The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘Chad was indeed a banker!’ said Michelle cheerfully. ‘Until he had the brain fart that brought on this trip. But at the end of this year, we’ll go back to the family home, which we’ve remortgaged to the hilt, and I’ll fend off the bailiffs with a shotgun while he goes on the job hunt again. Unless he decides he’d prefer to live in Cuba and write short stories. In which case, I will aim the shotgun at his feet and make that sucker dance.’

  ‘Or you could go back to work,’ said Clare, folding her arms.

  ‘You’re right!’ said Michelle. ‘I could earn crap-loads if I went back to being a corporate lawyer. I should think about that … OK, I did. Nope! Mommying’s the only job for me. How about yourself? What did you do before you lost all sense of an individual identity?’

  Clare hesitated briefly. ‘I was in PR.’

  ‘Yowzer!’ said Michelle. ‘The only life form lower than my own past career! Oh no, wait. I forgot about people in advertising.’

  Then before Clare could respond, Michelle said, ‘Tell me, what does Charlotte Fforbes with two fs look like? I have a picture in my head of Samantha Bond in one of her typical roles. You know — cool, elegant, utter bitch.’

  Darrell laughed. ‘I’ve never met her. Anselo likes her, though, so she can’t be that bad. Mind you, you’ve pretty much described his last girlfriend. Except for the bitch thing, I suppose …’

  ‘Exes are always bitches,’ said Michelle. ‘Or bastards, depending on what side of the fence you’re on. I begrudge every bit of time that some other bint who wasn’t me spent with Chad. I even begrudge his mother.’

  ‘That is Freudian and creepy,’ said Darrell. ‘You should be ashamed.’

  ‘We both know how unlikely that is, don’t we?’ said Michelle.

  ‘Fascinating as this is, shouldn’t we be more concerned about Ms Fforbes’ childminding qualifications?’ said Clare. ‘I have only Patrick’s vague assurances that she has any, which makes me suspect it may be a big con on her part to score a free trip to Italy.’

  ‘She’s about to take on one infant, two small boys and a foul fiend,’ said Michelle. ‘Rosie alone will be an object lesson in how unwise it is to tell big, fat fibs. It’ll be like the darkest Victorian morality tale come to grisly life.’

  A noise came from Clare, but it was a few seconds before Darrell realised it was a chuckle. Clare did have a sense of humour, Darrell conceded. But it was generally expressed in a sarcasm that could wither fruit on the branch. Darrell couldn’t remember for the life of her the last time she’d heard Clare laugh.

  On the screen, Michelle was laughing, too, and Darrell felt another twinge. This time, it wasn’t guilt. As she watched Clare, her landlady and wife of her husband’s boss, in whose company she’d never felt entirely equal or at ease, bond with Michelle, her best friend since forever, Darrell felt the sharp finger-poke of jealousy in her ribs.

  Michelle’s mine, she thought. But even as she did, another thought rode over it. Clare wants everything her way, Darrell’s mind said, and Michelle has always done exactly as she wants. If the two of them decide to become tight, I’ll be three’s-a-crowd on the outer, and I doubt I’ll have the energy or confidence to change that.

  Darrell looked over at the baby monitor, which was still silent. Well, Cosmo, she thought, on this holiday, it might be just you and me, so I’d better get used to it.

  7

  Anselo decided that if hell existed, it would feel like this — crushed on all sides by sweating, lurching, muttering bodies. Except that in hell the bus ride would never end, whereas, God willing, the trip across the tarmac from plane to airport would take only five minutes.

  Darrell, with Cosmo, had a seat, as did Clare and Tom, just behind. Patrick was stooped in the door well, having been too polite in letting others on first. Anselo was strap-hanging in the middle, acutely conscious of the dark sweat stain in the armpit of his T-shirt, which was exactly at the eye level of an attractive young woman called (Anselo was so close, he could read the boarding pass in her hand) Tabitha Appleby.

  He glanced towards Darrell. She was staring out the window, Cosmo asleep against her chest. Anselo did not think she was looking forward to this trip, even though Michelle’s emailed photos of the villa had made both him and Darrell gasp. It was right on the lakefront, its square stone exterior picked out in yellow ochre. Inside, it was decorated in a comfortable traditional style: white wood, pale grey-blue walls, and soft gold and cream furnishings. Every one of its eight bedrooms had a modern ensuite, and the kitchen looked spanking new, with gleaming appliances and granite benchtops. Outside were tiled terraces, a lawn and garden, and a vine-covered loggia. There was even a private boat dock.

  ‘I’d say it’s a blessing that Patrick’s offered to pay for us,’ Darrell had said, ‘or we’d be living on bread and gruel for the rest of the year. I feel a bit guilty, but seeing you’ll be “on call” for work while we’re there, I suppose it’s only fair.’

  Anselo had nodded slowly. ‘There’s always some price to be paid, isn’t there?’

  But Darrell hadn’t heard him. She was scrolling through the photos again, frowning. ‘Is the place fenced all around? Looks like it’s right between the lake and a busy road.’

  ‘Cosmo can’t even crawl yet. How much trouble can a stationary baby get into? Besides, I hardly think Michelle would have chosen a place that wasn’t safe for children: Rosie and Harry are still only small.’

  ‘She dragged those very same children through South America,’ Darrell had said. ‘They took a boat ride up a river filled with piranhas. Which they discovered only when Rosie stuck her hand over the side.’

  Anselo had taken a mental deep breath and put his arm round his wife’s shoulder. ‘Do you not think your friend might be winding you up?’

  ‘Because I’m easily wound?’

  Darrell still hadn’t been entirely happy, and Anselo recalled the irritation he’d felt, but not shown. The knowledge that such irritation was rising ever more quickly, and often, sparked a momentary pang of guilt. But seriously, he thought, it was getting ridiculous. She’d been less firmly attached to Cosmo when he was in the womb.

  Last time we came to Europe together, we didn’t have Cosmo, thought Anselo. And we didn’t have to suffer the evils of air travel, with check-in cut-offs and rabid security and line upon line of antsy people. We took my old van on the ferry, and drove it wherever looked interesting, taking as long as we liked to get there. A couple of nights we even slept in the van. It had been hot and sweaty in there, too, Anselo recalled. And that’d had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

  In six weeks, they’d meandered through France and Italy, with quick side-hops to Switzerland and Belgium. Anselo remembered the look on Darrell’s face, of permanent wonder. She had been disappointed by nothing — even foreign petrol stations had excited her.

  Anselo thought about how she’d always wanted to do a proper big overseas holiday, about how she and her first husband, the late Mr Tom Kincaid, had been planning and saving for one for years. But then Tom had died, and their plans for the holiday, and for their life together, were no more.

  That, thought Anselo ruefully, was the only blot on the whole trip. I tried not to let it bother me, but it did. I tried not to think: would she be enjoying this more if she were with him instead of me? But it was always on my mind. Always.

  Anselo could see Patrick trying to shift position and get some head room. He wondered, not for the first time, about the coincidence that Patrick’s son shared a first name with Darrell’s dead husband. It was a coincidence, he reminded himself. Clare named him, and she’d had no idea who Darrell had been married to. Even if she had, knowing Clare, she wouldn’t have cared. Darrell had always insisted that she didn’t mind. She said it was good to hear the name Tom without feeling unhappy. Anselo wished he could say the same.

  I might have been fine by now, Anselo thought, if she hadn’t taken that trip back home when she got pregnant. She never explained wh
y she’d shot off without telling me a word of it, but I know: she went to sit on his grave, and ask the spirit of the late Tom Kincaid if she should keep our child. If I hadn’t got on a plane to find her, who knows what his ghost might have said? And I know his influence would have overridden mine.

  That’s the guts of my problem right there, thought Anselo. Feeling I come second — to a dead husband, and now to a living baby.

  Or perhaps his problem was how he reacted to it? He did not really want to blame Darrell, knew that Patrick was right; she was struggling. But his resentment continued to hum, low and ever present, like an electric fence.

  I’m doing all I can, thought Anselo, to be a good husband, a good provider for my family, and right now I’m getting precious little in return. It’s no wonder I … well …

  The quick shot of shame made Anselo blink, and he yearned to rub his eyes but his free hand was trapped down beside a matronly woman with that expression of fierce suspicion that the English adopt when surrounded by foreigners. She had her purse firmly clutched to a bust that could have doubled as an airline tray-table, and Anselo feared she might accuse him of groping if he moved his hand even an inch.

  Goddamnit, he thought, that’s my real problem. No fucking balls. And you know what? I’m tired of it. I don’t want to feel like this any more.

  A shudder of brakes and multi-language murmurs of relief signalled that the bus had stopped. Anselo saw Darrell give him a look of slight alarm, which he interpreted to mean: don’t let anyone steal our luggage. Anselo nodded at her, and shouldered through to hoist their carry-on bags from the rack. Then he held the space until Darrell made her way to him, and guided his wife and his bundled infant safely through the door.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Patrick and Clare?’ said Darrell.

  ‘Inside,’ Anselo replied. ‘I can feel the soles of my shoes melting.’

  Milan Linate airport was smaller than Anselo had expected, and a lot calmer. His previous experience of Italy was that anything to do with officialdom was about as organised as a volcanic eruption, with an equivalent amount of shoving and shouting. But their passports were stamped with the minimum of questioning, and within ten minutes, they had their baggage off the carousel and were out into the terminal.

  ‘That was suspiciously easy,’ said Darrell. ‘I feel we will somehow pay for it later on, when we least expect it.’

  ‘I need water,’ said Anselo. ‘And coffee.’ He checked his phone for service. ‘I’ll text Patrick. They can meet us at that café over there.’

  ‘The joy has begun,’ said Darrell under her breath.

  Anselo stared at her. ‘We don’t have to hang out with them,’ he said. ‘We can do our own thing.’

  Darrell did not meet his eye, but glanced down instead at the top of Cosmo’s head.

  ‘He’s slept for three hours,’ she said. ‘I suspect we may pay for that later, too.’

  ‘You are going to let Charlotte look after him, aren’t you?’ said Anselo.

  ‘The invisible Charlotte Fforbes?’ said Darrell. ‘I’m not sure I believe she actually exists. I think you and Patrick made her up to trick us into this holiday.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to her on the phone.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the talking clock, too.’

  Anselo began to push the trolley towards the orange seats that marked out the café.

  ‘Charlotte has friends in Milan,’ he said. ‘She’ll meet us at the villa tomorrow.’

  ‘She’s really the brains behind your whole operation, isn’t she?’ said Darrell. ‘She’s like Charlie from Charlie’s Angels.’

  ‘And which Angel am I?’ said Anselo with a half smile.

  ‘Definitely Kate Jackson,’ said Darrell. ‘She was always the practical one.’

  Anselo parked the trolley beside a free table. ‘Practical. Yeah. Want an espresso?’

  ‘Grazie mille,’ said Darrell, pulling out a seat. ‘Which apparently means “thanks heaps” and not “a mile of grass” as I’d always believed.’

  Anselo counted the euro notes in his wallet. ‘Good thing I’m doing the ordering then.’

  ‘A very good thing,’ Anselo heard her say to the sleeping Cosmo. ‘Foreign languages are not my strong point.’

  Whereas I find it difficult to communicate in any language, thought Anselo as he waited at the counter. But what’s holding me back isn’t ignorance.

  ‘Whatever you’re having, make mine a double.’

  Patrick was behind him, looking sweaty and frazzled. Clare, Tom slung on her hip, was stalking towards Darrell, radiating a level of annoyance that in cartoons would be illustrated by red-hot mercury rocketing to the top of a thermometer, to a soundtrack of a shrieking siren.

  ‘Did you get grilled?’ said Anselo.

  ‘Like a chop in a greasy spoon.’

  ‘Why? What’d you say?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything!’ said Patrick. ‘I was a model of fucking politeness! I dunno. I probably reminded him of the bloke who knocked up his sister, or some such.’

  ‘Did you get the … What’s “rubber glove” in Italian?’

  Patrick gave him a look. ‘You think this is hilarious, don’t you?’

  ‘Grazie.’ Anselo accepted his change from the large woman behind the counter, and picked up the tray. ‘It would have been funnier if you’d got the glove.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve found the rental car office?’ said Clare, as the men joined them at the table.

  ‘It’s just behind us,’ said Anselo.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Clare. ‘I wonder if Patrick can start an argument with them, too?’

  ‘I didn’t start anything!’ said Patrick. ‘They picked on me!’

  ‘He called the official “me old China”,’ Clare said to Anselo and Darrell. ‘Which led to a lengthy to and fro about whether he had, in fact, been to China and if he hadn’t, then why had he brought it up? Did that mean he had communist affiliations? And Patrick said no, but he certainly had a few good fruit gums who were tiddlys, and from there, things went rapidly downhill.’

  ‘Tiddlys?’ said Darrell. ‘Oh wait, I’ve got it. Tiddly-Winks. Rhymes with—’ She shook her head reprovingly. ‘That’s not good form. Not even in slang.’

  ‘He never used to do this.’ Clare shifted Tom on her lap and glared at her husband. ‘It’s as if he hit forty-six and some default programming kicked in. Like when your television decides for no reason to reset itself to wide screen and suddenly everyone has strange body proportions, like Simon Cowell.’

  ‘Forty-six.’ Anselo nodded slowly. ‘So I’ve got ten years before I need to book a room in a clinic in Switzerland?’

  ‘I’m storing that in my memory along with the glove crack,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m half-Irish, don’t forget. My people are content to spend fucking centuries plotting our revenge.’

  A small cough, followed by a mewling cry, came from Darrell’s baby carrier.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ she said. ‘He’s awake.’ She threw Anselo an apologetic look. ‘I’ll have to feed him. Do you want to go organise the car?’

  ‘Sure.’ He rose and caught Patrick’s eye. ‘Coming?’

  ‘Not without me,’ said Clare. She shot to her feet, planting Tom firmly on her hip. ‘I don’t know what Cockney rhyming slang is for “car” but I don’t intend to risk it.’

  ‘It’s Kareem, isn’t it?’ said Anselo with a grin. ‘As in Kareem Abdul-Jabbar?’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Clare held a warning finger up to Patrick’s face. ‘You — shut it.’

  Anselo saw that Darrell was also getting up. ‘Are you not going to feed him here?’

  Darrell made a face. ‘I’m not sure how Italians feel about boobs. I mean, I know they’re all right on television game shows that feature naked housewives. But here, I might get taken out by a hit squad of elite nuns.’

  She slung the baby bag over her shoulder. ‘The loos are over there. We’ll manage.’

  ‘OK.’ Anselo reach
ed out to touch her arm, but she was already moving away.

  ‘I’ll meet you by the rental car office,’ she said over her shoulder.

  OK, fine, thought Anselo. He glanced over to Clare and Patrick, who were having a debate about who should carry Tom. Patrick was offering, Clare refusing. Tom himself, Anselo saw, was bumping the head of a small stuffed monkey, which had once been white but was now a grubby grey, against his chin.

  Anselo wheeled the trolley up to them. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go find out how much the cars they propose to give us differ from the ones we booked.’

  ‘That’s right, I forgot,’ said Clare. ‘We’re in Italy. Land of the apologetic shrug.’

  ‘I’ll make sure both cars have sat-nav.’ Anselo pushed the trolley past Patrick and Clare. ‘Or the only way we’ll find the lake is if we happen to drive into it.’

  8

  Patrick jogged along the lakefront, trying to ignore the pains in his chest and calves, and to listen instead to the music on the player that Gulliver, his teenage cousin, had given him for his birthday in April. The thing was barely the size of a postage stamp, but somehow managed to hold over two hundred songs, all pre-loaded by Gulliver.

  Despite his misgivings about what horrors a fifteen-year-old might consider listenable, Patrick had plugged in the earphones and switched it on. With each track, his respect for Gulliver had grown. As well as the obligatory rock anthems by The Who, the selection covered blues, funk, soul, dance and pop, and, to Patrick’s surprise, he liked pretty much all of it. The inclusion of Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’ was a bit iffy, but that may well have been Gulliver’s idea of a joke. Or a not-so-subtle reminder that his nephew considered him ‘old-tacular’, or possibly even ‘old-mageddon’.

  Right now, he was listening to what might well be another reminder, a pop-punk track by a band called Blink 182. It was all about not acting your age, the age in question being twenty-three. Twenty-fucking-three, thought Patrick. Exactly half my life ago.