The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  The thought set her off again, leading Charlotte to speculate that if the Victorians were, in fact, correct, then she was either going to go blind or be forever cured of female hysteria.

  Avoiding another night of sleepless urges was the reason Charlotte was now sitting on the bar stool. After six straight days and much of the nights minding small children, Charlotte had asked if she could have the evening off. She’d asked Darrell, who, of course, had said yes. If Michelle and Clare did not like this, Charlotte reasoned, they could feel free to let her know the following day, when it would be too late.

  Charlotte had considered taking a cab all the way into Milan, to see her friends. But it was fifty kilometres away and Patrick wasn’t paying her quite that much, even if she did expect not to pay for a drink all evening. So she’d settled for Como, and was now in the piano bar of a five-star hotel on the lakefront.

  She was sipping on a tall vodka and tonic, chosen because it lasted and because it did not emit the same obvious signals as a cocktail, or even a glass of champagne. This was a defensive tactic brought on by the, now regretted, choice of venue. Hotels, even in Italy, drew a higher than average percentage of randy, ageing businessmen who invariably had a) paunches, b) moustaches, and c) a remarkable lack of awareness of how repellent they were. Whereas Charlotte had hoped to be surrounded by young, attractive men her age, whose third finger did not sport a white mark where the wedding ring had, until ten minutes ago, been digging into the fat around the joint.

  A quick scan of the room, however, proved that any other kind of man besides fat-knuckled moustachioed lechers was currently absent. Charlotte was cross with herself. She should have looked up the Italian for singles bar. And been very specific about the type of single she meant.

  Oh, well, Charlotte sighed, I suppose I can use the time to catch up on my plotting.

  She’d read enough John Le Carré to know that all good plots are based on sound intelligence, usually obtained by morally ambiguous means. So as well as eavesdropping, Charlotte had been covertly studying the dynamics between the adults in the villa, to ensure she was reading the various domestic situations correctly.

  Michelle and Chad had proved the easiest. Michelle gave Chad a hard time, but clearly adored him. He accepted her ribbing and demands placidly and good naturedly, but Charlotte could tell that, if it came to the crunch, Chad’s will would be the winner on the day. Charlotte envied a little Michelle’s luck in catching such a husband; Chad was not only sweet and courteous, he was possibly the handsomest man Charlotte had ever seen. He looked the way she’d always imagined Siegfried did from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. When the light was at the right angle, she fancied she could see his gleaming Nothung.

  Darrell and Anselo’s dynamic was more opaque. Though their conversation, at least in public, seemed cordial enough, Charlotte sensed tension between them. Given what Patrick had told her, she put this down to Darrell’s staying attached, as if surgically, to Cosmo. Why Darrell felt compelled to do this, Charlotte couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as though Cosmo was a fractious baby. In fact, he was so easy, Charlotte thought, you could mistake him for one of those replica dolls that psychiatrists give grieving mothers whose infants have died at birth. Both Michelle and Clare regularly pointed out how lucky Darrell was. Darrell always reacted to this as if she were being asked by a known practical joker to smell the flower in his buttonhole. Darrell was likeable enough, but did she really need to be so flaccid when it came to Cosmo?

  Charlotte could see why Anselo might be feeling aggrieved, but there was something about his personality that prevented her shifting from understanding to sympathy. Anselo certainly had his good points: he was handsome, intelligent and, when he chose to speak, articulate. Charlotte knew Patrick saw him as a boon. But there was a guardedness about Anselo that Charlotte found off-putting. The irony of this didn’t escape her — overt displays of emotion usually made her run like a hare. Perhaps it was Patrick who had reset her thinking? Patrick didn’t gush, but every word that came out of him rang clear with emotional honesty. For Charlotte, it had been like the first taste of a properly ripe, juicy, fresh peach when one’s experience up until then had been the supermarket offerings that tasted like wood shavings stuffed in a woollen sock. Anselo was too wary and cautious to give openly of himself, and because of that, Charlotte could regard him with respect, but she could never really like him.

  Mind you, if Charlotte were to be honest, there was only one person she cared an iota about. And while Anselo and Darrell appeared to be if not entirely immersed in connubial bliss then at least not throwing paperweights at each other’s heads, Charlotte felt it was safe enough to place most of her focus on Patrick — specifically on his relationship with his wife. Charlotte already knew that Patrick was unhappy; why else would he have sought comfort in the arms of another? But she also knew that he was a man of enormous integrity, who valued family connections above all, and would put up with any amount of marital discord rather than walk out on his wife and child.

  Watching him at the villa these past few days had confirmed this for Charlotte, but it had also brought to light an intriguing shift in her perception of the type of discord up with which Patrick was prepared to put. (Charlotte replayed that last sentence in her mind and decided it was essentially correct, if somewhat cumbersome.) Before now, Charlotte had been under the impression that when it came to parenting Tom, Clare was — not to put too fine a point on it — a control freak. Patrick never complained outright, but Charlotte had gleaned from passing comments that everything Tom did, watched and consumed was regulated and monitored by Clare with as much efficiency as if the child were hooked up to medical equipment. Charlotte had concluded that Patrick felt his role as father was being minimised to the point of irrelevance. Nothing he did would ever be up to his wife’s exacting standards, and he could no more prise her hands from the parenting reins than, as he would put it, fucking fly.

  In the past six days, however, Charlotte had seen none of this. If anything, Clare had not only taken her hands off the reins but had also thrown herself sideways and barrel-rolled out of the cart. True, she had protested to Michelle about the Nutella sandwich, but that had seemed to Charlotte to be more about Clare than about Tom. Clare had firm opinions about what constituted lazy behaviour, and buying pre-made sandwich spread was right up there. You can’t take a step in Italy without tripping over a wholesome, natural, seasonal ingredient, Clare had pointed out. Why settle for what may as well be a regurgitated Toblerone scraped up and crammed in a jar?

  Michelle hadn’t taken the least offence at this, Charlotte had noted. In fact, she and Clare seemed to have bonded rather well. The two were now spending more time together than they did with their husbands — time that was almost entirely spent lounging in the sun, eating and drinking.

  From day one, Michelle had practically hurled her children at Charlotte. Not, Charlotte knew, because Michelle was a lax, slatternly mother of the kind that left babies outside pubs, but because she had categorically decided that she’d earned a break. It was no secret that the Lawrence family world trip had been Chad’s idea, and that the Italian villa stop was Michelle’s pound of flesh. At the end of it, Michelle would go back to being primary caregiver. But for these four weeks, she was looking after numero uno, a phrase that, Michelle had pointed out, was for good reason already in Italian.

  Clare, Charlotte decided, had not initially been of one mind with Michelle. She’d been reluctant to hand Tom over to Charlotte, and had done so only after reciting a series of instructions in a tone that resembled General Patton addressing his troops, with the same unequivocal promise that any transgression would result in being lined up against the wall and shot. But once Tom had spent a day with Charlotte, and gone to bed happily and with all body parts intact, Clare had relaxed. So much so that she now barely enquired about how he was getting on. It was Patrick who asked, Charlotte noted. He kept one eye on his wife and one on his son, Charlotte had observed, his gaze swive
lling constantly back and forth like one of those robot villains in the original Battlestar Galactica. And nothing of what he saw in either case was making him happy. That’s why he asks all the time, Charlotte thought. He’s becoming more and more desperate for reassurance.

  Part of Charlotte wondered if this was the opportunity she’d been hoping for. A vulnerable, needy Patrick could potentially be played upon, wooed, and turned. But Charlotte had slept with enough men who had revealed (regretfully too late for Charlotte to bail) that they were in the midst of relationship issues. She knew that such men were rarely ready for a new commitment. Moaning about their wives or girlfriends to a fresh ear only meant they were hoping to get a new perspective on the problem, and, with luck, a solution. It was like free counselling, with the extra benefit of the physical release of sex. Men who’d genuinely decided to leave their other half didn’t waste time talking about it. They hopped it, and moved on.

  Was that why Patrick had slept with the mystery woman? Had he been hoping she could offer him the answer, some magic potion that would bridge all marital gaps, heal all wounds? Had he slept with her just the once, or was she a regular safety valve for him? Charlotte suspected it had been just the once. Patrick’s sense of duty would make him feel too guilty to try a repeat.

  And who was she? Charlotte had tried hard not to ask this question, because she believed it would only complicate matters to make this woman real. Clare was a daunting-enough obstacle to negotiate in the pursuit of Patrick’s heart. Charlotte had no desire to breathe life into another.

  Even if she had been keen, Charlotte knew she’d have trouble tracking the woman down. There simply weren’t that many contenders. The vast majority of women Patrick had contact with were family, and though many of his cousins were seconds and thirds, Charlotte felt certain he’d draw a very firm line when it came to relations. So once you eliminated them, you were left with Beatrix the architect, the pushy blonde real estate agent whose name Charlotte deliberately refused to remember, and Ludmila, the Polish cleaner. Charlotte felt she could safely eliminate Ludmila, owing to her being sixty-one and possessed of a face that looked like a vacuum cleaner bag turned inside out. That left the pushy blonde and Beatrix the architect, neither of whom was either foreign or Welsh. Charlotte was still convinced that the woman Patrick had been with had expressed her sexual satisfaction with an accent. If I’m right, she concluded, then she was a stranger. Someone Patrick picked up in a bar or club.

  Charlotte could hardly censure him for that, but she felt a distinct stab of resentment that the pick-up-ee had been someone other than her. Considering the countless hours I have spent in bars and clubs, thought Charlotte, it seems supremely unjust that I have failed to be in the one that contained Patrick on the pull.

  She indulged in a brief fantasy of him walking in the door right at that moment. But when she looked up from her drink, the doorway was depressingly empty, and the room correspondingly full of men she didn’t want to meet.

  On top of that, her vodka and tonic was finished. Charlotte poked her straw down into the ice chips but decided that she still, if only just, had more self-esteem than to start sucking up the watery dregs. But if she ordered another, she’d run the risk of a) becoming inebriated, and b) letting any man who’d been wondering if she was waiting for a boyfriend know that she wasn’t. She could almost hear the stroke of fat fingers on moustaches, smoothing them down in preparation for making a move in her direction.

  ‘Hello.’

  Charlotte had positioned her body on the stool a little to the right, so she could keep most of the room in her peripheral vision. This man’s voice came from her left, which meant he’d snuck around without her seeing. On the plus side, he sounded young and English. On the downside, Charlotte knew that this did not mean he was free of plump digits and facial hair. She set her expression to its most glacial before turning, ready to freeze him out.

  Dear God, she thought, when her brain unlocked itself from its shocked stupor. Where on Earth did you come from? Two minutes ago, this bar was full of men hoping they’d remembered to slip Viagra into the pocket of their shiny, ill-fitting navy blazers. Now she was staring at a man who appeared to be a whole different species.

  He wasn’t astonishingly handsome, certainly not in the league of Michelle’s husband. Nice-looking would be accurate enough. He was, she guessed, in his late thirties, with dark eyes, mid-brown hair worn slightly long, and a good tan. He had broad shoulders, long legs and lounged with an easy grace on the bar stool next to her. His cream shirt and pale brown trousers fitted him superbly; he was a man who knew how to dress. He had money, Charlotte decided, or at least access to someone else’s.

  Thing was, Charlotte realised, none of that mattered one whit. This man could have been wearing a sequinned jumpsuit and a sombrero. He could have dirty fingernails and greasy hair and Charlotte would still be boggling at him, trying frantically to rein in her hormones, which were popping like corn kernels in a hot pan. That’s because he exuded a sexual energy that, by Charlotte’s conservative estimate, could make nipples five miles away become pert. It was not a macho appeal, dragged down by testosterone and arrogance. It was the kind that left you in no doubt that this man would be what her friend liked to call (as if she were reciting Burns) ‘a hoot in the sack’. Here was a man who loved sex, and wanted you to love it too. With him. As soon as possible.

  He held out his hand. ‘Marcus Reynolds.’ His accent was unmistakably a product of one of England’s better public schools.

  Charlotte managed to engage the part of her brain that was linked to her own hand. His warm, firm touch nearly derailed the part of her brain linked to her mouth, but with an effort of will, she recovered.

  ‘Charlotte Fforbes.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Any relation to the Fforbes in North Yorkshire?’

  Charlotte frowned. ‘I don’t believe they exist at all. You’re making it up.’

  ‘No, I went to school with one. Or was that a Ffoulkes?’

  ‘Where did you spring from?’ Charlotte almost demanded.

  He blinked, taken aback. ‘Originally? Or five minutes ago?’

  ‘Both.’

  His look became amused, appraising.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he said. ‘Actually, to be brutally honest, I don’t care if you have. All I’ve had today are five of those miniature toasts Italians insist on serving you for breakfast, and I’m eyeing that cornucopia of plastic fruit over there with less disgust than I otherwise ought.’

  He swivelled on the stool to briefly survey the room. ‘However, I don’t think I’m desperate enough to resort to the gluey pasta carbonara and vulcanised squid that will almost certainly be the speciale del giorno of this benighted establishment. What would you say to a pizza downtown?’

  And after that, then what? Charlotte did not say it out loud, because she was ninety-nine per cent sure of the answer. But part of her wanted very much to be a hundred per cent sure, because she suspected that, unlike with so many others, the disappointment she’d feel if it didn’t work out would be keen indeed. Charlotte’s recent night fevers had left her with the strongest urge for what another friend liked to call ‘a bloody good rogering’. And she’d never met anyone more likely to provide one than this man.

  Charlotte may not have said any of that out loud, but he must have understood it all the same, because he gave Charlotte a smile that lifted her toenails and curled them back on themselves.

  ‘Do you have a curfew?’ he said.

  Charlotte shook her head. It wasn’t entirely true, in that she did need to be back in time for the children’s breakfast. But as long as she remembered to set the alarm on her phone, it shouldn’t be an issue.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, and placed a hand on her arm. ‘Now, let’s get some decent food into us before my blood sugar plummets to the point where I’m no use to man nor beast.’

  11

  Patrick was about to tighten his fingers in his wife’s hair, in readine
ss for the final moment, when she lifted her head and said, ‘Are you going to tell me about Ned?’

  ‘Jesus …’ Patrick’s brain cells were scrambling like a bomber crew. ‘Yeah, all right, all right!’

  Clare lowered her head again just in time.

  When Patrick opened his eyes, she was propped up on one elbow, staring down at him.

  ‘Tactics like that get you on the shit-list of Amnesty International,’ he said.

  The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘All’s fair,’ she said. ‘So. Ned the grumpy gardener. What’s the deal?’

  ‘Fuck.’ Patrick breathed out the word, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

  ‘That bad?’ said Clare.

  ‘Not really,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s just that when I remember what happened with Ned, I have to remember what I was like at the time. And, personally, if I had a chance to meet the younger me, I’d do the world a favour and shoot myself in the head. Though I’d probably fucking fail. My teenage skull was thick enough to deflect an inter-continental ballistic missile.’

  ‘We all do idiotic things when we’re teenagers,’ said Clare. ‘You’re grown up now. Move on.’

  Patrick looked at her. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I considered Gloria Estefan a fashion icon,’ she said briskly. ‘But this isn’t about me. This is about you and Ned. What did you do? Steal his girlfriend?’

  ‘Worse,’ said Patrick. ‘His little sister.’