The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  At twenty-three, Patrick had been working for the small commercial cleaning firm that, unbeknownst to him at the time, would be his leg-up in life, the start of his successful career in property development. Bill Moult was the name of the old man who owned it. Patrick had helped him make it twice as profitable, and when Bill had died two years later, having no family, he’d left the business to Patrick in his will. Patrick made it ten times more profitable again, sold it, and with the proceeds bought his first commercial property.

  Bill had taken on Patrick when no one else would touch him, for which Patrick would be ever grateful. At sixteen, Patrick had left school and home to live on the streets, to be a brawler, a burglar and a vandal — in his own words, an arrogant, bone-headed thug — and, after three years of it, the authorities had lost patience and slung him in jail.

  Patrick had spent four months in prison, and it had been three months, thirty days and twenty-three hours more than enough. He used to tell people that he’d been more than scared straight, he’d been scared into a foetal position: ‘Curled up so tight a fucking flea couldn’t have crawled in there.’ He’d spent every day and night convinced he was going to die. And not quickly, but lengthily, nastily, at the hands of one or more of the truly terrifying men who were locked up there, probably for too short a time for society’s comfort. Patrick had been nineteen, fit, big and strong, but he’d been no match for them. They were dead inside and, as a result, they had no limits, no qualms, only a curiosity to see what would happen if they took a biro pen and—

  Patrick shivered, prompting an old lady coming out of the newsagent to cross herself. She probably thinks I have the plague, thought Patrick. She looks ancient enough to have been in Genoa herself when they had the bright idea to catapult infected corpses over the ramparts.

  The villages around the lake were packed with old people, Patrick had observed in the two days he’d been here. They hung out in clusters. Single-sex clusters: old men here, old women there. The old women were always bustling, always busy, but the old men didn’t appear to do anything except yak, fish, drink aperitivo in the bar and drive Fiat Pandas everywhere at snail’s pace, causing younger Italian drivers to go insane.

  How fucking wonderful, Patrick decided. Maybe I could retire here, too? I’m not sure I’d fit in a Panda, though. That bloody Renault rental is small enough.

  Then he remembered that when he first realised he was about to make serious money he’d set the age of his retirement at fifty. It seemed a long way away from twenty-nine, thought Patrick. Even forty had seemed ancient to me then.

  Patrick felt his cheerfulness evaporating along with his energy. Sweat was dripping from him onto the road, and even though he’d run for only ten minutes he knew it was time to turn back.

  David Bowie’s version of ‘It Ain’t Easy’ was coming from the earphones. All the places that a young man could be, Patrick thought. Yeah, well. If I listen to what my shins and lungs are telling me, those places are now just ten feet too fucking far.

  Back at the villa, Patrick took a shower. Due to the layout of the ensuite bathroom, he was forced to dry himself in front of the tall, ornate-framed mirror propped on a stand, which revealed to him more of his naked body than he truthfully wished to see. He’d always known he wasn’t handsome but had never much cared. Confidence, a sense of humour and physical presence had been enough to attract women. In the early days of his property business, Patrick had to admit, more than a few had also been attracted by the fact he’d flashed a bit of cash. But he’d quickly learned that the kind of woman he really wanted to attract found flashiness deeply vulgar. He’d traded his bright yellow Porsche for a silver Mercedes, and his diamond Rolex for a plainer Omega. He started wearing shoes with laces, and had his suits made by a Savile Row tailor, instead of buying them off the rack at Armani.

  I started drinking real coffee, he thought, instead of stewed tea at the local caff. I started reading the Guardian instead of the Sun. I started going to Mario and Vincente’s café in the morning. And that’s where I met Clare.

  Patrick stared at himself in the mirror as he reached around to dry his back. That was nine years ago, he recalled. He had been thirty-seven, and Clare only in her mid-twenties. Because of that he forced himself to ignore her, not wanting to be one of those sad bastards who delude themselves that a dolly bird on their arm and a rug on their head will erase the years. Not that thirty-seven seemed all that old now, he thought. He hadn’t had any of this — he eyed the spare inch of flesh around his waist. And he could run for more than twenty minutes without requiring fucking CPR. But back then, the age gap seemed prohibitive, even borderline obscene, so he’d done his best to pretend she didn’t exist. In retrospect, Patrick decided, he couldn’t have picked a better tactic for drawing her attention to him. Beautiful young women expect to be noticed. When a man who isn’t obviously gay fails to ogle them, they feel compelled to find out what’s wrong with him.

  She hadn’t been subtle about it, either. Patrick smiled at the memory. After a week of him apparently showing more interest in his paper than in her, she sat down at his table. Didn’t bother to ask if it was OK — just sat down and said, ‘Good morning’ in her typically combative tone that makes people immediately think of everything they’ve ever done wrong since they were a tot. In five minutes, she’d found out Patrick’s name, where he lived, what he did for money, and what he was doing on Friday night, which, as it turned out, was going to dinner with her. Patrick didn’t recall that she ever asked him whether he had a girlfriend. He supposed that in her mind it was immaterial; Clare had decided that they were to be an item, and so they became one. She wasn’t about to let a minor thing like an existing attachment put a kink in her plan.

  Patrick brought the towel around and slowly rubbed his chest. I wasn’t seeing anyone, he thought, but if I had been, I suspect I would have dumped them without the faintest flicker of remorse. So I’m grateful to fate or circumstance, or whatever, that I could avoid adding another piece of shitty behaviour to my already sizeable list of regrets.

  Ironically, he had suspected that Clare saw him as the trophy catch. He was a tiny bit famous, for being the latest up-and comer making free with the readies and for having that Vinnie Jones rough-round-the-edges geezer-chic that was still in fashion. Clare was a smart middle-class girl from Hampstead, the protégée of one of London’s top spin doctors, with a work ethic and ambition that made Margaret Thatcher look like a three-toed sloth. She’d wanted to be noticed, and pairing up with Patrick had gained her a few snaps in the gossip columns. It certainly got her colleagues talking.

  It didn’t bother Patrick that she might have had an ulterior motive for seeing him. He’d always felt their relationship wouldn’t last — he was too old, not the right class, not clever enough for her — so he’d intended to make the most of it while it did. But then they’d fallen in love …

  They had been outside the Italian café, Patrick remembered, going their separate ways to work. Did he say it first, or did she? In any case, the words were said — and replied to in kind — and it took a few seconds for them to sink in. And then all the pair of them could do was stare at each other, open-mouthed.

  Why had he been so surprised? Patrick wondered. Perhaps because he had long since decided that love was not something life would bring him. He felt he had squandered too many chances, with his mother and his family, and with previous girlfriends, too many of whom he had used for sex when it suited him and left as soon as he’d got bored. When he was young, he’d never bothered to be choosy when it came to women. Partly because, Patrick conceded, he’d been a thoughtless, selfish shit, but mostly because the women he’d associated with expected to be married by eighteen, and if they hadn’t been, with every year passing they’d hated themselves more and more. By the time they’d hit thirty, they were bitter and terrified and willing to do anything with any bloke who’d give them a second look. It made them easy to leave and Patrick knew he’d taken advantage of that.
Later on, when he realised he could attract — and he felt even more of an arsehole as he thought it — a better class of woman, he took advantage of that, too. But he never expected anything more than a few shags. All he felt he’d achieved was to graduate from knee-tremblers in an alley round the back of the pub to blowjobs in the heated seat of a brand-new AMG Mercedes. He’d been chuffed enough with that, felt he’d got the maximum he was entitled to. Love was way up in the clouds somewhere, Patrick had felt, unreachable unless you had the right to get there, the magic beans of worthiness. Love was the grail, and he’d been a grubby churl not fit even to touch the hem of the knights who sought it.

  He might have given in to all those doubts, thought Patrick, and run a mile rather than feel like a pretender, a fake. Except that he didn’t have a chance. Clare had said, ‘Right, then. We’d better get married.’ A month later they were Mr and Mrs King.

  Patrick reckoned it took them at least another five years to work out what love really was. They worked out how to turn lust and selfish expectations into affection and respect. They became a unit instead of two component parts that ran up against each other with the same sound a learner driver makes changing gear. Which meant they’d had a couple of pretty good years — until Tom came along.

  I love my son, thought Patrick. I love my wife. But we’re not a unit anymore …

  He opened the ensuite door and walked naked into the bedroom.

  ‘Jesus fuck!’

  ‘Oh God!’

  Charlotte had in her arms a bundle of Tom’s clothes, which she dropped, so she could slap her hands over her eyes. Patrick reached back into the ensuite, snatched the towel from the rail and hastily wrapped it around himself.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m decent.’

  Charlotte lowered her hands and gave him an accusing stare.

  ‘I didn’t hear you in there!’ she said. ‘You were so quiet!’

  ‘Men like quiet time in bathrooms,’ said Patrick. ‘I thought every woman knew that!’

  ‘You can usually hear the rustling of newspaper,’ said Charlotte. ‘God knows why — I couldn’t think of a worse spot to read. You might as well be undergoing gas warfare training.’

  ‘After fifteen minutes, you get used to it,’ said Patrick.

  ‘After fifteen minutes, I’d be heading straight to Boots for some syrup of prunes.’

  Patrick grinned at her and, to his surprise, thought he saw her cheeks flush pink. He couldn’t be sure, because Charlotte bent to pick up the dropped clothing, and when she straightened up, her cheeks were their usual flawless pale peach. Patrick had known that complexions were described as ‘peaches and cream’, but before Charlotte he’d never seen anyone he could more accurately apply it to. She looked, both Patrick and Anselo had agreed, as if she’d never had a pimple in her life.

  Charlotte gestured with the clothes. ‘There was a small incident concerning your son and a Nutella sandwich,’ she said. ‘And before you say a word, I had nothing to do with it; the sandwich was provided by our host, Mrs Lawrence. Your wife has made her views on the matter quite clear.’

  Patrick found it safest just to nod. The mention of Clare made him acutely aware that his young and attractive personal assistant had not five minutes ago seen him in the altogether — an event that, no matter how jovially you recounted it, would pollute any atmosphere with the rank fumes of suspicion. Fumes that would take a great deal more than fifteen minutes to get used to.

  As if she’d read his mind, Charlotte said, ‘Well, I’ll be leaving now, and I’m sure we can both forget this ever happened.’

  ‘Nothing you haven’t seen before, I’ll wager?’

  His faux hearty tone made Patrick cringe, but not as much as the fact he’d tried to stop himself saying it and failed. I suppose embarrassment pretty much guarantees you’ll make a tit of yourself, he thought. And, lo and behold, once again, I have.

  Charlotte’s coolly appraising look didn’t help matters.

  ‘Strictly speaking, that was an all-new visual treat,’ she said. ‘But I have had similar experiences, yes. One was my father, who I surprised in his kitchen when I came around to call without phoning first. He wasn’t entirely naked, to be fair. On his feet was a pair of maroon argyle socks …’

  Don’t say it, Patrick ordered himself. Don’t fucking—

  ‘Hope I’m in better shape than your old man.’

  Charlotte’s expression did not flicker. ‘My father looks like Robert Morley gone to seed,’ she said. ‘A dead elephant is in better shape than my father.’

  She patted the bundle of clothing. ‘Must dash. Chocolate-covered child awaits.’

  And she strode briskly out of the room.

  Patrick sank down on the edge of the bed and expelled a slow breath. He remembered how, in the early days of his relationship with Clare, he’d been concerned that his lack of schooling would show her up in front of her friends.

  I didn’t want them to see me as an ignorant lout, he thought, even though that’s exactly what I was. So I grabbed some books out of the library — poetry, Shakespeare, a few literary classics — and did my best to plough through them.

  On the whole, he recalled, I didn’t struggle as much as I’d feared. I gave up on The Waste Land, and didn’t get past page three of Ulysses. I enjoyed Auden and Forster, but formed the strong opinion that Yeats and Lawrence were annoying prats.

  But there was this one Yeats poem that I liked, he thought. It had a bit of fucking gumption to it. Can’t remember its title, but it was about how everything falls apart when the centre, like gravity, loses its hold. Sort of a poetic way of describing what happens when the shit hits the fan.

  That’s what’s happening to me, Patrick decided. My centre’s losing its hold, and I’m letting fly forty flavours of crap in every direction. The last time I felt I had no power, no control over my life was when I was in prison. All I could do then was pray that some force in the universe felt I was worth saving. Apparently I was, and I hope I repaid that debt by getting off my arse and making something of myself.

  But that’s done now, isn’t it, he said to himself. I’ve made it. And now, all that energy I had inside myself, all that hunger to strive and achieve and validate my right to be here on this Earth, it’s slowly leaching out of me like sap from a pine tree.

  Patrick propped his elbows on his knees, and rubbed both hands over his face. It felt damp. Either shower mist, he thought, or, more likely, the cold sweat of humiliation.

  I don’t imagine that sap-leak is fatal to pine trees. I don’t imagine it’ll be fatal for me. But I’d better find a way of salvaging that centre of mine, or who knows what havoc the moron that apparently lurks within me will unleash?

  9

  ‘Well,’ said Clare. ‘What do we think?’

  Darrell was grateful for the word ‘we’. Expression of individual opinion around Clare held more hazards than a disused mineshaft. Whereas the use of ‘we’ meant Darrell could safely wait for Michelle to answer first. Which she did.

  ‘Chad thinks she’s very pretty. Of course,’ Michelle added, ‘he didn’t actually say that. I said, “Charlotte’s very pretty, isn’t she?” and he said, “Mm?” which means he agrees completely but is too petrified to admit it.’

  She took a sip of her wine. ‘Chad should know better by now than to show fear around me. It only encourages me to do mean things, such as pretending that his mother will be dropping by any minute and staying for at least two weeks.’

  ‘Harry and Rosie seem to like Charlotte,’ said Darrell. She took a risk. ‘So does Tom.’

  ‘Harry loves bossy women,’ said Michelle. ‘They make him feel secure. Rosie loves them because she intends to be one, and wants to suck every piece of know-how into her evil sponge of a brain.’

  ‘Rosie took Tom’s hammer yesterday,’ said Clare. ‘Tom grabbed it back and hit her on the head with it.’

  Was that an accusation or an apology? wondered Darrell. With Clare, it was ha
rd to tell.

  Michelle seemed to take it only as fact. ‘Do her good,’ she said. ‘The little minx needs a regular thwarting. I’ll tell Charlotte to keep an eye on her, though. Who knows what manner of vengeance will be brewing in my daughter’s mini-Macbethian mind?’

  Darrell glanced down to where Cosmo was lying on a padded mat in the shade of the sun umbrella, staring up at the sky and gurgling happily. Anselo, Chad and Patrick had taken the largest rental car, a diesel Peugeot wagon, on a day trip to the Monza racetrack. Charlotte had taken Rosie, Harry and Tom in the Renault compact to the playground in the next town for the afternoon. Left alone, the women had settled, with white wine and a plate of peaches and prosciutto, at the table on the terrace that directly overlooked the lake.

  The terrace was covered in diamond-shaped tiles, terracotta and white, a surface that would be unforgiving if Cosmo rolled off the mat and onto it. The villa had three terraces, and Darrell had wanted to sit on the one that was closest to the lawn, so she could put Cosmo’s mat on the grass. But Michelle and Clare had vetoed this, saying they wanted an unobstructed view of the lake, just in case George Clooney motored past in his Riva. They didn’t actually know that George had a Riva; it just made sense that he would have the classiest craft available. They also posited that he would be steering it one-handed, wearing cream linen trousers and a white shirt with the top two buttons undone, and that the instant he spotted them on the terrace, he’d set a course right for their mooring and seduce them one by one, like a non-repulsive version of Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick.

  ‘And don’t tell me we’re being ridiculous,’ Michelle had said to Darrell. ‘You write this stuff all the time.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean it happens!’ Darrell had protested. ‘If it happened, I wouldn’t have to make it up! And besides, he isn’t here. He’s filming in New York. I read it on one of those George-stalker websites.’