Patrick didn’t say anything about Ned this afternoon, Charlotte thought. It was all about Clare, and Tom, and work. From the look on Ned’s face, Charlotte decided, Patrick means more to him than he does to Patrick. I’m not sure that bodes well at all.
‘He’s my employer,’ she said. ‘I’ve worked for him for five months. I’m not sure what else I can tell you.’
‘Tha likes him,’ said Ned. ‘Tha thinks he’s a good man.’
‘I do.’ Charlotte hesitated. She felt as though she were about to step off into the deep end of an icy cold pool. ‘But you don’t?’
Ned ran his thumb to and fro along the foot of his wine glass.
‘Patrick King,’ he said, without looking up, ‘killed my sister.’
Charlotte gasped, and the heads of the few others in the bar turned to look.
She bent forwards, so only Ned could hear. ‘What do you mean? How did he kill her?’
Ned waited a moment before replying. ‘She were in love wi’ him, an’ he rejected her, an’ she went out, got drunk and were raped. It turned her t’ drugs, and she took an overdose an’ died. She weren’t even twenty.’
‘So he didn’t kill her?’ Relief made Charlotte suddenly furious. ‘How dare you wind me up like that with such nonsense!’
Ned leaned in. ‘She were my sister!’
He kept his voice low, but the fury in it instantly evaporated her own with its heat. Charlotte thought she had never seen a man so angry.
‘She were seventeen! He used her an’ dumped her, an’ left her at t’ mercy of t’ world! And t’ world right royally fucked her up! Thanks to Patrick fucking King, my little sister did not have a fucking chance!’
‘And where were you when all this happened?’
It was out before Charlotte realised. Part of her marvelled at her own courage. The rest of her prepared to run for the hills.
But it was as if she’d punctured him. Ned’s shoulders slumped, and his voice lost most of its fierce edge.
‘I left her wi’ him,’ he said. ‘I trusted him t’ look after her.’
‘Ned,’ said Charlotte gently, ‘how old was Patrick? How old were you?’
‘Old enough t’ know better!’
‘How old?’ Charlotte persisted.
‘Eighteen. We were both eighteen.’
Charlotte suppressed the urge to laugh. That would not only be dangerous, she thought, but it would also be wrong. At eighteen, I may have been a blooming and virginal (well, almost) girl, but Patrick and Ned would have considered themselves men. I assume, given what I know of Patrick’s youth, that they may not have been fully embracing an honest working life, but that did not mean they were unaware of their responsibilities. Which, she thought, would undoubtedly have been greater than mine.
‘Where were your parents?’ Charlotte asked.
‘My mother died years back. My father were a drunk.’
‘So you were on your own?’
‘And I suppose tha grew up in t’ perfect family?’ Ned lifted his wine glass as if in an ironic toast. ‘Ma and Pa happily married. Two-point-five children and dog?’
Charlotte knew that, despite the obvious parallels, her upbringing and Ned’s were not really comparable. My sister and I had a roof over our heads, for one, she thought, and food in the cupboards, if not always on the table. But the tone of his question — more of an accusation — riled her. You don’t have to drag your childhood traumas and grudges with you through adulthood, Ned Marsh, she thought. It is possible to let go and move on.
‘Well, let’s see,’ Charlotte replied. ‘My father and mother are still married, yes, but until his gout effectively crippled him, my father did spend a lot of time idling in lay-bys and visiting public conveniences. He thought we didn’t know. Everyone knew. My mother minded a little, I think, but unlike other husbands, he didn’t pester her for sex, which she found quite a relief. She preferred gin, anyway, though I can’t say that, over the years, it’s been the happiest of relationships. My mother is often maudlin, which is not ideal when you wear as much mascara as she does. Best to visit her in the morning. Preferably between nine-thirty when she manages to crawl out of bed and ten when the second gin starts to kick in. My elder sister is very happy, so far as I know. She’s an archaeologist and, nominally, a lesbian, and lives in the Orkneys. So yes.’ Charlotte stopped and pretended to think. ‘Apart from the fact we never had a dog because my father was allergic, we really are the perfect family. The pitch-perfect, not a foot wrong, middle-class cliché.’
‘You had money, though,’ said Ned.
‘Which, of course, made it all worthwhile!’ Charlotte had had enough. ‘Don’t start lecturing me about what it’s like to be poor. You can wear it as a badge of honour if you like, but don’t expect me to bend a knee!’
‘Charlotte t’ nanny,’ Ned’s half-smile was back, ‘you’re a wee lioness.’
‘Do you have the slightest idea how patronising that sounds?’
‘Blame my upbringing.’ Then he said, ‘Has tha eaten?’
Charlotte shook her head. The question, being identical to that asked by Marcus on the one evening when he had fancied her, cut a little close to the bone. If Ned suggests pizza, she thought, I shall have to refuse.
‘I know place where they make great gnocchi,’ he said. ‘If tha wants t’ go?’
Charlotte did. But they had not walked ten yards before Charlotte, in the grip of unusually heightened emotions and frustrated desire, grabbed Ned by the shirt, pushed him into a nearby wall and kissed him.
She felt him jerk with surprise and, initially, resist, but she pressed her whole body firmly against his, trapping him and, after a moment, he began to kiss her back.
Charlotte had expected a certain clumsy coarseness, certainly no finesse, but again she was surprised. Ned was an excellent kisser, if a mite stubbly, and Charlotte found herself melting into him, eager for more. She ran her hand down his chest, and over his belt. And he placed his own hands on her upper arms, and lifted her away.
‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘Charlotte t’ nanny, I am not going t’ fuck you.’
‘Why not?’ Charlotte did not like the sound of her own voice — too shrill, too needy.
‘Because,’ Ned looked embarrassed but resolute, ‘I don’t do casual sex.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ said Charlotte. ‘You’re a man. Men can start having sex before even being aware of it!’
Ned shook his head. ‘Not this man.’
Charlotte felt all the desire drain out her, leaving a residue that was uncomfortably close to abject humiliation. It wasn’t fair. All those years of attracting men — any man she chose — with as much ease as if they’d been hypnotised. Now, she thought bitterly, I could drop Spanish fly and double-strength Viagra in their drinks and they still wouldn’t sleep with me. Here I was earlier, thinking I could say the word and Patrick would fall into bed with me. When in reality, he would probably have much preferred to watch a repeat of Arsenal against Spurs.
‘It’s me, isn’t it?’ she said to Ned. ‘You don’t fancy me.’
‘Man would have t’ be corpse at arse-end of disused mineshaft not t’ fancy thee,’ said Ned. ‘It’s not you. I just don’t like sleeping wi’ women I hardly know.’
‘You do know me!’
‘I don’t! And you don’t know us!’
Ned folded his arms, and leaned back against the wall, staring down at his feet.
‘Patrick used t’ give me shit for it,’ he said. ‘My dick would drop off from lack of use, that’s what he’d say t’ us. He thought women were there for taking. And so he took them, an’ fucked them an’ threw them away like they were sweet wrappers. Including my sister.’
He lifted his head and met Charlotte’s eye. ‘I can’t forgive him,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’
Slowly, he straightened up, and touched her lightly on the arm. ‘Happen we’ll do gnocchi some other time,’ he said. ‘But for now, I’m going t’ walk tha home.’
17
‘Thank God for Spanx and salmonella,’ said Michelle, ‘or it’d be no new dress for me.’
She eyed her reflection in the mirror that hung in the hotel room. ‘As it is, it might as well have come with a free stomach-stapling operation, for the way those specks of shop assistants looked at me. What’s Italian for heffalump? Whatever it is, that’s what they were whispering behind their tiny little frozen hands.’
‘Puccini did a fair bit of hand-warming, apparently,’ said Anselo. ‘And other parts besides.’
He’d been dressed and ready for some time, and was contemplating raiding the mini-bar. The knowledge that six peanuts would set him back around ten quid had thus far put him off, but if Michelle and Clare did not get a move on, he’d have no choice but to eat the nuts in one bite, foil bag and all.
‘What do you think?’ Clare came out of the bathroom. ‘Splash on the mint sauce and call me mutton?’
She had on a thin-strapped sequinned mini-dress in an antique rose colour, nude flat sandals and, Anselo couldn’t help but observe, no bra.
‘Bitch,’ said Michelle. ‘What did you do with your cellulite? Put it in the hotel safe?’
Michelle’s own new purchase was an elegant red dress with a nod to the eighties in its shawl collar that came around to make a tight twist across the neckline, just above the bust. Her shoes were high and black and she was wearing black pantyhose. With her straight black bob, Anselo noted, she looked like the lead singer of that eighties band, Swing Out Sister. What was their one hit called again? Oh yeah, ‘Breakout’. Good notion, he thought. Terrible song.
‘You both look great,’ he said.
‘So do you,’ said Michelle. ‘Took a risk with that shirt, but it works. Mind you, you could be wearing those shiny pants with the green daisies on them and you’d still look hot.’
‘Thanks.’ Anselo’s pleasure at the compliment was instantly smothered by guilt. He had not really needed any new clothes, but a sense that he deserved some meant he had not demurred when Michelle and Clare insisted he should power-shop right along with them. The clothes he’d been urged to buy — a soft tailored mid-grey suit and a banana-yellow shirt — had been horrifically expensive. So was the hotel room, and God knows what he would end up spending tonight. The three of them had agreed to go Dutch, but Clare had Patrick’s credit card with its seemingly bottomless limit, and Michelle had breezily announced that she’d made Chad factor a night out and a shopping spree into their Italian budget. Whether this was true or not, Anselo had no idea. He assumed it must be: Chad had not protested at all when the plan to stay over in Milan had been hatched. He’d kissed Michelle goodbye and carried a sleeping Harry off to the car. He’d be back at the villa by now, Anselo calculated. With my wife, whom I have not texted or called once today. Not that she seemed to care whether I went off and left her, he thought, guilt now vying with resentment. What did she say to me? OK. That was it. OK. I could have told her I was going to sail to Iceland on a home-made raft, and she would have had the same response.
Clare picked up her purse. ‘What he means by “You look great”, as all men do, is: “Can we go now?”’
‘Don’t let me drink too much,’ said Michelle as they headed out the door. ‘I’m going to have enough trouble dancing in these shoes as it is. Mind you, I could just sway in a corner by myself,’ she added. ‘In which case, line up those Screaming Orgasmios and fire them at me!’
‘We were lucky to get a table at such short notice,’ said Clare, when they were seated in the hotel restaurant. ‘Fortunately, August is when the whole of Italy falls asleep, and only idiot foreigners come out to play.’
‘Yeah, most of the nightclubs are closed for the month,’ said Anselo. ‘We might have to take what we can get.’
‘As long as it has a flatteringly dim light, decent cocktails and a man who will sell me cocaine,’ said Michelle, ‘I’m not fussy.’
‘Are you serious?’ Clare stared at her.
‘No,’ said Michelle. ‘It’s a drug that makes terrible people truly appalling, and I shudder to think what kind of hell-beast it might turn me into. I’m just a little concerned about making it to the wee hours. I used to have stamina, but then I had children. Now if I want to stay up past nine-thirty, I have to stick my tongue on the end of a battery every five minutes to jolt myself awake.’
‘Shame,’ said Clare. ‘I feel I’m due for a serious blow-out, and what better fuel for one than actual blow?’
‘If Chad were here,’ said Michelle, ‘we wouldn’t be able to speak the word aloud, nor any of its pseudishly hipster street names. Poor lamb took it once at an after-work party and under its girding influence propositioned his boss’s succulent young wife. This was before he knew me, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Clare.
‘She said yes, as you would if Chad offered,’ Michelle continued, ‘but he was too wired to perform. Now, for him, cocaine is synonymous with degradation, impotence and the Sword of Damocles of impending job loss. For the sake of his psyche, I even had to switch to Pepsi.’
‘Patrick would happily take it,’ said Clare, ‘but I refuse to let him. Can you imagine Patrick on coke? Like a hearty Incredible Hulk. Everyone within a ten-mile radius would dive for cover lest he slap them jovially on the back and snap their spine.’
‘Why isn’t he here?’ Michelle frowned. ‘I thought Patrick would always be up for a night on the lash?’
Clare was studying the menu. ‘He’s concerned that Tom’s being abandoned.’
‘Tom seems perfectly happy to me,’ said Michelle. ‘There’s undoubtedly some Freudian stew bubbling away in him, as within all our children. But as long as it waits until adulthood to come to full boil, why should we care?’
Cosmo’s hardly at risk of being scarred by me, thought Anselo. The most interaction we’ve had is me holding him while Darrell straps on the baby carrier. I might as well be a hat stand, for all he’s aware of me. I can’t even imagine having any influence in his life. Can’t imagine ever really feeling like a father.
‘Of course, we’re missing the ultimate good-time guy,’ said Michelle. ‘I don’t believe sexpot Marcus’ plans could possibly be more fun than hanging with us, but whatever. He’s probably boffing some Mafia don’s wife, and today’s the day Signor Psycho goes out to stash severed stallion noggins in the beds of local politicians.’
‘And I thought Patrick had no tact,’ said Clare with a half-smile.
‘What?’ Michelle blinked, bemused. ‘Oh! Right. Mea culpa,’ she said to Anselo. ‘No more mention of sexy exes. I promise.’
In Anselo’s mind, the notion that Marcus Reynolds might have renewed designs on Darrell had evolved from fleeting, and was now hovering, small but insistent, much like a fruit fly above an overripe banana. Like a fruit fly, the notion zigzagged on various short, sharp emotional tangents. Marcus Reynolds was an odious douche. Marcus Reynolds was a lucky bastard, to have such undeserved, unearned wealth and privilege. Darrell was an idiot not to see through him. Darrell, like so many women, undoubtedly preferred easy, confident charm to prickly reluctance. Marcus Reynolds had never had a relationship of substance in his life. Marcus Reynolds might be at the villa right now, telling oh-so-amusing stories, and sitting just that bit too close to another man’s wife.
Whereas I’m here, Anselo thought, thirty miles away, wearing new clothes I can’t really afford, and thinking dangerous thoughts about payback for a crime I don’t even know my wife is committing. Jesus, am I that weak and petty that I need to cancel out my guilt with someone else’s? Why can’t I just own it, like any half-decent man would?
Maybe he could, he thought, if his potential — all right, possibly imagined — rival was a half-decent man, too. But he wasn’t, was he? He was an unfairly and odiously confident super-sized bag of douche.
Given the louring nature of his thoughts, Anselo was convinced he’d heard wrong when Clare said, ‘I don’t think our Mr Reynolds is that sexy. I pref
er a bit of substance myself.’
‘I agree,’ said Michelle. ‘That’s why we’ve married the men we have. Because we know they’ll love us faithfully and unconditionally, even when we yell “Do it to me, George!” in the middle of sex.’
A waiter appeared behind Michelle’s shoulder, and coughed discreetly.
‘Oh, thank God,’ she said to him. ‘All this sex talk is making me famished!’ She scanned the menu. ‘Oo, tiramisu! Hope the Spanx hold up. Otherwise, I’ll be buddying up with the bulimics in the loos, playing Tickle my Uvula. Better remember to take my rings off first.’
Anselo saw Clare raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Sure you know what you’re getting into?’ she said.
Any gratitude Anselo had felt at her dismissal of Marcus Reynolds was gone. Clare sees me as Mr Cautious, he thought. Mr Safe. She thinks I always play by the rules.
Michelle closed her menu with a snap and said to the waiter, ‘Bring me lasagne, tiramisu and wine, and be quick about it, my good man. I’ve got a long night ahead of me that, with luck, I’ll remember nothing whatsoever of in the morning.’
Anselo leaned his forehead against the door of the toilet cubicle and tried to decide what to do. I need to go back out, he thought. Clare and Michelle are still on the dance floor, and I doubt very much that they’re ready to leave. But I’m not sure I can be trusted yet. So I’ll stay here a few minutes more. Until it’s safe …
After dinner, the three of them had gone back to Anselo’s room and drunk the champagne in his mini-bar. ‘Preloading! As if we’re young again!’ Michelle had said, and Clare had added, ‘All we’re missing is orange spray-tan and a chihuahua that looks like a shaved pube.’ And a bloke willing to pick up the tab, was the thought Anselo had kept to himself. He’d refused even to look at the price of the bottle Michelle was now holding above her open mouth, tipping the last drops onto her tongue.
The nightclub they’d been directed to by the hotel concierge was off the Corso Como, and was all dark-chocolate leather couches, square lampshades and backlit bottles arranged artfully on the bar.
The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes Page 16