The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘How very Mr Wickham-ish of you.’ Clare ran her fingers along the edge of the sheet. ‘Was she pretty?’

  Patrick hesitated. ‘Don’t hate me for this … but I can’t remember. Her name was Julie, I do remember that. But what she looked like? Blonde hair, good figure?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t even say for certain what colour her eyes were.’

  ‘Mr Grouchy’s are blue.’

  ‘Are they? Yeah, well … maybe …’

  ‘What happened?’ said Clare. ‘Did you knock her up?’

  ‘No!’ Patrick jerked his head off the pillow. Seeing that his wife’s expression appeared tolerant, he felt it was safe enough to sink back down.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Though if I had, things might have been better.’

  He crooked his arms behind him and settled his head on his hands. ‘Ned and Julie’s dad had been a Yorkshire miner. Their mum had died when they were little, and, when all the pits started to close, Dad brought the two kids to London and tried to find work. He found the King’s Arms instead. Ned was sixteen, so he decided it was up to him to support them. But there was nothing going in London for an unqualified Northern lad. There were quite a few opportunities for thieving, though, and that’s how he eventually, a couple of years later, came to meet me.’

  ‘Bethnal Green’s bad boy.’

  ‘The Artful Dickhead.’ Patrick pursed his mouth ruefully. ‘Fuck, I thought I was the man. Ned did, too. More’s the pity.’

  ‘So you two went out robbing?’ said Clare. ‘Did you have hoodies and bikes, like the kids from our local estate?’

  ‘I was a burglar, not a purse snatcher,’ said Patrick. ‘I had a crowbar, a motorbike and, if I was venturing further afield, a car.’

  ‘The famous getaway car, according to Ned. What was it? A Ford Grenada, like in The Sweeney?’

  ‘It was whatever I could steal,’ said Patrick. ‘Worst one ever was a Vauxhall Viva. I hadn’t forked out a penny for it, and I still felt ripped off.’

  ‘Did the police ever chase you?’

  Patrick gave a derisive snort. ‘We were hardly the Brink’s-MAT gang. Be lucky most times to get away with a crappy TV and the milk money. Sometimes, we pretended the Old Bill was on our tail just so we could give it a lash.’ He sighed. ‘What almighty plonkers we were.’

  Clare bent her head and dropped a kiss onto his chest. She slipped her hand under the sheet and ran it up the length of his thigh, causing Patrick to gaze at her in surprise, and mild alarm.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said smiling. ‘Sounds like fun to me.’

  ‘Not that I’m objecting,’ he said, ‘but I hope you haven’t secretly been hanging on to some romantic “leader of the pack” notion about boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Let me remind you of what you know perfectly well. I wasn’t cool. Ned wasn’t cool. Our life was shitty and grubby and poor, and so were we.’

  Clare was still smiling. ‘Gulliver showed me a photo of you at eighteen, wearing a leather jacket,’ she said. ‘You did look rather cool in that.’

  ‘Gawd help me,’ muttered Patrick. He glared at his wife. ‘Do you want to hear this story or not?’

  ‘Back to the forgettable Julie.’ Clare removed her hand from his thigh with an impatient tut. ‘Very well. Fire away.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep it brief. It’s all it deserves,’ said Patrick. ‘Ned introduced me to Julie. She was a year younger than him, so sixteen, seventeen by then. Not sure.’

  ‘Did you not think to check?’ said his wife. ‘There is such a thing as statutory rape, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know!’ Patrick scowled. ‘She was old enough. Ned wouldn’t have let me near her otherwise. Looking back, I think he built me up to be some kind of hero, because she threw herself at me right away. Don’t think that’s what Ned intended, but who knows? Maybe he thought I’d look after her.’

  ‘You didn’t, though, did you?’

  ‘Course not,’ said Patrick, subdued. ‘I went out with her a few times, took her virginity, and then dumped her and forgot about her.’

  ‘Where was Ned during all this?’ said Clare.

  ‘Ned had found a girl of his own,’ said Patrick. ‘She lived in bloody Willesden, so he was spending most of his time there. Came back after he caught her sleeping with another bloke. By then, I’d done what I’d done.’

  ‘No need to ask if he was happy.’

  Patrick adjusted his hands under his head. ‘To be honest, if she’d been OK, I think he would have forgiven me. But what I didn’t know is that after I’d dumped her, she’d cut up very rough indeed, gone down the local and drunk herself into a stupor. The young men who told the pub keeper they’d take her home took her into the nearest alley instead. I don’t think I need to paint you a picture of what they did to her.’

  His wife frowned. ‘That was hardly your fault.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ Patrick turned to look at her. ‘I dumped a teenage girl, the sister of my best friend, without so much as a backward glance. I never checked on her, never even gave her a moment’s thought. She had no one to look after her but a drunken father. Don’t you think I could have been less of a selfish, heartless arsehole?’

  ‘What happened to her?’ said Clare.

  Patrick took a deep breath before answering. ‘Nothing good. Got pregnant from the rape. Had an abortion, which gave her some kind of an infection, but because of shame or guilt or fear or whatever, she didn’t go to the doctor in time and almost died. Then she decided to finish the job slowly by taking up smack. I’m assuming she is dead by now, and I’m fucking ashamed that I don’t actually know for sure.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Clare said again. ‘She made her own decisions.’

  ‘Actions have consequences,’ Patrick said to her. ‘I should have been more mindful of mine.’ He made a wry face. ‘Though I suppose I’m paying for it now. Stuck for three more weeks with a still-angry Ned Marsh. If my privates end up skewered on a tomato stake, don’t be surprised.’

  ‘As I said before,’ said Clare, ‘you’ve grown up now. Both of you. Time to move on.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Patrick. ‘Feel free to share that with him.’

  He reached out to the bedside table and turned the alarm clock to face him.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘it’s after eight! What about Tom? Don’t you normally get him breakfast at seven-thirty?’

  His wife gave him a look. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Normally, I do. But Tom and I both know that’s Charlotte’s job now, even if the fact’s somehow escaped you. He will have toddled off to her room ages ago.’

  She shifted closer to him, and this time placed his hand on her own thigh. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Quid pro quo.’

  Patrick watched his wife’s head tip back and her eyes close as his fingers found their mark. I should be cheering, he thought. I wanted her to go on this holiday so she could have a break from Tom. I wanted her to relax and, I can’t deny it, I wanted her to be up for more sex. Now here I am, mission accomplished, and in the words of the late Tommy Cooper — just like that.

  But actions have consequences, he told himself, as he moved down the bed. Have I, and not for the first time, been less than mindful? Or have I committed that age-old fucking mistake of not taking due care over what I wished for?

  Darrell felt Anselo’s erection as he spooned against her, and tried not to tense up. I should be letting him, she thought. I should have let him way before now — twelve weeks is far too long. I mean, he hasn’t gone entirely without, even if Bill Clinton thinks that doesn’t count, but we haven’t done it properly. I’m just so tired all the time, and my boobs are so sore. And they’re huge. And they leak. And my stomach looks like a small waterbed filled with badly set custard. And my hips have spread. And I don’t even want to think about the carnage down there …

  She heard Anselo give a resigned sigh, and felt him roll away from her. I guess I tensed up, she thought. For a moment, she couldn’t tell which was strongest —
guilt or relief. Guilt, she decided, and wincing at the tender weight of her milk-swollen breasts, rolled over to face him.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I would like to. It’s just—’ She gestured hopelessly. ‘I feel like a cow. A giant, fat Alderney.’

  Anselo turned his head towards her. ‘Then stop breastfeeding. What’s the point if you don’t enjoy it?’

  Darrell’s main reason for continuing — a fear that if she opened the door even an inch to Signor Doom, he’d waltz right in and make a beeline for Cosmo — seemed less than reasonable when it was about to be spoken out loud. So she stuck to the one that felt like firmer ground.

  ‘He’s too young for formula all the time,’ she said.

  ‘Plenty of babies are on formula from birth,’ said Anselo. ‘It’s not going to poison him.’

  ‘Those Chinese babies were poisoned by formula.’

  ‘Those Chinese babies were poisoned by poison,’ said Anselo. ‘The formula itself was perfectly fine.’

  ‘It’s better to breastfeed, though,’ said Darrell. ‘The health department says it is.’

  ‘Better,’ said Anselo to the ceiling. ‘Right.’

  ‘I can stop completely at six months,’ she said, sounding to her own ears like an alcoholic in denial. ‘That’s not so long to go, is it?’

  Anselo gave her a brief glance, his expression hard to read.

  But then, isn’t it always, thought Darrell. These days, I’m never, ever sure what he’s thinking.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not long.’ And he looked away, out the window.

  Darrell studied her husband — took in the handsome planes of his face, the strong shoulders, the muscled torso that had given her a little moment when she’d first seen him stripped to the waist — and realised she no longer knew how he felt about her.

  When we met, she thought, I had none of these qualms. I never doubted his feelings, because he fell in love with me first. He wanted me before I knew I wanted him, and being the pursued, the yearned for, always makes you feel more secure. I did not feel jealous of his previous girlfriend, even though she was leagues above me in beauty and elegance, because I’d just come out of a relationship with an equally amazing man. Of whom I knew Anselo was jealous, because he told me. Again, the balance of who most needed whom seemed to be in my favour.

  And I took advantage of that when I unexpectedly got pregnant. I treated him abysmally by not telling him, by running away, and by somehow never letting him get angry with me. I never properly apologised, either, and for all of that, for everything I did, I am now ashamed, regretful and deeply, hugely anxious.

  I should have talked to him about it, she thought. But now, after all these months, I’m afraid that it’s too late. I’m afraid that, back then, a line was crossed. It was invisible, like a trip wire, but we crossed it nonetheless.

  No, it wasn’t a trip wire, she decided. It was nothing that dramatic. More like a stray piece of wool from a jumper that had got caught on a nail. And we walked on, unaware that the jumper had begun to unravel. Row by row, it’s coming apart … we’re coming apart.

  Darrell felt her gut clench. It’s my fault, she thought. I started all this because I was afraid, and now, fear has paralysed me, made me incapable of doing anything to stop it. Every choice seems to come with a flashing neon ‘No’ sign. Danger, Will Robinson. Achtung minen. Here be dragons.

  Anselo was sitting up, ready to pull back the sheet and get out of bed. Hastily, she reached out and slipped her hand downwards over his stomach.

  ‘I could—?’ She tried her best to sound convincing.

  She saw him pause for a moment, and felt a surge of hope.

  ‘I can’t.’ He gently removed her hand. ‘I’ve got a phone call to make for work.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s the only time they’re available.’

  He pulled on his underwear and then jeans and a T-shirt in the swift, graceful way that Darrell used to find sexy. She’d always enjoyed watching Anselo dress. Now, the clothes looked to her like a barrier, as impenetrable and final as a slammed door.

  Anselo was doing up his laces now. In two minutes, he’d be out of the room.

  ‘Shall we go into Como later today?’ she said, desperate to delay his exit, if only by a few seconds. ‘Maybe take the ferry?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Depends on what I have to do for work.’

  He stood up. ‘I’ll text you,’ he said. ‘When I know.’

  Darrell watched him leave, and wondered if she’d remembered to charge her phone. Deep down, she knew it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t text. Not that long ago, he would have done, she thought, but not now. Unravelling. Strand by strand.

  I want to cry, she acknowledged to herself, but I’m too afraid to do even that. If I cry, it will be real, she told herself. So I won’t. I’ll box on until I’m forced to do otherwise.

  From the adjoining room came a sound as familiar as her own heartbeat. Cosmo was awake.

  Looks like it’s just you and me, kid, she wanted to say. But the phrase refused to form. It splintered and fractured in her head until all she could do was pretend she had never heard it, that it had never existed.

  Darrell got out of bed and pulled on her own T-shirt. Dark, damp patches quickly obliterated the old milk stains, as her breasts, hard and full, seeped in a primitive, instinctive reaction beyond her control.

  She scooped her infant out of his cot, sat in the nearby chair and plugged him to her breast. Such an amazing thing, she thought. A miracle, really. Certainly a privilege.

  At least, that’s what I should feel, Darrell thought. But I don’t. I feel that if I had never got pregnant, everything would still be OK. I’d feel happy and safe and unafraid; I’d feel like my old self. Anselo and I would still be enjoying each other, still having sex. Still in love …

  Darrell bent her head and breathed in the smell of her baby. Every atom of her being responded with a power that never failed to astonish her. I love you so much I physically ache, she thought, and I really would kill to protect you.

  But sometimes, she thought, sometimes I wish to God that you never existed.

  12

  Something nudged Charlotte’s foot, triggering the nauseating, panicky lurch that occurs when you realise you’ve accidentally fallen asleep. Her eyes flew open and she sat up so fast that her head swam. She was sitting — had been lying — on the lawn near the vine-covered loggia. Above her loomed an odd-shaped figure, thrown into silhouette by the sun at its back. Shielding her eyes with one hand, Charlotte squinted up at it.

  ‘This yours?’ said a man’s voice.

  English, thought Charlotte, with a hint of Yorkshire. Not Patrick, Anselo or Chad, then. A stranger.

  A stranger who, as her eyes adjusted, was revealed to be beefy and blond, and, more notably, to have in his arms a small child. Rosie. Charlotte felt an even more nauseating lurch, and leapt to her feet.

  ‘God!’ she said. ‘Where did you find her?’

  Her head swivelled frantically, as the full import of the situation came clear in her sleep-fuddled mind. ‘And where the hell are Harry and Tom?’

  ‘T’ lads?’ The stranger nodded towards the loggia. ‘In there. Playing wi’ sticks.’

  Charlotte laid a hand over her thudding heart. ‘Oh, thank Christ.’

  ‘This un,’ the stranger smiled at Rosie, ‘were halfway up gate t’ boat dock.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Charlotte cupped her face in her hands, and felt it burning with adrenaline and mortification. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say. ‘Thank you so much.’

  The stranger stared at her. ‘Nay problem.’

  He slipped a hand under Rosie’s armpit, in order to lift her to the ground. Rosie screeched and clung on, bunching the sleeve of his overalls in her small fists, her face puce in protest.

  ‘Now, them’s a set o’ lungs,’ the stranger said to her, with a half-smile. ‘Fit for centre stage at La Scala.’

 
‘That was nothing,’ said Charlotte. ‘In full voice, it’s like a scene from Scanners. Your head dissolves from the inside out and then explodes.’

  ‘Scanners?’ The stranger frowned, bemused. ‘Aren’t tha ower young for eighties horrors?’

  ‘I often find late-night movies the perfect segue between coming home and deciding you’re ready for bed.’

  The man’s gaze travelled to the patch of lawn on which, if he hadn’t kicked her foot, Charlotte would still be sleeping.

  ‘Last night were a late one then,’ he said.

  Charlotte blushed, and then cursed herself for it. For all this man knew, she could be an insomniac. It was unlikely that he could see inside her head, even though the images that swirled in there were so vivid Charlotte suspected they’d show up on one of those thermal detectors. Her whole body, in fact, would probably register as a pulsing mass of bright red, with heat waves firing from her like solar flares. Especially when she recalled what he’d done with the amaretti biscuit, how he’d bitten it and taken her nipple in his mouth, how the rough crumbs had brought her to the point of orgasm, and then how he’d taken another bite, and moved south to stimulate her in a way Charlotte had dared invoke only in her filthiest, most febrile dreams …

  The stranger was waiting. His expression was neutral enough, but Charlotte still felt judged.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said with as much frosty dignity as she could muster. ‘Last night was late.’

  Then she recalled that she owed quite a debt of gratitude to this man, and softened.

  ‘Here. Let me rescue you.’ She reached out for Rosie, who arched away with squeal of protest. Undaunted, Charlotte took a firm hold.

  ‘Just mind your hair,’ she warned the stranger. ‘If she gets a handful of it, you’ll end up looking like a dog with mange.’

  The man watched Rosie struggle in Charlotte’s grip. ‘Fierce little thing,’ he said. ‘Grow up t’ give some man hell, I imagine.’

  ‘I’d say the kind of man that will let her deserves everything he gets.’ Charlotte gave up and dropped Rosie to the ground, where she ran immediately to fasten herself to the stranger’s legs.