hedgehogs between bricks. Gypsies don’t turn up much in romantic fiction. Only in the kind of songs that inevitably have the words fol-de-rol in the chorus and are sung by men with hairy faces accompanied by women with hairy legs.
I knew Patrick had mentioned the Gypsy connection, but I had no idea how recent or distant it was. Were the hoops and handkerchiefs the real thing or just for show; a way of advertising their claim to a long-lost heritage, like those Americans in Irish pubs who can only be dissuaded from singing ‘Danny Boy’ by a punch in the head? I felt pretty certain these boys had never peeled the charred prickles off a brick-baked hedgehog.
‘Another cousin?’ I asked Anselo.
He frowned, surprised. ‘I got this job on my own merits,’ he said.
Jeepers. It was too early for this sort of shenanigan.
‘Are you always this touchy?’ I asked him.
He blinked, taken aback. But before he could confirm or deny, his offsider clattered through the door with an armload of wood and metal bits and forced us to step aside. At that moment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror and just about swallowed my tongue. The Steptoe pants weren’t the worst of it. I looked as if I’d tried to cut my own hair, and there was a big smudge of yesterday’s mascara under one eye. I assumed that the band of raggle-taggle Gypsies-o would be turning up this time every morning, and I vowed that from tomorrow, I’d be ready for them. Today, I decided that the best thing to do was run. Which I did. Up the stairs and into the safety of the bedroom.
When I felt presentable enough to venture back downstairs, the front door was closed and the chair replaced, and there were drop sheets along the hallway. I could hear a faint, tinny sound of music. The two men were out in the courtyard, along with a half-ton of building stuff and a portable CD player. It was emitting some standard rock fare I didn’t recognise. The singer sounded as if he should have been more attentive while zipping his fly.
Anselo glanced my way as I approached. The only reason I’d come down was to snoop, so I pretended I’d actually come down for a glass of water. The door to the courtyard was propped open. I stepped into the doorway.
‘You can use the kettle,’ I said, ‘if you want tea.’
Anselo nodded. I assumed that was his way of saying thank you.
I really wanted to ask him what his schedule was – when all the big work was going to be done, when I was going to have to live on takeaways, or toast grilled over the open fire because there would be a big pile of rubble where the stove was. Anselo mistook my lingering as having another purpose.
‘You want the music down?’
‘Oh! No– What is it?’
Over his shoulder, Anselo said. ‘Tyso? What is this shit?’
‘Nickelback.’
Anselo and I exchanged a look and, to my astonishment, he grinned. I know it’s a terrible cliché to say that someone transformed when they smiled, but Anselo’s smile was like a break in the weather. At the risk of making him sound like a horse, he had excellent teeth, straight and even and white. His eyes changed from wary to alive and amused. I was quite amazed at the difference. People can have natural good looks, but to me it’s their personalities that determine whether they are attractive or not. Tom was always smiling. He always looked as if he were genuinely happy to be alive, genuinely pleased to see you, and you couldn’t help but respond to that.
Anselo said, ‘We take turns. If I had to listen to Tyso’s music all day, I’d be taking to the stereo with a bit of four-by-two.’
Tyso straightened up. ‘If I had to listen to yours, I’d be shooting myself in the head with the fucking nail gun.’
‘Don’t fucking swear.’
Tyso winked at me. I decided he was a naturally happy boy, too. But then, he was young. He had a job. What did he have to worry about?
‘And what does your boss listen to?’ I asked him.
‘Old boring shit.’
I looked at the boss. ‘That true?’
He shrugged. He’d stopped smiling. ‘I suppose,’ he said, and stepped away from me, towards the toolbox.
I could have been offended. But I had seen a flash of discomfort in his eyes. I sensed he had not intended for the familiarity to go so far and now wanted to quickly restore the distance between us. I wondered if it were personal, but decided it wasn’t. He was probably emotionally constipated with everyone.
In any case, sharing a house with a monosyllabic builder was the least of my worries. It was café time, and I would be seeing Mr Perfect – could I ever call him Claude? – for the first time since we’d introduced ourselves. My worry was that I had no idea what the protocol was now. Should I invite him to sit with me? Should I feel free to invite myself onto his table? Or should I just wave and smile? (Composedly this time, not like a loonish fool.)
The latter seemed the best option, although I really, really wanted to talk to someone about being abandoned by my editor. I’d woken up at three panicking about it. My rational side had reminded me that I had a contract for this book. There might be a delay but they could not, by rights, refuse to continue working with me on it. My gremlin side had asked if I’d actually read my contract? Was there some fine print that gave them an out? Could they delay indefinitely? And what would happen to me if my money did not come through as expected?
I knew the answer. It was a d
ead simple one: I’d have to pack up and go home.
And, you know, a couple of weeks ago, that might have seemed like an OK deal. But now? Now, what I feared would never happen in a million years just had. I’d met someone! And he was handsome, older (in a good, Pierce-like way, not in a creepy, pervy way), posh, and possibly very, very wealthy.
I tell you, if I were writing this story, this is what would happen: Mr Perfect would turn out to be the scion of an aristocratic family from whom he is now estranged. He would have reached an emotional turning point in his life, and be looking for greater meaning than merely watching his wealth accumulate and jetting between his Monégasque château and his Manhattan penthouse. The usual parade of well-bred, flawless women now filled him with nothing but ennui, and he would be initially intrigued by and soon violently attracted to a sparky young brunette who combined refreshingly normal good looks with a certain amusing colonial charm.
Ideally, she’d also be a virgin and have the lissom grace of a willow sapling. But then we all have to get used to disappointment, don’t we?
LADY MO: Either you are pulling a leg with bells on it, or it’s his name – like Duke Ellington or the Dukes of Hazzard.
DARRELL: No, no! He’s an actual duke! As in – of Wellington!
LADY MO: And – how could you fail to mention – de Sauveterre! Though he was a Duc, of course. No ‘k’, otherwise he would be a waterfowl.
DARRELL: I dreamed of meeting Fabrice in London. Despite of course knowing he is fictional. Mainly. Seems uncanny.
LADY MO: Seems like ridiculous plot straight out of one of your smutty books. Does he have a fake tan and a diamond Rolex?
DARRELL: I will have you know that all my heroes have natural tans and wear Patek Philippes!
LADY MO: Chad has a natural tan. But had to settle for a James Bond Omega. What does your duke wear watch-wise?
DARRELL: His cuff s are so neatly tailored, I have not yet spotted
which watch. And I now have to confess vital piece of information: he is not actually an actual duke. His father – who was an actual duke – disclaimed the title in 1960s.
LADY MO: Dad didn’t want to be a duke?? Was Dad mad?
DARRELL: Possibly. Wanted to go into politics and the law was that he couldn’t be an MP if he were still a duke. Not true, now – law changed. Probably by dukes. But was the case then.
LADY MO: Yikes. So can your man reclaim the title? Or is the dukedom lost forever, like Amelia Earhart?
DARRELL: Hmm. Do not know. Regarding himself, the man is evasive. From the crumbs of information he gave me I have managed to glean the following: Father’s political career was a washout. Father is now dead. Family seat was sold to pay humungous inheritance tax. Mother lives somewhere along Thames (assume not on barge). Younger sister lives in Milan and works in an art gallery. Younger brother lives in LA and works in film. My man lives here and does not work at all far as I can tell. He has a broker, so probably lives off a big pile of investments.
LADY MO: As eldest son, he probably got all the moolah.
DARRELL: Seems unfair to the youngest son? Not to mention the sister.
LADY MO: Posh people care not a jot about that sort of thing. They are all freaks.
DARRELL: What’s with the harsh words? You used to love posh people! You wanted always to be an Hon! To live in the Hons’ Cupboard, like the Mitford girls! What happened?
LADY MO: Met real posh people. They are highly irritating. Haw-haw like donkeys. Expect you to know everyone they know. Possess hyphenated last names with ridiculous pronunciation that bears no resemblance to the actual spelling. And have vomitably twee nicknames like Bitsy and Onky.
DARRELL: No real person is called Onky!
LADY MO: Ha! Wrong! Worked with bloke called Maurice who married into old money. His wife’s proper name was Monica, but she insisted he call her Onky, just like the rest of her family of inbred mentals did.
DARRELL: What did she call him?
LADY MO: Moo-Moo. Their conversations sounded like a chorus of ‘Old MacDonald’ performed after serious head injury. Posh people are freaks. Mark my word.
DARRELL: Speaking of names – what are you going to call the baby?
LADY MO: Haven’t decided yet. Chad wants to call her Matheson. Will humour him for now, but he has no hope in hell.
DARRELL: Wrong person to comment. At least he doesn’t want Britney.
LADY MO: No fear. He would be struck out of the will immediately. Chad’s mother has ban on all names ending with ‘ey’. Also Pamela, for some reason.
DARRELL: Fair enough. Names are for life, not just to make it easier to spot your suitcase on the baggage carousel.
I hung around outside the hospital for a full half hour, psyching myself up to go in. To be scrupulously honest, the actual psyching up part took only around ten minutes – the rest of the time I filled with daydreaming about Mr Perfect.
My God! The man was almost a duke! The only title above that was king! And he was nothing like Michelle had warned he might be. I needn’t have worried about protocol; he’d immediately invited me to join him at his table. He’d even bought my coffee. He was courteous and amusing, and he didn’t expect me to know anyone called Binky or Bertie. He even seemed interested in my stories, such as they were, although I spent most of my time trying to divert him back to the subject of himself, which he bore with good grace even if he hadn’t been terribly willing to divulge.
Your Grace! That’s what I’d have to call him if he were a duke! Instead, he asked me to call him Claude, which was not unreasonable considering it was his name. It occurred to me that he hadn’t told me his last name, but I supposed there’d be plenty of time to find that out.
Which led me to think – where to now? He seemed to enjoy my company, but did that mean he was interested in me? Was I, for that matter, interested in him? He was handsome (tick), single (tick), perfectly groomed with perfect manners (tick, though to be fair, I’d never cared that Tom had been neither), and the son of an ex-duke (let’s face it – ticks into infinity). True, there had been no connection, as such, between us. But I suspected he was too buttoned up to give off any real sexual vibes; he would see that as somehow … impolite.
No, to me there appeared to be only one major hurdle. If I liked him, what on earth did I imagine I was going to do about it? In three weeks I hadn’t even worked up the nerve to say hello. Asking him out would be like attempting to conquer Everest when, in reality, you were too feeble to work a cheap StairMaster. I’d never had to worry about this with Tom. We met, we fell in love, we got married – it all happened as naturally and as easily as breathing …
I gave up thinking about it, and started to wonder again if Big Man was married. It would be embarrassing enough to explain to him why I had come, let alone to a Mrs Big Man. I had a story worked up that might sound plausible: I had been deputised by Alastair the doctor to see if he were all right, and whether he needed anything. Why the doctor should choose me, I had no answer. With luck, it wouldn’t occur to Big Man to ask.
To once again be scrupulously honest, there was one more reason I was delaying. I don’t like hospitals. In fact, I hate them. They bring me out in a cold sweat, and I find myself dragging my feet, searching frantically for excuses to turn and run. I’d only been to a hospital twice since Tom died, not counting the visit to St Regus’ reception yesterday. My mother had an operation on her varicose veins and Simon was bowled off his bike by a car. Neither was in bad shape when I went to see them – Simon had only a fractured collarbone, and my mother was as usual, apart from a particularly unattractive pressure stocking. But the smell, the colour of the walls, the drip machines and metal beds – every time I looked anywhere, a picture flashed in my mind of the room where they’d put Tom. A nurse that day gave me a cup of tea, filled with so much sugar my fillings buzzed. To this day, I cannot drink tea with sugar.
I paced for another five minutes, and then made a decision. I would go in. Secretly, I was hoping
that the note the receptionist nurse had left said, ‘This woman is a fraud. Expel her immediately.’ But when I got to reception, another woman said, ‘Oh yes. He’s in Ward 12. You can go on up.’
I found Ward 12. It was full of people – men, actually – in various states of consciousness. Some seemed to be sleeping. One looked as if he wouldn’t be waking up. One was a boy, not yet out of his teens. His mother was with him. I assumed, if these were all heart patients, that the boy had some congenital defect. I found myself feeling absurdly, tearfully grateful that he was here – safe, well, alive …
‘Can I help you?’
A man with sticky-out black hair was in front of me, squinting. He was in his late thirties, and sounded Irish. He was wearing a grey chunky-knit jersey, a shabby old tweedy jacket and tan cords. He did not look like a male nurse, or even a doctor. He had the air of a man trying to piece together his movements for the last three days.
He squinted at me more closely. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes!’ I replied, too brightly. I pressed on to cover it. ‘I’m looking for B– er, Mr Hogan.’
‘Are you now?’
I couldn’t quite read his tone. Was he saying he didn’t believe me?
‘You’re a relative?’ he continued.
Suddenly, I couldn’t cope with pretending any more.
‘Actually, I’m not,’ I sighed. ‘I was just on the spot when he had his heart attack, and I was worried about him. I don’t think he has any family and–’
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 7