The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  It was a moment before Ned replied.

  ‘No,’ he said, and Charlotte’s heart sank until he added, ‘I’ve not changed my mind.’

  He stepped up to her and laid both hands lightly on her arms. ‘But don’t expect too much, Charlotte t’ nanny. I’m no Casanova. I’ll do my best, but it may not be up t’ standard you’re used to.’

  Charlotte very gently placed her palm on his stomach. She felt his abdominal muscles flinch and his diaphragm rise and fall. She could smell his sweat, induced by nervousness and heat, and a faint green woodiness, as if the gardens he tended had been somehow infused into his body. She could see, through the faded, thinning fabric of his jeans, that he had the beginnings of an erection, but she kept her hands above his belt. It would not pay to rush it, she sensed. He was skittish enough as it was.

  She stood on tiptoes and kissed him lightly, briefly, on the mouth. Then she took his hand.

  ‘Come on.’ She began to lead him to the closed door, but paused. ‘Unless this is the bathroom,’ she said, ‘and you sleep outside in a tree?’

  ‘In this heat, I’d be tempted,’ he said, ‘’tweren’t for t’ bats and snakes.’

  ‘The perilous vipers,’ said Charlotte, leading him once more by the hand. ‘If I’m ever bitten, I give you permission to suck any part of my body you want.’

  Ned had gone to the bathroom, which was not, as Charlotte had feared, in a rusting lean-to around the back, but off the bedroom. In it were an old lavatory and basin, originally white but now covered in crazing that gave them the grizzled appearance of an eighty-year-old chain smoker, and a shower unit, again, by Charlotte’s guess, circa 1973. The bathroom, like the kitchen, was faultlessly clean. The taps and shower nozzle had not a trace of lime. Even the tiny grooves and corners in the window frame were sparkling.

  The fitting and furnishings in the cottage might be straddling the poverty line, thought Charlotte, but their caretaker would never be brought low.

  The bedroom was tiny, just large enough for the single bed, a bedside table and a chest of drawers, but comfortable, homey. The bed covers, before they’d ended up in a heap on the floor, consisted of crisp white sheets and a colourful woollen blanket, the kind your grandmother might insist on making you out of — what were they called? Charlotte thought. Oh, yes, peggy squares. The sight now of the blanket on the floor made Charlotte terribly cheerful, although, she had to admit, there may have been other reasons for her upbeat mood.

  Sex is such a great distraction when it’s good, she thought. And despite my doubts, this has been very good indeed. It could well have been otherwise; he might have been too anxious, too tense, which would inevitably have made him too quick. As it was, his only moment of panic was when he rummaged through the drawers for condoms.

  ‘Shit,’ he’d said. ‘Where the fuck are they? Don’t tell us I fucking threw ’em out.’

  He’d slammed shut one drawer and yanked open another. Charlotte, sitting on the bed in bra and panties, wondered whether this was an opportune time to tell him that she had some in her wallet, but decided that piece of information was best revealed only if absolutely necessary.

  ‘Thank fuck.’ Ned had stood up, waving the foil strips in his hand.

  ‘Only four?’ Charlotte’s expression had been innocent.

  ‘Don’t tease.’ Ned had slipped his arm under hers and pulled her up off the bed.

  ‘Tha can mess wi’ us later,’ he’d said, and kissed her with an intensity that made Charlotte glad he was holding her up. ‘But for now,’ Ned had murmured against her mouth, ‘be kind.’

  I didn’t need to be kind, thought Charlotte. The first time was an exploration, a delicious discovery, our lips, fingers and tongues all over each other’s bodies. I practically had to order him to enter me, and when I came, he was surprised and then triumphant, though I could see he was doing his best not to let it show. The second time, it was as if he felt he now had permission to loosen the reins. I hesitate to labour the equestrian metaphor, she thought, but by God, we rode each other like we were at Aintree, and at one stage, we were so slick with sweat that Ned had to grab a towel and rub us down. We were vocal with it, too. Anyone else walking up the track would have been in no doubt about what was going on in the last stone cottage on the left. Really, I don’t know what he was worried about.

  Ned came out of the bathroom.

  ‘Water?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Charlotte happily. ‘I’m parched, but far too lazy to get up.’

  When he returned, he handed her a glass, and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. As Charlotte drank, she once again admired his physical form. Patrick’s in not bad shape, she thought, but Ned is like a Michelangelo sculpture, all distinct solid musculature and heroic sinews. Though he is most certainly better endowed than the statue of David, she mentally noted. It must have been chilly in the Florentine studio that day.

  Charlotte placed the empty glass on the bedside table and scooched back down so she could lay her head on the pillow again. She stretched out a leg and hooked up the one closest to Ned, who, as she’d hoped, trailed his fingers lightly from her knee all the way up her inner thigh. Then he bent and placed a kiss right where his fingers had come to a stop. Charlotte made a small sound of pleasure, and closed her eyes, ready for him to kiss her onwards and upwards.

  Instead, she felt him sit up, and opened her eyes to find him staring at her.

  ‘Not keen?’ she said.

  ‘Keen enough,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t mind just talking for a bit. We’ve not done much talking.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ said Charlotte. ‘Did you want to talk about anything in particular? I warn you, I’m not the greatest fan of deep and meaningful conversation.’

  The corner of Ned’s mouth lifted. ‘Afraid, are thee?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ said Charlotte. ‘I simply don’t find most people terribly interesting.’

  Ned laughed. ‘That’s honest, I suppose. Unless,’ he added with a knowing grin, ‘tha’s just saying it t’ hide fact tha’s afraid?’

  ‘What did you want to talk about, Ned?’ said Charlotte. ‘Or was your plan to bait me and see how long I take to rise to it? Because — warning number two — I never rise. So I’d give up that idea right now.’

  Ned said, ‘I’ll start with summat easy then, shall I?’

  ‘Depends,’ said Charlotte. ‘What do you classify as easy?’

  ‘I thought it about time I asked your last name,’ said Ned. ‘Can’t call you Charlotte t’ nanny forever.’

  ‘It’s Fforbes,’ said Charlotte. ‘With two fs. And if you ask me if I’m related to the Fforbes of North Yorkshire, I may strike you.’

  ‘The Fforbes of North Yorkshire have no female issue,’ said Ned. ‘And I imagine them lads aren’t long for this world, neither.’

  ‘You sound straight out of a Catherine Cookson novel,’ said Charlotte. ‘Which I have to say I find rather disturbing, so please don’t do it again.’ Then she added, ‘Is that it? Have we finished talking?’

  ‘Why don’t ye do boyfriends, Charlotte Fforbes, with two fs?’ asked Ned.

  ‘Why don’t you do girlfriends?’ Charlotte retorted.

  ‘Oh, I do girlfriends,’ said Ned. ‘Just not at t’ moment.’

  Charlotte was perturbed to feel a twinge of jealousy. Up until now, she’d pictured Ned as a resolute loner, keeping women at bay as self-protection against heartbreak. She’d also made an assumption that, despite the condoms in the drawer, she was the first to share the cottage’s single bed, and it irked her to have to question it.

  It’s only because he paid you attention when you were feeling neglected, she scolded herself. It’s a sense of mild attachment born out of gratitude. Nothing more.

  ‘Why haven’t you got married then?’ she said snappishly.

  ‘How’n hell could I support a family?’ he said with a scowl.

  ‘There isn’t actually a clause in the marriage contract sti
pulating that you must breed,’ said Charlotte. ‘And I sincerely hope you don’t hold some hidebound, antediluvian notion that you need to keep your wife?’

  Ned’s scowl did not abate. ‘What kind o’ man can’t support his wife and children?’

  ‘As you have neither,’ said Charlotte, ‘I’d suggest it’s a moot point!’

  ‘Tha didn’t answer my question,’ said Ned belligerently. ‘It were about boyfriends, in case it’s slipped your mind.’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ said Charlotte. ‘I didn’t answer because it’s none of your business.’

  She folded her arms and they glared at each other, until Charlotte said, ‘Well, this conversation’s going swimmingly, isn’t it? I can see I’ve really missed out on this talking lark.’

  Ned looked away, but when he turned back to face her, he was smiling, albeit somewhat ruefully. He dropped a kiss on her still-bent knee, and began to caress her inner thigh again.

  ‘When’s your next day off?’ he said. ‘Or will you be under cosh from now on?’

  ‘Sunday.’

  Charlotte did her best not to sound subdued, but the lack of certainty around Patrick’s intentions prompted a churning queasiness every time she thought of it. Maybe he’ll be waiting when I get back to the villa, she thought. Waiting to sack me. What on Earth will I do then?

  ‘Got plans?’ she heard Ned say. ‘If tha haven’t,’ he went on, ‘d’you want to go out on t’ lake?’

  Charlotte perked up a little. ‘On a yacht?’

  Ned pursed his mouth. ‘More a rowing boat.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Charlotte shuddered. ‘No, I’m sorry. I cannot bear rowing boats.’

  ‘Why not?’ Ned said, put out. ‘Forced t’ read Wind in t’ Willows one too many times as a lass?’

  ‘No …’ Charlotte hesitated. ‘I had — a bad experience in a rowing boat once.’

  ‘But tha won’t tell us,’ said Ned, though his tone was gentle, ‘because it’s none o’ my business?’

  He’d paused in his caressing and his warm calloused hand was resting on her thigh. Charlotte was surprised to find it extraordinarily comforting.

  ‘This is going to sound very stupid,’ she said. ‘Childish and stupid.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Ned. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I tried to run away from home once,’ she said. ‘Our house backed onto the Thames, and one day I packed a little bag, and got into the neighbour’s rowing boat, and managed to row myself all the way down to the next village.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Oh, ten,’ said Charlotte. ‘Old enough to know better, really. When I got to the village, I realised I’d forgotten about the lock. I had this vague idea that there was a man who operated it, but if there was indeed a man at this lock, he must have been off at the pub. I had no idea what to do. I waited to see if anyone else sailed up, who would have more of a clue. But I think the Henley regatta was on, and everyone with a boat was there instead. I waited for what felt like ages, but was probably only an hour, and then I gave up, tucked the boat into the bushes, scrambled up the bank and walked home. I’d been gone over five hours, but no one noticed. I took my bag back up to my room, and that was that.’

  She blushed. ‘I told you it was stupid.’

  ‘Most kids want t’ run away at some stage,’ Ned said softly. ‘Did tha have particular reason?’

  ‘None,’ said Charlotte. ‘Other than my family home was an arid wasteland, full of bitterness and bile, and without a shred of love. At ten, I decided I deserved better. But clearly, that was my lot.’

  ‘Bit harsh on t’ rowing boat,’ said Ned. ‘If you don’t mind us saying so.’

  ‘It failed me,’ said Charlotte. ‘It promised to take me away, and it didn’t. It sat there and bobbed aimlessly while I despaired.’

  She gave him a look of embarrassed defiance. ‘I never said I had a sensible reason to hate rowing boats.’

  ‘Nay.’ Ned propped his hands on either side of her and bent forward to kiss her on the mouth. He smiled down. ‘And you don’t need un, neither.’

  ‘Are you going to kiss me again?’ said Charlotte. ‘Or are you averse to breaking your rule a third time?’

  ‘Rule?’

  ‘You told me you don’t like to sleep with women you hardly know.’

  ‘Very true.’ Ned nodded. ‘But can I tell thee summat, Charlotte Fforbes? Sometimes I feel I’ve known thee all my life.’

  And in the ensuing, sweaty, vocal entanglement, Charlotte forgot that she’d had any qualms at all about that comment.

  23

  ‘No.’

  Clare, who had been lying in bed, now sat fully upright.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she said.

  Patrick pulled a T-shirt on over his head before replying. ‘It’s a bad idea.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Clare after a pause, ‘but I’m getting the distinct impression that you are forbidding me to return to work.’ She glanced around. ‘Were we transported back to Victorian times while I was asleep?’

  ‘Tom needs his mother.’ Patrick was kneeling, lacing his sneakers. ‘Not some nanny.’

  ‘Really?’ said Clare. ‘And on what evidence, exactly, are you basing that assertion?’

  Patrick stood up, but he already knew, from the tone of her voice, what Clare’s face would look like. When Clare was upset, she would yell and rant. But when she was truly furious, she adopted the bored-mocking delivery of a seasoned defence lawyer discrediting the prosecution’s expert witness. The only clue to her level of emotion was that her nostrils went pink and white around the edges. Normally, Patrick took this as his cue to back off. But not today.

  ‘You know, and I know,’ he said, ‘and everyone knows that Tom isn’t talking when he should be. But apart from that one trip to the paediatrician, you and I haven’t discussed it at all. Well, here’s what I think.’ He folded his arms. ‘I think there’s something wrong with him. Whether he’s autistic or not, I can’t say. But whatever the case is, the last thing we should do is fob him off on some paid fucking “caregiver”, who won’t really give a rat’s arse about him, and who Tom doesn’t know from a fucking bar of soap. You think leaving him in the care of some stranger will help his development? I think it’s a recipe for fucking disaster.’

  Clare was silent, but Patrick knew better than to assume this meant she was weighing the merits of what he’d just said. What she was doing, he knew, was the mental equivalent of loading shells into a howitzer and calibrating the sights.

  ‘I’m thankful,’ she said, ‘to hear how much you care for our son. Because, God knows, I haven’t been a very good mother to him at all. I haven’t spent the last two years of my life dedicating myself to his every need, doing everything within my power to help him live a normal life. I haven’t put him first on every occasion, erasing my entire sense of self in the process by giving up everything I once enjoyed and felt productive doing. So it’s good to hear that at least one of us cares for Tom.’

  ‘Clare—’

  ‘NO!’

  Clare shoved back the covers and scrambled to her feet on top of the bed. Clare was five-five and this was the only way she’d ever get any height over Patrick. She stalked to the edge and stood facing her husband.

  ‘How dare you!’ she yelled. ‘How bloody dare you! You arsehole!’

  ‘Clare, come on,’ pleaded Patrick. ‘Keep it down.’

  ‘I have given two fucking years!’ she yelled. ‘And you have the fucking arsehole nerve to tell me that’s not good enough!’

  ‘Clare—’ Patrick reached out, but she slapped his hand away.

  ‘What were you doing all that time?’ she yelled. ‘Fucking working, that’s what! Going to the fucking pub! Coming home when you fucking felt like it!’

  ‘Fuck’s sake …’ Patrick breathed out, and clasped both hands briefly behind his head.

  Clare was standing, wobbling slightly on the soft bed, gazing at him as if in disbelief.

  ‘You’re just a wi
de boy,’ she said quietly, ‘a Cockney wide boy who thinks of women as “birds”, and sees their sole purpose as fucking and frying. You’re a conventional, narrow-minded, working-class arsehole, and I bloody knew that when I married you. I just assumed you knew it, too, and were willing to change.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said Patrick. ‘That is not fucking fair!’

  ‘Fair!’ Clare was yelling again. ‘What do you know about fair?’

  She jumped down off the bed, and stormed to where her suitcase sat on a luggage rack. She began to throw clothes into it.

  ‘Clare, don’t be—’ Patrick bit back the last word.

  ‘Stupid?’ Clare, a bundle of knickers and bras clutched in her hands, paused and looked over her shoulder. ‘I’m being very far from stupid. I’m being sane for the first time since I married you.’

  She dumped the underwear in the suitcase. ‘I made up my mind in Milan,’ she said, ‘to go back to work, and I knew you wouldn’t be happy. But I did assume that you cared enough about me to see it from my point of view. I assumed that you acknowledged and valued the effort I’ve put in—’

  ‘I do!’ said Patrick. ‘It’s not about that!’

  ‘No,’ said Clare. ‘It’s about Tom. Your son and heir. He comes first and I come dead last, no matter how much I give. I see that now. I began to see it yesterday when you forced me to spend time with him, when you so high-handedly laid down the law. You didn’t give a damn about how I felt, or what I wanted. Yesterday, I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. Now, I have no doubts at all.’

  She picked up two pairs of shoes and threw them on the pile in the suitcase.

  ‘You’re angry,’ said Patrick. ‘Don’t—’

  ‘I’m not angry,’ said Clare. ‘I stopped being angry when you called me stupid. I’m now clear-headed and extremely focused.’

  She slammed down the lid of the suitcase, and tried to zip it shut. It wouldn’t, no matter how hard she pushed on it, so she unzipped it again, grabbed a pile of clothes and shoes from the top and hurled them into the corner of the room. She zipped the case and grabbed it by the handle, and with the other hand, slipped her bag over her shoulder.