The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘Twenty-one years!’ Michael protested. ‘I haven’t spoken to her for twenty-one fucking years.’

  ‘Change is as good as a rest,’ said Ruth. ‘That’s a rest, not arrest, of course.’

  ‘I can’t call her.’ Michael was barely audible. His face had lost all colour, and I could see sweat forming on his forehead. ‘Not now. Not yet …’

  Ruth stared at him. ‘You know what? I’m feeling lenient. Must be the result of all the sex–’

  ‘Do you mi–’ Claude pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Why do I bother?’

  ‘OK, you can call her when you’re ready,’ Ruth told Michael. ‘But you will call her.’

  ‘Why do I have to do what you say?’ Michael had recovered some of his belligerence.

  ‘Because if you don’t I’ll plague you to the end of your days. And you haven’t even begun to see what I’m capable of.’

  ‘I hate you,’ he muttered.

  Ruth was clearly delighted. ‘Yeah, you keep on telling yourself that, Tex. You just keep right on.’

  Anselo turned up alone the next morning. He dumped his gear in the courtyard, and came to stand in the kitchen doorway. I got the feeling he had something to say to me. I was pretty sure I knew what it was – and not at all sure I wanted to hear it.

  Anselo opened his mouth to speak. So I got in first.

  ‘Apprentice still sick?’

  Anselo nodded. ‘Yeah, but don’t feel too bad for him. He has more women at his beck and call than Tiger Woods.’

  I smiled. He almost smiled. And that was it. When Simon arrived in the kitchen, I think I was even happier to see him than I was the day before.

  ‘Hello. Anselo, wasn’t it?’

  Simon was squinting through his spectacles. He had on another new shirt and a very smart pair of Lee jeans. I hadn’t had a chance to grill him further about his transformation. My guess was a woman was involved. But then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to assume?

  I smiled fondly at my elder brother. ‘Poor Simon. He was up at one in the morning making sandwiches. New Zealand’s twelve hours ahead,’ I explained.

  Simon was checking his watch. ‘It’s time for Coronation Street back home.’

  ‘Tea?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I raised an eyebrow to Anselo. He shook his head. Fair enough. Judging by the greatly reduced number of teabags left in the box, he and the others must have drunk gallons of it over the weekend.

  I handed Simon his cup. ‘When do you head to the Faroes?’

  ‘Thursday morning.’ He gave me a look. ‘Is it all right if I stay till then?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘As in – Egyptian?’ Anselo asked.

  ‘As in Islands,’ Simon explained. ‘They’re about halfway between Iceland and Scotland, but are in fact an autonomous province of Denmark.’

  ‘And about to be invaded by wave scientists,’ I added.

  I didn’t add: ‘and why on earth are you still hovering in the doorway?’ It was most un-Anselo-like behaviour. Usually, when there was work to do, he got on with it without delay. I doubted that the lack of apprentice was the reason; I suspected Anselo got more done without Tyso than with him.

  No, the reason had to be that he wanted to tell me his news. I suppose there was no point putting it off, although I still felt that tactic was not entirely without merit.

  Plate of toast in one hand and cup in the other, Simon said, ‘Do you get the paper?’

  ‘No, I’m too cheap. I read it for free at the café.’

  ‘I might check the news online, then. Do you mind if I use your computer?’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind the sight of my unmade bed.’

  Anselo waited until Simon was all the way upstairs before speaking. ‘I’m sorry I had to leave yesterday. I had to– Well. Doesn’t matter. How are you?’

  ‘Surprisingly OK,’ I told him, truthfully.

  He frowned. ‘Do you–? Are you staying home today?’

  I hadn’t thought about it. I found I had no inclination to roam the streets. Simon might want to go to Greenwich, but I’m sure he wouldn’t force me to go with him.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ I replied.

  ‘Do you want to go for a drink later?’

  Oh God, here it comes. The moment of truth will occur at five twenty-two at the pub on the corner.

  Anselo was frowning again. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d like it to be – well, just you and me.’

  There was no doubt now. But in a way that made me more resigned to hearing it.

  ‘All right,’ I nodded. ‘Simon will probably be asleep by then, anyway.’

  ‘Leave here at five?’

  ‘Five it is.’

  ‘Great.’

  This time, Anselo did smile. I wished he hadn’t; it made him depressingly handsome. But I supposed he had quite a lot to smile about.

  He hooked his thumb towards the courtyard. ‘I’d better get to work. Got to earn a living.’

  I remembered that, in my delight in hearing my book had been accepted, I’d promised my publisher another one in four months. Could be worse. In my relief, I’d have promised her another book in four hours.

  ‘Yes, I’d better go earn my living too,’ I said. ‘I hope Simon hasn’t dropped jam on my keyboard.’

  At five, Anselo was waiting for me at the front door. He was wearing the same light blue polo shirt he’d worn last time we went to the pub. I still felt it didn’t suit him that well, but I imagined he didn’t think much about that; it was simply the one he kept in the van to change into if required.

  ‘Want to go where we went before?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought it was going out of business?’

  ‘It got a last-minute reprieve, did you know that? Some wealthy Russian who’d always wanted to own an English pub. Had clout with the brewery. Or something that resembles clout.’

  ‘A Cinderella pub.’ The thought made me smile. ‘Rescued by a black prince.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Anselo held the door open for me. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

  As before, he chose the wine. As before, it was very good. I settled back into the couch. Anselo did not settle, but sat perched on the edge. He turned his wine glass in his hand but did not drink.

  ‘Darrell–’ he began.

  And, suddenly, I knew I did not want to hear it. Not yet, at least. I wasn’t ready yet.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, quickly. ‘I never asked. Who found me? Who got in touch with everyone else?’

  Anselo blinked at me, taken aback. ‘Um. It was me.’

  ‘You–’

  ‘Yeah.’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘I was coming to – well–’

  Coming to tell me, I bet. I was making hasty plans to divert him once again, but mercifully, he stuck with the story.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know whether to call an ambulance. I was this close to getting your phone and finding the number of the arsehole–’

  ‘That would have been interesting,’ I murmured.

  He gave me a sideways look. ‘But then I remembered the big bloke, Michael. Thought he’d be a better bet. I had no idea how to find him, but I figured he lived around here because he’d walked home from your place that day. So I went to the café, to ask them if they knew him – and there he was. He called that Irish shrink–’ He shook his head. ‘Who is completely fucking nuts, by the way. Though he does know his stuff.’

  ‘So when did Claude and Ruth turn up? And how on earth did they find out?’

  ‘Dunno. Blokes at the café again, perhaps? All I remember is one minute they weren’t anywhere; next minute it’s like we were in a Noel Coward play.’

  ‘Did they fight?’

  ‘Not exactly fought, more hurled insults at each other across the room. The Irish shrink thought it was hilarious. Egged them on.’

  ‘I don’t recall any insults. Only singing. And something about marmalade …’
r />   ‘Yeah, I think we ate all your bread. And drank most of your tea. Sorry.’

  I blushed, embarrassed. ‘I can’t believe you were there for two days.’

  ‘Well, we took turns, watching you.’

  ‘Lying there in my red dress …’ I made a face. ‘It gets worse and worse.’

  ‘It’s a great dress,’ he said. ‘You looked incredible in it at the wedding. Beautiful …’

  Now it was his turn to blush. Fair enough – I was gazing at him in frank astonishment.

  ‘Wasn’t enough to make you like “The Lady in Red”–’

  I had only wanted to break the uncomfortable silence, but then I had the horrible thought that he might interpret it as fishing for more compliments.

  But – Lord love him – he said, ‘Not even the promise of being able to lick hot chocolate off a naked Natalie Portman would make me like “The Lady in Red”.’

  ‘Natalie Portman,’ I grinned. ‘Interesting choice.’

  ‘Is it?’ He gave me half a smile. ‘And who would you choose to lick hot chocolate off you?’

  ‘Hmm. Tough decision. Pierce Brosnan and Clive Owen are currently the hot favourites. Can I have both of them? Or is that just plain selfish?’

  ‘Pierce Brosnan’s a bit old, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, you see – that doesn’t matter with men.’

  ‘No, guess not. Her nibs is at least ten years younger than Patrick.’ He shrugged. ‘But then–’ he went on, ‘I think you’re right. They are happy, aren’t they? They chose well.’

  Oh God. Quick! Dive! Dive!

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude,’ I said, ‘but I’m not really feeling up to talking about relationships. If that’s OK?’

  I cringed inwardly at his expression of shock. Brilliant, Darrell. Subtle. Restrained.

  ‘Sure. Yeah.’

  He was staring at his feet now, poor man. I’d ruined his moment and humiliated him in one fell swoop. I felt so bad, I almost decided to be brave and change the subject back.

  But then he looked up and gave me a quick, resigned smile. ‘Timing has never been my strong suit,’ he said. ‘Nor has subtlety, for that matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told him sincerely. ‘I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. It’s just that–’

  ‘No, I understand. I do.’

  We sat again in uneasy silence. Then I saw Anselo take a deep breath.

  ‘Can I just ask you one thing?’ he said. And without waiting for me to confirm: ‘Was your boyfriend the reason you–’ He ground to a halt.

  ‘What? Melted down?’

  He flushed. ‘Told you subtlety wasn’t my strong suit.’

  ‘No. I mean – no, he wasn’t the reason. Well–’ I amended, ‘he obviously played a part. But I think it would have happened eventually, whether he’d been there or not.’

  ‘Has he called you at all?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Yes, he has …’

  He’d called me several times. There were two messages left that night, the first puzzled, the second concerned. After that, I found out he’d rung Claude. The messages from then on were all concerned. Finally, I’d summoned the courage to call him back. And tell him the truth.

  ‘You know,’ he’d said after a short silence, ‘I have to say I mind that a great deal. The prospect of not seeing you again is surprisingly unpleasant.’ He’d paused. ‘Is there anything I can do to change your mind?’

  I’d been touched. But I was no longer delusional. ‘I just think you’re more used to being the dumper than the dumpee.’

  ‘Ouch,’ he’d said. ‘And that’s not true. I have certainly done my fair share of grovelling. I’m quite prepared to grovel now, if you wish?’

  ‘You’ll be perfectly happy without me.’

  ‘That’s not true, either. I’ll miss you. You were good for me.’

  ‘You’ll be home soon.’

  ‘Back to the solace of sunshine and large-breasted women, you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ I’d said. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’ll still miss you.’

  ‘Send me a postcard, then. With palm trees on it.’

  He’d sighed. ‘We both know how unlikely that is, don’t we?’

  ‘We do,’ I’d replied. ‘Take care, Marcus.’

  ‘You, too, Angel. You, too …’

  Anselo didn’t look at all pleased that Marcus had been in touch. But then his complete and fundamental loathing of him made it impossible for him to look otherwise.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘That’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me lately.’

  Anselo’s eyes widened in genuine alarm. To reassure him, if not myself, I began to explain about Michelle.

  ‘… and I did send her one message to say I was sorry. But she didn’t reply. And then, what with everything over the last few days …’

  ‘Why don’t you phone her?’

  It had occurred to me.

  ‘I’m too chicken.’

  ‘Why? What’s the worst that can happen? She hangs up on you?’

  ‘That would be the worst, yes.’

  Anselo gave me a look. ‘Do you think she’s right, and you no longer have anything in common?’

  ‘Well …’ I said, reluctantly. ‘She’s married and I’m obviously not anymore. She’s a mother, and pregnant again, and I’m not likely to have even one baby any time soon. She seems happy not to have a paying job whereas I’d go nuts …’ I stared at him. ‘Does that make it a big fat yes?’

  ‘Depends,’ he replied. ‘What matters more? What you talk about? Or staying friends?’

  I hadn’t actually asked myself that question. Did I want to stay friends with Michelle for the same reason I’d have done anything to stick with Marcus – because the prospect of letting go was simply too terrifying?

  ‘I adore Michelle,’ I told him. ‘I adore everything about her – her humour, her loyalty; she’s been a staunch, good friend to me all these years. I even adore her constant bragging. I find it somehow – comforting. As if the world’s a better place because everything’s worked out so well for her. I don’t really want her life, but I do want her friendship. In fact, I can’t bear to think of my life without her–’

  I had to stop: I’d started to cry. Again. Seemed now that the floodgates had been opened, there was no stopping me.

  Anselo set down his glass, moved up to my end of the couch and placed his arm lightly around my shoulder. I leaned into him, resting my cheek on his chest. He smelled good. He felt wonderful. My arm was across him, my hand on his hip. It was so comforting, so familiar, so right.

  I tried not to sit bolt upright, but I still managed to startle him.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I just didn’t want to get your shirt all damp.’

  He glanced down. ‘I’m not that fond of this shirt, as it happens. But it was a gift.’

  I was trying to stop sniffing. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to me, along with a brief smile.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I think friendship’s a fine thing. Sometimes, it’s the best thing.’

  I got the message. In the nicest possible way, he was hinting at what I’d so far prevented him from saying out loud – that he was now committed.

  But that was OK. Being friends with Anselo would be perfectly fine.

  Perfectly.

  I tuned back in to find he was looking at me slightly askance. ‘Do you, um, want another drink?’ he asked me. ‘Or do you want to head home?’

  Another hint. Again, nicely given.

  ‘Home, I think. I should probably make a phone call.’

  When Anselo arrived the next morning, I was surprised to see he wasn’t wearing his work clothes. Instead he had on a peacock blue shirt, which looked incredible against his dark skin.

  ‘Nice shirt!’ I told him. ‘Another gift?’

  He blushed furiously. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered. ‘And no – I bought this one.’

  I was oddly pleased to find
that he’d bought it and not his girlfriend. And then I remembered that she was no longer his girlfriend, but his fiancée, and I was pleased no more. But I’d better get used to it. This was how things were to be from now on.

  ‘No Tyso again?’ I smiled. ‘Must be a bad flu.’

  ‘I gave him a day off.’ Anselo’s reply was rather short. ‘Look, Darrell–’ he said. ‘Can we–’

  The stairs creaked. Simon rounded the corner into the hallway. Anselo stepped back and ran his hand roughly over his head, the gesture of a man resigned to frustration. I looked at him, curious, and he offered me a quick shake of his head.

  ‘Hello again,’ Simon said to Anselo. ‘I’m off your computer,’ he said to me. ‘Apparently, there is a plague of cluster flies back home, thanks to a wet summer.’

  ‘Ick! Our mother will be appalled.’

  ‘I doubt she’ll be wasting time on unnecessary emotion,’ said Simon, ‘but will instead be arming herself with a can of super-strength, fast-knockdown flyspray. Probably one in each hand. Your father would be wise not to make any sudden moves.’

  I noticed Anselo had that antsiness about him which usually heralded his intention to leave. I found I really didn’t want him to, so I put my hand on his arm.

  ‘Why don’t you come with us to the café? I suspect Michael will be there. And probably Ruth. Which means Claude will be there, too.’ I screwed up my face in apology; this was sounding worse and worse. ‘But you’re welcome to join us.’

  Anselo’s face suggested he’d rather swim naked to join the wave scientists on the Faroes. But then he sighed and said, ‘Yeah, why not?’

  Plunging starkers into the Norwegian Sea seemed exponentially more attractive to Anselo, I could tell, when we arrived at the café and found gathered together at an outside table not only Michael, Claude and Ruth, but also Patrick and Clare.

  It took every ounce of my effort not to goggle. Clare was enormous!

  ‘Yes, go on,’ she muttered bitterly. ‘Say it. Is she giving birth to a baby? Or to a mid-sized family sedan?’

  ‘We think labour may have started,’ said Patrick. ‘That’s why I’m not letting her out of my sight.’