The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘You’d be amazed how often the direct approach does work.’

  ‘That wasn’t direct. That was insulting.’

  ‘I told her she was beautiful!’ he protested.

  ‘You told her she dressed badly! No woman wants to hear that. Many women suspect that – but we don’t want to be told!’

  ‘It was true, though. I’ve seen exhumed corpses in more attractive outfits.’

  He shot me a conspiratorial grin that was pure charm, and I felt the soles of my feet tingle. Immediately, I gave myself a sanity slapping. He was completely out of my league. In fact, compared to him, I was in a league where they gave out oranges at half-time.

  Fortunately, I was blushing again. It gave me an excuse to resume hating him. He helped that along by adding, ‘I didn’t really expect you to be banging Claude, by the way. I don’t think Claude’s old boy has had a glimpse of daylight since Nursey last changed his nappy.’

  ‘Why are you so horrible to him?’ I demanded.

  He hesitated. ‘Because he makes me feel inadequate. Because he considers me of slightly less value than a dodgy three-quid note.’

  ‘Behave better and he might think better of you.’

  He recoiled in mock horror. ‘Christ! You sound like my mother.’

  ‘I sound like my mother. Perhaps they’re related?’

  Even though I’d only meant it as a joke, I was struck with the sudden depressing realisation of how impossible that was. If Claude was the son of an ex-duke, then so was Marcus. My mother’s most notable ancestor was a Norfolk vicar who, in the mid-nineteenth century, had invented a more effective way to wrap cheese …

  ‘What brought that on?’

  Marcus was speaking to me. I wasn’t sure when he’d started, or how much I’d missed.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The sudden glum downturn of the mouth. Was it my crack about Claude’s old boy? I’m not saying there’s no chance he’ll flop it out for you–’

  I gave him the frostiest look I could muster. ‘Thank you.’

  His smile was unrepentant. I imagined it always was.

  ‘There is an extremely slim chance,’ he added. ‘So slim as to be to all intents non-existent, but still …’

  ‘I hate you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Let’s go out.’

  I blinked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Out. Let’s go out. Tonight. You and me.’

  I still had no clue. ‘Why? What for?’

  He lifted his hands. ‘Why else? So I can get you drunk and into bed. We’ll have drunken hate sex. It’ll be superb.’

  This time, I wasn’t blushing. Blushes are generally confined to your face. What I had was happening to my entire body. Even the ends of my hair were hot and pink.

  ‘This is the direct approach–’ I managed to say.

  ‘Yes, it is. What tipped you off?’

  He was laughing at me again. My resentment came storming back.

  I shoved back my chair and shot up. ‘You’re an arse. You’re just taking the piss.’

  But before I could stalk off, he stood, looked serious and took hold of my arm.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Claudie does tend to bring out the worst in me. But I should choose to put it away again more quickly. So to speak. I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Can we sit down and start afresh?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to think I’m an arse. And because you’re cute and funny, and I would genuinely like to go out to dinner with you.’

  The words ‘cute’ and ‘funny’ began looping round my brain, waving frantically for attention like small children on a merry-go-round. But I still couldn’t quite shake the notion that he was taking the mickey.

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘We’ll all go. You, me and Claudie.’

  ‘Really?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Why not?’ The grin was back. ‘I could help you get him drunk and into the sack. Could be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.’

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ I warned. ‘How can I trust you?’

  ‘Because I may be many things,’ he replied, ‘but the one thing I am not is a liar. I’ve never seen the point in it.’

  With some surprise, I realised that he was right. He had been tactless, insensitive and downright rude, but he had not been dishonest. If anything, he could do with being a little more insincere.

  The irony of the situation struck me. I’d come into the café this morning trying to work up the nerve to ask Claude for a date. Now here I was wondering whether to accept an invitation from his brother. Which would result in me going on a date with Claude. Sort of. In a way …

  Oh, what the hell.

  ‘Where did you have in mind?’

  LADY MO: Two men and a date! Like three men and a baby! But not really, of course, due to the lack of baby. Which is good because, let me tell you, baby is big cramp of style on a date.

  DARRELL: More like three men and a boat. I am all at sea, and feeling queasy.

  LADY MO: Pourquoi? That is French for WTF? You are going on a date with the dishy ducal duo! Before, it was just like you were observing an amusing spoof of one of your whimsical smut-fests. Now, you are a main character! Life is imitating art! Well, not that your books could ever be classified as art, of course …

  DARRELL: Thank you.

  LADY MO: My point is not to pour scorn on your endeavours, though that is always good fun. My point is that if I were in your shoes, I would not be queasily half-hearted about it! I would be excited to the point of internal combustion! Like my first date with Chad. Had to put an ice pack on my face to calm the flush.

  DARRELL: Chad is a nice person, though. I’m not so sure about ducal the younger.

  LADY MO: Oh ho! Telling! Mention of ducal younger before ducal elder! Has object of your futile fantasy shifted?

  DARRELL: Might I remind you that he called me cute and funny!

  LADY MO: Leaving aside the fact that makes you sound like a Zhu Zhu Pet – may I remind you that only three seconds ago you wanted to boff toff one, not toff two!

  DARRELL: Not sure toff one wants to boff me. Or anyone for that matter …

  LADY MO: Will be very strange date then. Which is par for the course for posh freaks. But at least you’ll get a free dinner out of it.

  DARRELL: Toff two says he does want to boff me. But he boff s anything with pulse, I suspect …

  LADY MO: Hello! Are you seriously considering doing ducal younger? Or have you embarked on magic carpet to La-La Land? Tell the truth because despite my cynicism re: your fantasies, I have glimpsed the possibility of living vicariously through your hot sex escapades and if promised raunch does not eventuate, I will hunt you down and commit murder.

  DARRELL: Sigh. Don’t know. I am hardly his type. Combo of us is all wrong – like hot pink and mustard yellow.

  LADY MO: Actually, I have a Hermès scarf with touches of hot pink and mustard yellow. Looks quite swish, if I do say so.

  DARRELL: All right then – maroon and teal.

  LADY MO: Accept that is a shuddersome combo. My mother wears maroon stretch-waisted pants with teal high-neck jumpers. And dark blue cardies with matching slip-on shoes. Will never give in to teal and maroon when I am older! Will wear silver and look like Helen Mirren!

  DARRELL: Arghh!! Hitting forehead against desk in despair! Had not yet thought of clothing requirement! WHAT SHALL I WEAR??????

  LADY MO: What is your current choice of posh clobber?

  DARRELL: Sod all. Only flash frock = plunging red halter-neck I wore for tenth wedding anniversary shindig.

  LADY MO: Recall the pics. Very nice frock, too. But if you wear it, it will indicate your willingness to give blow job. Is that the signal you wish to give out? Many do …

  DARRELL: What do you THINK?

  LADY MO: In that case, I suggest something simple and classic with a hint of sexual unavailability.
No spangles or sequins or gauzy mesh that makes it obvious you’re not wearing underwear. Black is always good.

  DARRELL: Always thought little black dress = sexy?

  LADY MO: Is very sexy but only because it conveys taste and restraint. A black dress says sex is all very well, but for now could you just light my cigarette?

  DARRELL: Don’t smoke. But do get the point. Black makes no promises, but at same time doesn’t say no. One problem. Don’t have a black dress. Also don’t have any money.

  LADY MO: Black dress or kneepads. Your choice. Sorry. Must dash. Harry has woken up. Cannot type while Harry is breakfasting. Apple porridge splatters infiltrate keyboard and cannot be removed except by initiation of nuclear device. Remember – if hot sex happens, I expect a report before sweat has dried! (Blow-by-blow if wearing red dress.)

  DARRELL: May have died from humiliation by then.

  LADY MO: Have fun! Report immediately. Bye-ee!

  When I was sixteen, my father astonished me by saying, ‘We all have choices.’ I was less taken aback by the philosophical nature of his statement – my father generally preferred more concrete pronouncements, such as ‘Those who spell barbecue with a “q” have absolved their right to be treated as functioning members of society’ – than by what it said about him. Did he really believe that? As far as I could see, there had only ever been one path my father could have trod – the safe one. Career. Wife. Suburb. All safe. Car? A Volvo. Investments? Bonds. Secure, respectable and unlikely to cause comment – those were my father’s criteria for every aspect of his life. If he had been offered a V-necked sweater in any colour other than navy blue, he wouldn’t have even picked it up to check the size. Looking back now, I think both my parents made exactly the choices that suited them best, and they were happy with them. But at sixteen, I hated the thought that the only choice was a safe and dull one. At sixteen, I desperately wanted more.

  Yet standing in the last clothes shop I’d visited, the most expensive one by miles, I realised my genes were more powerful than I’d suspected. I’d been to all the high street shops, and I’d found some nice enough black dresses at a good price. But they were all made of fabric that had a sheen of cheapness on it. Few were lined, and you could feel the seams against your skin. Darts were puckered and obvious, hems were uneven. If I’d been going out with friends, I wouldn’t have hesitated. High heels, a big, bold necklace, perhaps a belt, and any of the dresses would have been fine. But I wasn’t going out with friends. And I wasn’t going to the London Dungeon. I was going out with men who were in a whole different league, and who would expect a certain minimum standard. For the same reasons Julia Roberts had to go shopping on Wilshire Boulevard and Eliza Doolittle had to have a bath, I knew that if I rocked up tonight in a high-street dress, I would not fit in. I would embarrass the pair of them. I needed a dress like the one on the rack in front of me. It was a simple, classic, almost nineteen-forties-style dress with three-quarter sleeves, a sexily demure neckline and a skirt just above the knee. The fabric was light and velvety soft, and cut on the bias so I knew it would feel slinky and gorgeous. It was the perfect dress. It was also two hundred and fifty pounds.

  Technically, I had the money. It was there, in the bank. But during my panicky phase, I had calculated how long all my money should last me, and then, as now, it did not seem long enough. Technically, if my book money came in, I could afford to splurge at least once. But I couldn’t be sure that it would. And I couldn’t bring myself to take the risk.

  I walked out of the shop empty-handed. And sat on a bench in Islington Green and cursed Michelle for making it impossible for me to wear the red halter-neck, and cursed myself for being my father’s child, and cursed the fact I was going to settle for a dress that would probably make me sweat in all the wrong places and ride up whenever I walked.

  ‘Have the builders driven you out?’

  It was Clare, my pregnant landlady. With a small grimace, she lowered herself onto the bench beside me and let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘I was quite fit once, you know,’ she said to me. ‘Decent core body strength. Good aerobic stamina. But it’s beaten me.’ She pointed at her bump. ‘Sapped every last bit of energy and muscular capacity. How can something that weighs barely three kilos do that to you?’

  ‘My friend says it all comes back,’ I told her.

  ‘Does it?’ She gave me a hard stare. ‘Tell me the truth. When this thing is out, am I going to look like one of those people who’ve lost vast amounts of weight, all yards of skin folds sagging like damp washing down to my knees?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure you won’t.’

  ‘Ha! Pretty sure!’ She glared at a passing pigeon. ‘I should be at work right now. But when I woke up, I had gastric reflux so bad I thought someone was in my stomach trying to shove a fistful of vindaloo all the way to my tonsils.’

  ‘That goes away. So do the fat ankles and the grossly inflated boobs.’

  ‘Oh.’ Clare sounded disappointed. ‘I quite like the boobs.’

  ‘Not the pregnant boobs. The breastfeeding boobs. The ones that make you feel – so I’ve been told – as if you have two Hindenburgs filled with milk strapped to your chest.’

  ‘Patrick would love that,’ she muttered darkly. ‘He’d care not a jot if I turned into a grotesquely swollen bovine, just as long as I had huge boobs.’

  She gave me another hard stare. ‘Did the flowers look all right?’

  My heart gave a sudden lurch. ‘Flowers?’

  ‘The roses!’ she said impatiently. ‘I used to buy yellow roses for myself every week. They looked so good with the colours of the house. I thought you might like them too.’

  So it had not been Claude. I was jolted with disappointment. But what else could I say but, ‘I did like them. Thank you. It was – unexpectedly generous of you.’

  ‘You’re looking after my house,’ she said quickly, as if embarrassed. ‘And these stupid hormones are making me prone to expansive gestures. Most unlike me. I usually favour quite another kind of gesture.’ Then with an accusing tut, she added: ‘You didn’t say – are you here to escape the builders?’

  I resisted pointing out that she hadn’t let me answer. ‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I’m buying time to avoid buying a dress–’ I gave her the potted version. I was honest-ish about my financial state, but I did leave out Michelle’s prediction about what would happen if I wore the red halter-neck.

  ‘I’m hoping,’ I finished up, ‘that if I wait here long enough, someone will cast a size-ten vintage Chanel from a passing car. Or take pity on me and press the exact cost of the dress I want into my hand.’

  ‘Where’s the dress you want?’

  ‘Susy Harper.’

  ‘Ohh–’ Clare invested the word with such longing that I gazed at her in mild alarm. ‘I love that shop,’ she breathed. ‘It was my favourite. I haven’t been able to shop there in eons.’

  She frowned at me, as if it were my fault. Then she said, ‘Where did you say you were going again? On this date?’

  ‘The Anderson? It’s a hotel–’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’ She gave me a sideways look. ‘It’s very glam. A place to be seen.’

  ‘Dimly lit glam like a jazz club?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘That would rather defeat the idea of being seen, don’t you think? The restaurant is reasonably subdued. But the bar is all white walls and arty lighting. The bar itself looks like one of those novelty ice cubes that glow in your drink.’

  My heart sank. I was done for. Burning shame would be mine tonight …

  Clare was eyeing me up and down, somewhat critically I thought. ‘You and I are about the same size,’ she said. ‘Well, not now, of course. But I might have some dresses that will fit you. Are you interested?’

  Is a shipwrecked man interested in not smelling like shark treats?

  ‘That would be enormously generous,’ I told her.

  ‘How could it be anything but?’ she said. ‘Look at the size of me.
’

  I wasn’t exactly sure what kind of house a rich London property developer should live in, but this one didn’t even feature among the contenders. I suppose I’d expected either something with a lot of glass and black and chrome furniture overlooking the Thames, or a mock mansion with fake columns and the latest in video surveillance.

  Clare and Patrick’s house looked like the Big Bear version of mine. Admittedly, there was no council estate across the road, only other houses like it. And the street was quiet and leafy – no man on a bike yelling obscenities. And the cars parked along it were sleek, black Audis and Mercedes, instead of a brown Vauxhall Cavalier and a rustpitted Austin Princess. But apart from that, my – Clare’s old house and Clare’s new house were very similar.

  Clare was rummaging in her bag for her keys.

  ‘You might be thinking it’s a bit creepy that Patrick’s house and mine are only ten minutes apart – like we were part of some neighbourhood sex-swapping circle–’

  It hadn’t occurred to me in the slightest, but that didn’t matter because Clare pressed on.

  ‘Actually, we met at the Italian café. We were both early-morning regulars there–’ Clare wrenched her bag open wider and glared into it. ‘Where is that bloody key?’

  Suddenly, the door swung open. A very large man loomed at us, causing me momentarily to catch my breath. But, of course, it was Patrick.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ demanded his loving wife.

  ‘A seagull that was either very unwell or in the pay of my enemies decided to shit all over my suit.’ He let us in and shut the door behind us. ‘So I came home to change.’

  ‘Don’t you have minions to do that sort of thing for you?’ Clare asked.

  ‘What? Shit on me? Sometimes it seems that way.’ Patrick bent and kissed her cheek. ‘How are you feeling? Better?’