The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘Posh Claude?’ said Patrick in disbelief. ‘You could eat off that man’s shoes and slice your bread with his cuffs. Don’t tell me he’s gone feral — it’s not natural. I’d be more inclined to believe that Katie Price is really a man.’

  Darrell shrugged. ‘Claude was always a loner.’

  ‘Unlike his brother,’ said Patrick. ‘A notorious stick man if ever I saw one. Handy with his Hampton.’

  ‘Hampton?’ said Darrell.

  ‘Hampton Wick.’

  ‘Right,’ said Darrell. ‘Rhyming slang’s useful with kids around, isn’t it?’

  Rosie reached up and placed her small palm on Patrick’s face — an unmistakably proprietary gesture, Darrell felt.

  ‘Fugg off!’ said Rosie loudly and cheerfully.

  ‘I’ll let you explain that one to Michelle,’ smiled Darrell.

  ‘She’s eighteen months old,’ said Patrick. ‘Pretty soon, she’ll be swearing in full sentences.’

  He meant it to be a joke, Darrell thought, but I can see that he doesn’t really find it funny. Should I offer some words of consolation? she wondered. I’m not sure if I can think of any.

  Tom stood up and planted his hands on Patrick’s knee. Rosie smiled benevolently — like the Queen Mother after her morning gin, thought Darrell — bent forward and patted Tom on the head.

  ‘Liddle boy,’ she said in tones of deepest indulgence.

  ‘Yeah.’ Patrick ruffled his hand through Tom’s copper curls. ‘Only little still, aren’t you, tiger?’

  ‘Drink!’ Rosie yelled up at Patrick.

  ‘Good call,’ said Patrick. ‘Make mine a pint.’

  He pulled Tom up into his arms, and got to his feet, settling the two children on his hips like saddlebags.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I’ll be done for after this. Old man’s afternoon nap for me.’

  ‘Chrise!’ yelled Rosie happily.

  ‘Oi, you,’ said Patrick. ‘Shut it. Your mother will have my guts for garters.’

  Darrell checked her watch. Only ten-thirty, she thought. What will I do for the rest of the day? I could write, she thought, as they strolled back to the villa. But I don’t have a deadline pressing, and I am on holiday. I guess I’ll just lie around as usual. Feed and change Cosmo and put him down to sleep. As usual.

  Closing the front door to the villa behind her, Darrell could hear the clink of crockery in the kitchen. Charlotte’s doing dishes, or making a morning snack for the children. You know, she thought, as she followed Patrick through the kitchen door, for all the suspicions Clare, Michelle and I had about her abilities, she has turned out to be surprisingly competent.

  It wasn’t Charlotte.

  ‘Ah,’ said Marcus. ‘Hope you don’t mind. Your, er, nanny let me in.’

  He had a plate in his hand, piled high with herb-flecked scrambled eggs. Darrell gave it a pointed look.

  ‘No breakfast,’ he explained. ‘And I did bring the eggs with me; I’m not a complete freeloader.’ He held out the plate. ‘May I offer you some?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Patrick filled a glass of water at the sink and chugged it down. Then he filled the children’s plastic sipper cups and handed one to Rosie first — wise move, thought Darrell — and then to Tom. Both children toddled off into the living room.

  ‘But you can bring me another plate exactly that size,’ Patrick said as he headed after them. ‘No green stuff, though. I don’t want anything taking the edge off that cholesterol.’

  Darrell saw Marcus smiling at her. She met his eye, and found it impossible not to smile back.

  ‘I came to see you. And the boy.’ He nodded at the swaddled Cosmo. ‘But I’ll bugger off again if you tell me to.’

  If I tell you to, thought Darrell. Now there’s a concept. When was the last time I told anyone anything?

  She unclipped the straps on the baby carrier. The sense of release when she lifted Cosmo from her chest, the ability to take a deep breath and properly fill her lungs, made her light-headed.

  ‘Eat your eggs,’ she said. ‘I’ll put Cosmo down, and then I’ll make us all a pot of coffee.’

  ‘Has tha worked out what tha plan t’ do t’ me?’

  The voice was quiet, but it still made Charlotte leap and clutch the trunk of the olive tree she’d been leaning against.

  Ned was behind her, a pair of secateurs in one hand. Secateurs were an oddly feminine gardening tool, thought Charlotte, even more so when contrasted against a man who, in her opinion, would not look out of place clad in a bearskin and painted in woad. If Chad was a Nordic hero, decided Charlotte, Ned the gardener was in the frontline of the Iceni as Boudicca spurred them on to stick one up a Roman wedge.

  ‘Of course not!’ said Charlotte crossly. ‘I have better things to do with my time.’

  ‘Such as spying?’

  Ned’s gaze travelled over Charlotte’s shoulder, through the copse of olive trees, to the table where Darrell and Marcus were sitting, talking. If you listened hard, you could just make out what they were saying.

  Charlotte let the accusation slide. Ned was one hundred per cent correct, but she would never give him that satisfaction. She would certainly not tell him why spying had suddenly become necessary.

  When the doorbell had rung at ten that morning, Charlotte had been in the villa alone. The Milan contingent had piled into two cars and vamoosed after breakfast. Patrick and Darrell had taken the remaining children for a stroll. Charlotte, who had been looking forward to a rare hour of peace, opened the upstairs window to see who was at the door, in the hopes that it was someone she could ignore. She saw the top of a head that she knew instantly as Marcus’, having seen him from that angle quite a lot during their one night together.

  Charlotte had glanced down at the yellow sundress she was wearing and decided it would not do. Wholesome and virginal was an ideal look if you wished to forestall the advances of a sleazy uncle, but not if you wanted a repeat offer of extraordinarily hot sex from a man who did, with small sugary biscuits, things that should by rights be banned by food authorities the world over. After a hasty rifle through her wardrobe, Charlotte had grabbed a pink linen mini-dress, effected the quick change, and run downstairs to open the door.

  ‘Hello!’ Marcus had looked her up and down, and given her a smile that had made Charlotte glad she’d changed her dress but regret she had not also thought to forgo her knickers. She was already imagining him taking her in the kitchen, lifting her up so she could wrap her legs around him, like Jack Nicholson with Sally Struthers in Five Easy Pieces, another late-night movie that, in this case, hadn’t helped Charlotte feel at all ready to go to bed alone.

  ‘I was beginning to think no one was home,’ Marcus had said.

  ‘No one is,’ Charlotte had said. ‘Except me.’

  She’d been on the verge of reaching out and making the potential of the situation crystal clear, when she’d noticed his face had fallen somewhat.

  ‘I’d hoped to catch Darrell,’ he’d said. ‘Is she … will she be back today?’

  Of course Darrell will be back today, Charlotte had thought. She has no life. Charlotte still had considerable trouble believing that Darrell and Marcus had ever been an item. Darrell must know some ancient Chinese method of prolonging the male orgasm, Charlotte had decided. It was the only possible reason.

  ‘Darrell will be back within the hour,’ she’d said to Marcus. ‘You’re welcome to come in and wait for her.’

  He’d smiled at her again, in a way that had rekindled a tiny spark of hope that kitchen sex was not out of the question. But then he’d stepped inside, brushed a distracted kiss across her cheek, and said, ‘Thank you. Do you mind if I scramble some eggs?’

  He’d walked straight on without waiting for a reply, and Charlotte knew she’d already been forgotten. She’d stood in the doorway for some minutes as the implications had sunk in. First and most pressing, if Marcus had designs on Darrell, then he needed to be stopped. His interest raised the state of Darrell and
Anselo’s marriage from ‘satisfactory’ to ‘critical’, and Charlotte was not about to let matters slide further. Killing him, although attractive given his rejection was smarting like lemon juice on a paper cut, was not practical. Besides, there was also the possibility that she was overestimating the threat. Charlotte had decided that the most sensible strategy was to gather intelligence, which was why she was now lurking among the olives.

  As she watched the pair talk, Charlotte found she was struggling to reconcile the fact that Marcus Reynolds preferred Darrell to her.

  Charlotte knew that what she and Marcus had shared was purely physical, and that her heart belonged solely and completely to Patrick. But still, there were certain generally accepted truths when it came to men and women, and one was that if a woman was flaccid and baby-bound, she was nowhere near as attractive as one who was prettier, livelier and unencumbered. Except apparently in this case, Charlotte noted, watching Marcus watch Darrell.

  My conjecture must be true, Charlotte decided. Darrell must have mastered the ancient Eastern concubine art of so-far-and-no-farther that has grown men sobbing for release. But somehow I doubt it, as I gather it requires a significant degree of muscle control. And if what my friends tell me about childbirth is correct, you could now drive the Orient Express up there and do a U-turn.

  God, I’m obsessing, she thought. I’m becoming that tired romance novel cliché: the frustrated jealous woman driven to fruitless stalking and petty spiteful muttering. How astonishingly irritating. Then she realised Ned was still waiting for her to confirm or deny his accusation of spying, which irritated her even more.

  ‘I lost a bracelet around here,’ she said briskly, gesturing at the ground around the olive trees. ‘I was looking for it.’

  Ned did not believe her. Too bad, thought Charlotte. She had no intention of telling him anything. For one thing, she did not know yet whether he was friend or foe. His confrontational demeanour suggested the latter, but Charlotte suspected that Ned wore that much as he wore his brown overalls — whether it suited the conditions or not.

  Ned stared again at the couple at the table.

  ‘Who’s he?’ he said. ‘Ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Charlotte. ‘I don’t do boyfriends.’

  ‘Girlfriends, then?’

  ‘Those neither.’

  One corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Charlotte t’ nanny,’ he said, ‘if tha’ve nivver been fucked, then I am a monkey’s maiden aunt.’

  ‘Did I say that?’ said Charlotte. ‘I don’t believe I did.’

  She held his gaze, but when he looked away she knew that he’d done so out of choice.

  ‘Where are t’ children?’ he said. ‘Or have tha lost them for good?’

  ‘Harry is in Milan with his parents.’ Charlotte felt a need to defend herself. ‘Rosie and Tom are watching a DVD with Patrick.’

  Ned touched a fingertip to the sharp end of the secateurs, a gesture Charlotte found disquieting. But then everything about Ned was disquieting, which Charlotte found trying to both her nerves and her patience. Really, Charlotte decided, if he insisted on talking to her, he would need to undergo a comprehensive change in attitude.

  It did occur to her that she could instruct him never to talk to her again. But one thing prevented her — his connection with Patrick. He was another link, another potential way into Patrick’s life. A life that, Charlotte felt right now, she had never been less a part of. Even sleeping in the same house, and looking after his child for hours every day, she thought, I feel less connected to him than I did when I was answering his phone and bringing him truly terrible cups of sweet, milky coffee.

  Why this was, she couldn’t say. Too many other people around, perhaps? Or was it simply because she was very busy? If Clare and Michelle were more diligent mothers, she might have more time without the children. But that wouldn’t mean more time with Patrick, she knew, unless she found a good reason to make time. Ned, Charlotte thought, might well provide her with that reason.

  She was loathe to admit that he might also help her regain a sense of desirability, which had been more than a little dented by Marcus Reynolds’ unaccountable preference for drooping Darrell.

  ‘What do you do when you’re not gardening, Ned—? I’m sorry, what is your last name?’

  ‘Marsh. And what d’you mean, what do I do?’

  He was taken aback, flustered. For the first time, Charlotte felt at an advantage.

  ‘How do you occupy your time? Nude bathhouses? Internet porn? Table tennis? What?’

  Ned hesitated. ‘I keep myself t’ myself, mostly,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I go t’ bars …’

  ‘Bars,’ said Charlotte. ‘Excellent. Come to a bar with me tonight.’

  His expression of suspicion was almost comic, thought Charlotte.

  ‘Bar? Why?’

  Charlotte pointed through the trees. ‘See that man over there? I met him in a bar. I had hoped to go to more bars with him, but now he seems to have taken up with a married woman. And as I dislike going to bars on my own … well,’ she amended, ‘staying in bars on my own, I’m now inviting you to join me.’

  ‘If tha’s hoping t’ be wined an’ dined,’ said Ned, ‘you might remember that I earn four-fifths o’ a poor man’s fart.’

  ‘My, you have an earthy turn of phrase,’ said Charlotte. ‘Is that a yes?’

  Ned inclined his head. ‘What’s t’ catch?’

  ‘No catch. I tell you what I know and you tell me what you know. If you know what I mean.’

  Ned gave a single, slow nod. ‘Fair enough. Bar ’tis. I don’t own car, so ’twill need t’ be bar near here.’

  ‘Bar near here suits me fine,’ said Charlotte. ‘I will meet you outside the front door of this villa at eight o’clock.’

  And without waiting for a reply — her sense of ascendancy over him was fading fast, and she wanted to exit before there was any risk he might launch another assault on her dignity — she walked off and left him.

  15

  I shouldn’t be drinking, Patrick thought. It’s not even mid-afternoon, and I’m on my fourth beer.

  I shouldn’t be drinking around the kids, either. Not that they’d know beer from Dr Winklethwaite’s Colonic Tonic. But still, not ideal to be caught drunk in charge of minors.

  Four beers aren’t enough to make me drunk, he decided. But beer four followed beer three without me thinking too hard about it, and I imagine beer five will appear in my hand with minimal input from my grey matter, too. Beer five will take me close to drunk. Beers six and seven will push me over. There are eight beers in the fridge. I counted them.

  If I do take that old man’s nap, Patrick thought, I could almost be sober by the time Clare comes home. If she comes home. Michelle was talking to her with some enthusiasm about the Milan nightlife, which means Chad and young Harry might be the only ones back here for dinner. And Anselo. Maybe …

  Fuck it, he thought, and drained the bottle. Time for beer five.

  Rosie saw him get up off the couch. She’d demanded to sit on his lap, but Patrick had told her he wouldn’t stay in the room unless she sat on the floor with Tom. Her eyes had flashed — storm-warning blue like her mother’s — but she’d obeyed him. She and Tom were watching The Powerpuff Girls, a DVD supplied by Michelle. Patrick knew Clare would not approve, but he, personally, was enjoying it. Buttercup, he decided, was Rosie — short, black hair in a bob, and an arse-kicker of the highest order. Buttercup was even dressed in Rosie’s favourite colour, green. No pink for Rosie, thought Patrick. Unless you counted the colour of her latest scalp.

  ‘Drink!’ yelled Rosie as Patrick stood up. ‘Bikkit!’

  On his feet, Patrick suddenly felt the effect of four beers in quick succession, and had to stand still for a moment, hand on the back of the couch.

  ‘Say please,’ he said to Rosie, ‘or there’ll be no bloody bikkit for you.’

  ‘BIKKIT!’ yelled Rosie.

  ‘Please,’ said Patrick.<
br />
  Rosie glared at him, and clamped her lips together. Great, he thought. I’m having an argument with an eighteen-month-old, and losing. Just think what would happen if I tried to put my foot down with my wife.

  ‘Everything all right in here?’

  Charlotte was at his side. She looked a little flushed, Patrick thought, as if she’d been walking fast. It suited her, a bit of colour. Gave her a peachy glow all over, like one of Renoir’s naked bathers.

  Shit, that’s a four-beer thought, he warned himself. I have to stop drinking.

  ‘Rosie wants a biscuit,’ he said. ‘But she needs to say please. Don’t you, Rosie?’

  ‘Rosie?’ Charlotte’s tone was firm.

  ‘Bikkit!’ Rosie pouted. ‘Bloody bikkit! Plee!’

  ‘I’ll be in the fucking dog box,’ said Patrick to Charlotte, when they were out of earshot in the kitchen. ‘That’s the third swear word I’ve taught her in as many hours.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry.’ Charlotte lifted the packet of biscotti from the cupboard. Since the night with Marcus, she had been unable to buy amaretti, which she personally preferred. But the children had neither noticed nor cared, so biscotti it was.

  ‘Rosie yelled the word “cun” yesterday,’ Charlotte continued. ‘And as I heard her mother and your wife using it just the other day, I can safely put you in the clear.’

  Patrick had one hand on the fridge door. In his other hand, there was a beer bottle.

  ‘I told myself I shouldn’t have this,’ he said. ‘Yet, somehow, here it fucking is.’

  Charlotte said, ‘Are you drinking for a reason?’

  Patrick stared at her. More accurately, he stared at her profile, as she kept to her task of arranging biscotti on a plastic plate. She’s my PA, he thought. And for a few weeks more, my child’s nanny. I employ her. I have a duty to her to be professional. To keep my distance. And she’s only being polite, he told himself. She doesn’t really want to know.

  But who else is there? I suppose I could have talked to Darrell this morning, but I get the feeling she has problems of her own. Which she’s keeping to herself. Keeping it all private. Like I should.