‘I’m having a mid-life crisis, Charlotte,’ said Patrick. ‘I used to think the whole concept was a gimmick, invented by the makers of Porsche convertibles and hair plugs. But turns out I was wrong. No idea why I’m surprised about that. I’ve been wrong about so many fucking things in my life, I’ve lost count.’
Charlotte filled a second plastic sipper cup with milk. She propped both cups on the plate next to the biscotti so she could carry them all together, and faced Patrick.
‘I’m going to give these to the children,’ she said, ‘and put another DVD on, which will keep Rosie happy. Tom will probably fall asleep on the cushions. In either case, by my estimate, we’ll have half an hour to ourselves.’
‘What about Darrell?’ Patrick said.
He thought Charlotte’s expression flickered for an instant, but decided it was probably beer vision, because when she spoke, it was in her usual measured way.
‘Darrell won’t bother us,’ said Charlotte. ‘She is otherwise occupied.’
Her gaze travelled to the doorway and back to Patrick. ‘I think we’ll go to the study on the top floor. It has a very fine view of the lake.’
Patrick looked down at the beer bottle in his hand. ‘I don’t need this,’ he said. ‘I really don’t.’
‘That’s entirely up to you,’ said Charlotte. ‘As far as I’m concerned, when you’re with me, you can do what you like.’
If any other woman had said that to me, thought Patrick, as he followed Charlotte up the stairs away from the temporarily contented Rosie and Tom, I might have taken it as a come-on. But this was Charlotte, he reminded himself. Cool, efficient, unflappable Charlotte. Beautiful Charlotte, who could have any man she wanted. Who could have no interest in her ageing, butt ugly, beer-breathed employer, and had probably offered to listen to him moan out of some misplaced sense of employee obligation.
He paused to take a swig from beer five, which he had somehow failed to leave behind, and watched Charlotte ascend the steep stairs that led to the top floor of the villa. Her skirt was really quite short, he realised. Patrick could have sworn that she’d been wearing a different dress in the morning, a fifties-style full-skirted yellow sundress that he rather liked. Now, she was wearing a short sleeveless pink linen number. I must have been mistaken, he thought. And I must stop staring right now, because if she gets any further above me, I’ll know if she’s wearing Alans or not. Alan Whickers, he mentally translated. I haven’t used that phrase in years. Not since I was young. When I was Charlotte’s age.
I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought. Spilling my guts to my young PA. I’m going to bore her out of her fucking mind, poor bird, and I won’t be able to stop myself.
He took another swig of beer and found the bottle was now empty. I said five beers would only put me close to drunk, he thought, putting a steadying hand on the wall before attempting the rest of the stairs. Seems I was wrong about that as well.
‘You can put him down on the blanket,’ Darrell said to Marcus. ‘Babies are like hot-water bottles. Great on a cold night. Which this isn’t.’
‘I’m quite comfortable.’ Marcus smiled at the sleeping baby, whose downy dark head lay in the crook of his left arm. ‘He’s a beautiful boy. Takes after you.’
‘Flattery,’ said Darrell. ‘Otherwise known as lies.’
‘No,’ said Marcus. ‘You should know I only ever say what I mean. Not always at the appropriate time, but that’s by the by.’
Darrell had to concede that this was, in her experience, true. As far as she knew, Marcus had no shame and no fear of being judged, which gave him no reason to lie.
I’m not sure that means he puts everything out in the open, she thought. But as I never asked him what else he had going on in his life besides me, I never knew if he was holding anything back. I suspect that if I had asked him who else he’d slept with in between the few times he slept with me, he would have told me. Undoubtedly the reason I never asked.
And we only did sleep together a few times, she thought. Three, as I recall. Vividly. He saw me when it fitted in with his schedule. He wasn’t being callous, because we were never in a relationship, as such. We were never in love.
Well, I might have been a little in love, Darrell admitted. I certainly idolised him. He brought such energy and joy into my life, when I did not know who I was, or where I should be. He pulled me back from the abyss that grief had opened up in me after Tom’s death, and into which I was in danger of falling forever. I ended it with him when I realised that Marcus could have piled in his whole store of humour and warmth and affection and sex, and I would have consumed it all, like Rosie and Harry’s favourite caterpillar, like the sea creature in Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories that eats all of Suleiman bin Daoud’s food, which he intended for the whole world. And the gap inside me would have stayed as wide as ever. I ended it with Marcus and made a vow to fill the gap myself, Darrell thought, to make myself whole and strong again under my own steam. And straight after that I fell in love with Anselo.
Perhaps I have an amazing capacity for self-delusion, thought Darrell. I say I ended it with Marcus, but he was only in Europe for a few weeks anyway. After that, he would have gone back to Los Angeles, and what are the odds I would ever have seen him again?
Darrell suddenly felt a strong urge to inject some lightness into the conversation. ‘How are the palm trees and busty blondes?’ she said to Marcus.
It had been his joke, the appeal of Hollywood to one who was, as he put it, ‘both sybaritic and shallow’.
He looked at her for a moment before answering. ‘Done and gone.’
‘You mean — you’ve quit Hollywood?’
‘It would be more accurate to say that Hollywood has quit me.’
He was half-smiling, but Darrell could see how much it bothered him. I can imagine why, she thought. I always saw Marcus as one of the lucky ones who breeze through life as they please, falling into success, whether they plan it or not. I think that’s how he always saw himself, too.
‘Is that why you’re here? In Italy?’
‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘It’s why I am sponging off my sister, living in one of her flats and spending all the money she’s kindly lent me.’
Darrell did not like Marcus’ sister. Gus, in her opinion, was a rude, spoilt cow. She was also extremely beautiful, and Marcus thought the sun shone out her rear. So many reasons to hate her, thought Darrell, and now I can add to them the fact that she’s rich.
‘Is there that much money in art?’ she said.
‘No money in art whatsoever,’ said Marcus, ‘unless you are Damien Hirst, or a black-market dealer in Old Masters looted by the Nazis.’
He gave Darrell a brief, appraising glance. ‘You remembered why my father gave up his title. Did you forget that I was the only one of my siblings not favoured by his will?’
‘I didn’t forget,’ said Darrell. ‘You don’t get anything until you’re sixty.’
‘Sixty-five,’ said Marcus. ‘My father considered me an indolent, self-indulgent spendthrift. So far I’ve managed to prove him one hundred per cent correct.’
He bent his head over Cosmo again.
‘Whereas you,’ he said, lightly stroking the baby’s cheek, ‘will be like your father — a strapping earnest toiler.’
‘Hey,’ said Darrell softly, ‘none of that.’
Marcus made a face. ‘I can’t believe you married him,’ he said. ‘He has as much personality as a telegraph pole!’
‘He’s a good man,’ said Darrell.
I say that as if I’m certain, she thought, but I’m not sure I know him well enough to be certain at all. When Anselo said he loved me, I believed my short time with Marcus had shown me what was right — who was right for me. But perhaps I leapt into a relationship with Anselo for exactly the same reason I leapt into one with Marcus? To fill a gap in my life that I was afraid I could not fill on my own. Perhaps I only thought I looked beforehand?
‘Heart of oak, head of teak
,’ muttered Marcus. ‘Let’s change the subject. Are you still writing those erotic little fripperies?’
‘I’m not sure that subject is any more suitable,’ said Darrell with a smile. ‘But, yes, I am. My latest, coming out next month, is called Taken by the Tycoon.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Marcus grinning. ‘Where does he take her? And in how many different positions?’
‘Buy it and read it,’ said Darrell. ‘It will set you back all of a quid.’
‘A quid that technically isn’t mine,’ said Marcus, subdued again. ‘Christ. I suppose I’ll have to get a real job.’
‘How long is Gus funding you for?’
‘I daren’t ask,’ he said. ‘I suspect I’m good for another month or two.’
‘And Claude won’t give you anything?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Marcus. ‘He has to spend everything on stockpiling grain and ammo.’
‘Are they happy?’ said Darrell. ‘He and Ruth? In their cabin?’
‘Cosy as two rats honeymooning in a woollen sock. I learned that from a Texan friend of mine,’ Marcus added. ‘He was a stunt rider. Kicked in the head once too often, but I’m not sure that you could tell the difference when he spoke.’
Cosmo, Darrell noticed, was stirring in Marcus’ lap. Soon, he’d be awake.
‘Do Claude and Ruth think they’ll have children?’ said Darrell.
‘Definitely not,’ said Marcus. ‘Ruth doesn’t believe in them.’
Darrell laughed. ‘What do you mean she doesn’t believe in them? They’re not fairies!’
‘The world is already grossly overpopulated, according to Ruth,’ said Marcus. ‘I suspect it’s a good thing. If he were ever confronted by a full nappy, Claude’s heart might stop from the shock.’
He bent and sniffed. ‘Speaking of which, I think this might be an opportune time to hand little Cosmo back to his mother.’
‘Terrific.’ Darrell reached out to take her child, who blinked, still not fully awake, but submitted to being passed across without protest. ‘Oh, yes. Ripe. Excellent.’
But I don’t mind, she thought. I really don’t. For the first time in forever, I feel happy to take my child. I feel happy, full stop. It’s almost alarming.
Marcus turned in his chair as Darrell laid Cosmo on the changing mat on the lawn.
‘You don’t have to watch,’ she said to him.
‘Oh, I do,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel like the world’s a better place. That simple joys, such as shitting in your pants, are still possible. And I like to watch you,’ he added. ‘I always did.’
‘I was cute then,’ said Darrell, glad he couldn’t see her face. ‘I’m a bovine monstrosity now.’
‘Say that again and I’ll slap you,’ he said. ‘I’m sure your heroines have sense slapped into them with monotonous regularity.’
‘The world has moved on since the century before last,’ said Darrell. ‘Slapping is not good form. On the face, anyway.’
She risked a glance over her shoulder. Marcus’s brown eyes were alight with amusement and affection. Darrell felt her stomach lurch, as if she had skidded to a halt right before the edge of a very tall cliff.
‘Last night, you told Michelle you had plans for today,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘My plan happened. My plan was to see you,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I make the same plan for tomorrow?’
It was a question Darrell wasn’t at all sure how to answer.
16
Charlotte considered changing out of the pink mini-dress. Ned had already seen her wearing it today, so its impact on him would be reduced. Not that she really wanted to encourage Ned; Charlotte suspected that he would be a tad rustic in bed, like one of Hardy’s more earnest and plodding farmer types, going at it as if he were seeding wurzels.
But she did want to feel sexy again, after the debacle with Marcus in the morning. She wanted to feel powerful again, too; on top of things, like she had, ever so briefly, when she’d asked Ned out in the olive grove. Charlotte was used to feeling in control of most aspects of her life, but, ever since she’d fallen for Patrick, it felt as if her life had quietly but determinedly begun to break out of its well-constructed confines, like RAF pilots from Stalag Luft 3, and she was not enjoying the sense of panic and helplessness that engendered. Her momentary ascendancy over Ned had made her almost heady with relief, and it would be nice to feel that way again. So perhaps she should swap the dress for one that would drop him to his knees?
No, Charlotte decided. He’s undoubtedly taking me to a bar that will be filled with old men who look like crushed walnuts in knitted vests, club-footed labourers and squalling infants. Italians, thought Charlotte, seem to have no idea of what constitutes a reasonable hour to put children to bed. If I walked into a bar like that in a serious dress, I would almost certainly be stoned to death.
And besides, she thought, with a sigh, he’ll probably be wearing those bloody awful overalls. How he can stand them in this heat, I have no idea. How he can stand them full stop, I have no idea, either. I’ve seen more attractive overalls on men who’ve just escaped from prison via the sewer system.
Charlotte checked her watch. It was five to eight. Ned, she sensed, would not tolerate lateness. If she were not there on the dot, he would head back from whence he came. A corrugatediron shed, no doubt, or a shabby basement apartment up some dubious back alley.
Time to go. Charlotte picked up her bag and wondered if she should check again with Patrick if it was all right for her to leave. He had spent the afternoon in his room, sleeping off the beers, Charlotte assumed, but had reappeared before dinner, which consisted of pizza that Marcus had fetched from the village. Patrick had seemed cheerful enough until Chad had arrived back with Harry, but without Michelle, Clare or Anselo, who, according to Chad, had decided to make a night of it in Milan. Chad seemed unfazed, but his news had prompted Patrick to instruct Marcus to come back with beer as well as pizza. How Darrell had taken the same news, Charlotte knew she should have paid more attention to. But she’d only had eyes for Patrick.
He opened up to me today, Charlotte thought. Just as I’d hoped he would. And I could have oh so easily pressed my advantage. I could have had him on the study divan without question. All it would have taken was one touch, one kiss. But I did nothing, because this is just the start. At the risk of sounding like a line from one of the more glutinous Hallmark movies, I will not settle for one mildly drunken fumble when the real prize is to win the whole man: body and heart.
Charlotte decided she would now slip away without a word.
Clare isn’t here tonight, she thought. If I see Patrick now, I might be tempted to spend the evening with him. And if I do that, it might be too easy to do something I’d regret.
Outside the villa, in the narrow road, Charlotte could see no sign of Ned. Black thoughts had begun to occupy her mind when a hand touched her arm, causing her to leap yet again.
‘Must you?’ said Charlotte. ‘Why can’t you wait properly instead of skulking?’
‘Thought tha’d not be on time,’ said Ned. ‘Went down t’ look at lake.’
Now that her heart had stopped clanging, Charlotte was able to take him in. She was surprised. He wasn’t going to win the George Clooney award for sartorial elegance, but he was vastly more presentable than she’d expected. Instead of overalls, Ned had on a pair of tidy ochre-coloured chinos and a dark blue slim-cut shirt that had either been very well ironed or recently bought. His hair was still surfer-messy, but it suited him, Charlotte thought, and it suited the look. He was, she reluctantly had to admit, very handsome, and in extremely good shape for a man his age.
‘Those trousers are quite a daring colour,’ she said. ‘Taking fashion tips from the Italian men? Next stop, lilac?’
‘Italian clothes are ower small,’ he said. ‘These were mail order. From Sweden or somewhere.’
‘They fit far too well for mail order,’ said Charlotte with a frown.
‘Th
ere’s a village woman does a bit o’ tailoring for us,’ he said.
‘A woman who does,’ said Charlotte. ‘How terribly handy.’
To Charlotte’s discomfort, Ned gave her a slow look up and down. ‘Tha didn’t change,’ he said. ‘Tha were wearing that dress earlier.’
‘It’s a perfectly good dress!’ Charlotte resisted the urge to clutch her bag to her chest. ‘What are you complaining about?’
‘No complaints.’ Ned offered her a half-smile, and his arm. ‘Shall we go, milady?’
‘I’d end that sort of nonsense right now,’ Charlotte warned. ‘If our evening degenerates into something out of DH Lawrence, I shall be forced to stab you.’
The bar Ned took her to was small and local, but a great deal more sophisticated than Charlotte had expected. Surprise number two, she thought. Whatever next?
Whatever next was the fact that Ned drank red wine.
‘No stout?’ said Charlotte. ‘No pint of Old Peculiar?’
‘Not much call for that round here,’ said Ned.
Then he said, ‘So tell us about you an’ Mr King.’
I suppose he has a right to launch into it, thought Charlotte. It’s what I promised him we’d talk about. Now that I need to fulfil that promise though, I’m not keen. But if I don’t, he won’t reciprocate, and that’s the only thing I’m here for.
‘Mr King and I?’ Charlotte smiled. ‘Almost a musical.’
Ned did not smile back. He reminded Charlotte of a man she’d seen once, who was being arrested by the police. For domestic disturbance, according to the other onlookers. Banged on the front door of the house of his ex-wife, who, not surprisingly, did not open it, but called the police instead. He refused to quieten down, so they slapped him in handcuffs and took him away. Charlotte caught a glimpse of his face as they bundled him into the patrol car. His expression said, in no uncertain terms, that he considered the business of the day unfinished.
The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes Page 15