The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

by Catherine Robertson

  A gesture from across the room caught her eye. She sighed. ‘Gotta go. More sodding dishes.’ She glanced down at my plate. ‘You done?’

  Hastily, I salvaged the last piece of bread as she grabbed the plate from me. ‘Thanks,’ I said. But she was already clattering dishes at the sink.

  I sat at the table and wondered what to do next. Find Marcus? I was longing to see him, but I just couldn’t face that special humiliation that comes with being an outsider in a group of people who are all so very intimate and familiar with each other.

  Find Claude? But again, who would he be with? And what would they have in common with me – we both breathed in and out? Even then, that couldn’t be guaranteed.

  I sighed. It would have to be Claude. At least he would be polite to me.

  I ventured out into the house … But having blindly followed the blonde girl to the kitchen, I found I now had no idea how to get back. I wandered in what I thought was the right general direction, but ended up opening door upon door that led to empty rooms. Who needed this many rooms? Marcus had hinted that his mother wasn’t on her own. But who was she with? The Mormon Tabernacle Choir?

  I was starting to breathe in that rapid, shallow way that precedes a small fit of hysterics. I stopped, and tried to get it under control. Be Zen, I told myself. This is not the Gobi Desert. Your bleached bones will not be found months later, a skeletal hand clutching yet another doorknob.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said a voice behind me that I recognised instantly as belonging to Marcus’ mother. It wasn’t exactly an accusation, but there was a distinct note of impatience.

  ‘I got lost.’ I made an apologetic face that I immediately regretted.

  ‘Lost?’ The note of impatience was heightened. ‘Isn’t Marcus with you?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘He really is the limit,’ she murmured, more to herself than me. ‘Well, then. Come along.’

  She extended her hand to me in an almost imperious gesture. I felt like a dog ordered to heel. Which, I suppose, was not so far from the truth.

  I followed her to a drawing room where groups of people were clustered in separate arrangements of sofas and chairs. They were all quite old, I observed. This was a relief. Old people were much less likely to make me feel like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe.

  Anne led me to a group in the far corner, where one woman was speaking loudly and authoritatively to the others. Anne gestured that I should take a seat on a small, hard sofa, and then, to my mild alarm, sat down next to me.

  Our arrival had not broken the loud woman’s stride even for a second. She was in her late sixties, I guessed, red-haired and strong-boned, like a cross between Sarah Ferguson and Penelope Keith. Her voice was the carrying kind common to wealthy English people abroad.

  I heard Anne sigh. ‘I will introduce you later,’ she murmured to me. ‘This may take some time.’

  ‘And the new pack of Henry’s–’ the woman was saying. ‘Sparky little bitches!’

  ‘Eh? Eh? What did she say? Sparky what?’

  A very old man was leaning forward. He had a large grey moustache stained with nicotine, and was wearing white trousers and a navy blazer. If he were an Agatha Christie character, I decided, he would have to be a retired military man.

  ‘Bitches, Major!’ Anne said, loudly.

  Bingo. I glanced at Anne, and to my surprise, thought I caught a fleeting smile. But I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘It was my first ride on Stubby for ages,’ the woman went on. ‘He was terrific. Such a pleasure. Went on and on. Brilliant to be mounted on something that reliable.’

  ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘Mounted, Major!’

  ‘And then it all built thrillingly to a tremendous climax–’

  ‘Eh? What?’

  ‘Climax!’

  ‘At one point, we had to get airborne!’

  There was no doubt now. I could feel Anne’s shoulders shaking.

  ‘Thank God for Stubby,’ the woman concluded. ‘Though at one stage, I thought he was never going to get his head out of the bush!’

  ‘What? Out of what?’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ Anne murmured. ‘I simply can’t–’ She clapped her hands. ‘Everyone! This is Darrell.’

  ‘What? Cheryl, did you say?’

  ‘Darrell!’

  I was introduced to the loud woman, whose name was Sally; to the Major, whose last name I could swear was Blunderbuss; to a smiling, nodding woman named Bitsy, who appeared to not know where she was; and to a woman who was in her eighties at a minimum, and who was wearing a blue wig, bright orange leggings and a pink sparkly t-shirt sporting the words ‘Daddy’s little girl’.

  ‘Marjorie rather got the wrong end of the stick about the party theme,’ said Anne.

  ‘I knew a fella once like that,’ said the Major. ‘Took to pig-sticking in quite the wrong way.’

  ‘That’s a song, Major!’ said Anne. ‘Written by Noel Coward.’

  ‘Isn’t he the one who wrote filth?’

  ‘No, that’s Oscar Wilde. Or possibly DH Lawrence.’

  ‘Thought that was the fella in the desert? With all the wogs?’

  ‘We don’t say “wogs” these days, Major!’ shouted Sally.

  ‘Don’t we? Why not?’

  ‘Oh Lord, that’s quite enough,’ Anne whispered in my ear. ‘I must escape again. Come with me.’

  She stood, and said, firmly, ‘Darrell and I are going to visit the library. I promised to show her my first-edition Audens.’

  ‘Goodbye, Cheryl!’ the Major yelled after me. Then I heard him demand, ‘When are we eating?’

  ‘We’ve eaten, Major!’ bellowed Sally.

  In the library, Anne sank down immediately into a chair. ‘Dear God,’ she said. ‘They are my dear friends, but sometimes I would prefer them to be at least forty years younger.’ She gave me a look. ‘Not that the young people I invite are any more rewarding.’

  I was fairly sure she didn’t mean me. But I decided to stay quiet, just in case.

  Anne gestured impatiently to a second chair. ‘Sit, sit!’

  I sat. ‘Do you, er–’ I began, ‘actually have first-edition Audens?’

  She glanced around. ‘God knows. That was the first excuse I could think of.’ She shook her head. ‘You can certainly see why they call it a double entendre. One would simply not be enough. Not that dear Sally has a clue. It’s hard to imagine that she was once Debutante of the Year in Horse and Hound magazine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne. ‘I’ve never been entirely sure to which species she was most meant to appeal.’

  I laughed until I realised Anne wasn’t. She said, ‘Please don’t tell me you are in love with my son.’

  My whole face flamed. ‘Well, I …’

  ‘I wouldn’t object, personally,’ she went on. ‘You seem a pleasant girl. But for your sake, I couldn’t in all conscience recommend it.’

  ‘No …’ I knew she was almost certainly right. But it felt like a hole was opening in the ground in front of me.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Anne had seen my face. ‘If it’s any consolation, it could be worse. You could be in love with Claude. At least Marcus knows how to show affection. Well, not to me, of course …’ She sighed. ‘I suppose it’s my fault. I should have put the record straight much earlier. Now, of course, they won’t believe me.’

  I had no idea what she meant. What record? I was just wondering if I dare ask her, when she fixed me with another gimlet stare. ‘Darrell. Unusual name. You’re not a writer, by any chance?’

  I blinked at her, astonished. ‘Actually, I am.’

  ‘I knew it!’ And with the alacrity of a much younger woman, she bounced up out of her chair, strode to a pile of books on a side table and began to fossick through them.

  ‘There!’ She brandished a book in triumph, strode back and handed it to me. It was my third book, Bound by the Billionaire’s Secret Contract. ‘Darrell Kincai
d. Is that you?’

  I stared at the cover. The artist never quite got the hero to look as I imagined him.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s me …’

  As soon as I said it, I knew it was true. The books were me. They defined me, shaped me. Tom had done the same. With him, I’d been complete, intact. When he went, I’d lost more than a husband. I’d lost myself. Without Tom, I was a fragment, a partial person. And now even that fragment was at risk. If my books went, what on earth would be left?

  The hole in front of me was yawning wider and wider. And I knew that if I looked any further down into it, I was doomed.

  ‘Oh dear …’

  I heard Anne’s concerned murmur, but there was nothing I could do. I could not speak. I could not move. My fingers were locked onto the book so tightly that it creaked under the strain.

  Footsteps. There were footsteps approaching.

  ‘What on earth–’ Claude was beside his mother. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Anne replied. ‘But I’ve certainly seen this reaction before.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Grief.’

  ‘Well–’ Claude sounded at a loss. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘What do you think?’ snapped his mother. ‘Comfort her, you silly ass!’

  ‘But–’

  ‘I’ll fetch some brandy.’

  ‘But–’

  The fading of brisk footsteps confirmed his mother’s departure. Claude sank down into the chair she’d left vacant.

  ‘My mother just called me an ass.’

  I managed to suck in a deep breath, which caused him to glance at me in alarm. I had some sympathy for him. Here he’d been, quietly minding his own business and avoiding company, when he’d been flung headlong into an emotional maelstrom.

  ‘Silly ass,’ I said.

  He gazed at me, bewildered. ‘What?’

  ‘She called you a silly ass.’

  His mouth twitched. ‘I stand corrected. As well as insulted.’

  Then he reached out and placed his hand over mine. At his touch, my fingers released their limpet grip on the book. One by one, wincing, I stretched them out.

  ‘What on earth happened to you just now?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ I was back to being embarrassed, ‘It’s … hard to explain.’

  ‘My mother said it was grief. Was she correct?’

  I nodded.

  ‘May I ask – for whom?’

  ‘My husband.’

  Claude’s eyes widened. ‘I see. I’m so very sorry. Was it recent?’

  ‘Recent enough.’

  ‘Yes. Clearly. Apologies. Stupid question.’

  Brisk footsteps again. Anne was back.

  ‘Here. Drink this.’ She handed me a glass of brandy. ‘Chair, Claude,’ she said to her son.

  ‘Oh! Of course!’ He hopped up obediently, ensured she was seated comfortably, and then stood behind her, one hand on the chair back.

  ‘Better?’ There was an irritation in Anne’s expression that encouraged me to nod.

  But then she said, ‘Not that I imagine this will help in the slightest, but it does get a little less – acute.’

  I was puzzled. Marcus had implied that his parents’ marriage was far from happy.

  Anne was on her feet again, smoothing down the front of her dress. ‘I must go. Doesn’t pay to sit still for too long.’ She gave Claude a look. ‘I suggest you take her home.’

  He blinked at her. ‘Oh. Yes. All right–’

  She made a tchah sound. ‘And, for God’s sake, find someone to marry! Then there’ll be some point to you wearing that bloody ring!’

  Claude’s other hand stole immediately to said ring. He twisted it while he watched his mother leave the room.

  ‘Is it hers?’ I asked him, softly.

  ‘Yes. She gave it to me when he died.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘No …’

  He let go of the ring, turned to me and smiled. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘What about Marcus?’

  ‘Must we?’

  Inside me, panic began to rise. The thought that I might not see Marcus again today was appalling. I needed him. Needed his touch, his laughter, his energy. Needed him to bring me back from the abyss.

  ‘How else will he get home?’ I insisted. ‘We have to take him.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Claude held up his hands in surrender. ‘But you do realise that means we will also have to take Gus?’

  Now, that I did not want. But if it meant I left with Marcus, it was a price I was prepared to pay.

  I stood up. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘They’re down by the pool.’

  I’m not sure quite what kind of debauchery I was expecting, but when we arrived, my first impression was that it could hardly have been more quiet and sedate. Marcus was slouched in a chair, at a table under the shade of a big umbrella. He had a white terry-towelling sun hat over his face, and if weren’t for the lit cigarette in one hand, I’d have guessed he was asleep. Gus was next to him, but her chair was facing Jules, who was sitting on the side of the pool, her bare feet paddling idly in the water. I counted only three empty champagne bottles. There was an ashtray on the table in front of Marcus. In it were numerous cigarette butts, and something I was fairly sure was a roach. I was not about to sniff it to find out.

  I walked up to Marcus and gently lifted the hat. He wrinkled his face in protest and opened one eye. ‘Mmph–’

  He sat up and pouted at me, like a cross child awoken early from a nap. ‘Where have you been?’

  I pulled up a chair. ‘Talking with your mother.’

  ‘Christ, really? Poor you.’

  ‘And what have you been up to?’

  His eyes shifted guiltily to the cigarette. ‘Breaking my two-a-day rule, as you can see.’ He stubbed it out, and made a face. ‘I also tried to get drunk, but my heart wasn’t in it. I am quite nicely stoned, though, so the afternoon hasn’t been a complete loss.’

  ‘Claude wants to leave,’ I told him.

  ‘Thank God!’

  This came from Gus. I hadn’t thought she’d even noticed we’d arrived. She called to Jules. ‘Dry your feet, Sweets. We’re about to take a ride in the green beast.’

  ‘A ride that is leaving now,’ said Claude. ‘I don’t intend to wait.’

  But to Claude’s obvious irritation, Gus flopped right back in her chair, and said, ‘What are you up to tonight, Marcus?’ The ‘you’ was unmistakably singular; it did not include me. ‘Shall we hit the town?’

  ‘I fly out tomorrow after lunch,’ he said.

  My heart lurched. But then, he did have a job. And we’d at least have the morning together.

  ‘So do I. What does that matter?’ Gus turned her head towards the pool. ‘What do you want to do, Jules? Shall we go out?’

  Jules had stood up and was shaking the water from her feet. Her shoulders lifted in a languid shrug.

  ‘Come on,’ Gus urged her brother. ‘We haven’t been out together for ages. And this afternoon’s been useless. I really need to let off steam.’

  Marcus met my eye, and I knew, before he even asked, what I had to say.

  ‘You go,’ I told him.

  ‘Without you?’

  I was pole-axed by disappointment but I had no choice. All I could do was put a brave face on it. I was getting quite good at those.

  ‘Clubbing’s not my thing.’

  Nor is your sister, I didn’t add. Nor are the places you and she will choose to go. Places where I simply would not fit in.

  ‘Then I’ll come to you afterwards,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure it’s not too late.’

  ‘Really?’ My heart leapt.

  ‘Gus!’ Claude’s patience was at an end. ‘Marcus! Now!’

  ‘Jawohl, mein Standartenführer!’ Gus leapt up and saluted. Then she dashed up and kissed him on his rigid cheek. ‘Drop us at the hotel?’ she wheedled.

  ‘Absolutely not. You can take a
taxi from my house.’

  Unabashed, Gus grinned. Then she dashed back up to Marcus, grabbed his hand and tried to yank him up out of his chair.

  ‘Ouch!’ he protested, but he let himself be pulled to his feet.

  Smiling, he bent towards her, as if intending to kiss her, and jammed the sun hat down over her ears. For a minute, they were nose to nose.

  ‘Wow.’

  Jules was behind me, her shoes in her hand, her feet trailing damp pools on the paving. Her one syllable was matter-of-fact rather than impressed. She gave me a brief glance from under her heavy, almost bored lids. ‘Don’t they know?’

  I blinked at her. What on earth did she mean? I considered asking, but even though Jules was way less intimidating than Gus, I still hesitated.

  I lost my chance. Jules turned away and, swinging her shoes, began to stroll towards the pool gate, where Claude was waiting for us, car keys in hand, foot tapping impatiently.

  As I was bending to put the coffee cup down outside Big Man’s flat, the door was yanked open. Wide-eyed, I stared upwards. From this angle, Big Man loomed huge and menacing. I felt like Jack at the top of the beanstalk. Only in my case, there was no escape.

  ‘You tell that blonde harridan,’ he said, ‘that if she comes anywhere near me, I will – God help me, I’ll fucking shoot her!’

  ‘With what?’ I was upright now, which meant my eyes were at his chest height. It was a slight improvement.

  ‘You think there’s any shortage of weaponry around here?’ he yelled.

  ‘I’m not sure that would stop her, you know.’

  He stood there, glowering, breathing heavily. Then he pointed downwards. ‘That mine?’

  With a sigh, I picked the cup up off the ground and handed it to him. He took it with one hand and began to close the door with the other.

  I was outraged ‘Oi! Don’t you shut that door on me.’

  He paused. ‘You’ve done what you came to do. Now–’

  ‘Listen,’ I jabbed a finger in his face. ‘I have had a very trying weekend! I am sick of this stupid heat and sick of rude people giving me grief. Would it kill you to be polite for ten fucking seconds?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and shut the door.

  I was enraged. So enraged, a red mist actually rose in front of my eyes. I lifted both my fists and began to pound on the door for all I was worth. All my fury, all my disappointed, frustrated, helpless fury, came out with every blow. Big Man’s door was getting the thumping of its life.