The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘Clare King,’ said her voicemail. Patrick disconnected before he was told once again to leave a message.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! Patrick craved to hurl the phone through the window and hear the glass smash to smithereens. Instead, he drove his fist into the pillows, again and again until the sound of splintering wood brought him to a sudden halt. Behind the pillows was a padded headboard, and one of the struts connecting it to the bed was now cracked.

  There you go, thought Patrick. More mindless destruction caused by yours truly. I should drive into Como and raise hell on a drunken spree. Then they can lock me away for the good of everyone.

  Everyone except Tom, he thought, and his anger was subsumed into a morass of sadness. I’m all he’s got now. The poor, unfortunate little sod is stuck with me, and what good will that do him? I might as well leave him on the doorstep of the village church; can’t do his psyche any more harm than staying with me. And he’ll get to grow up Catholic, thought Patrick. The one religion where no matter how badly you fuck it up, you have a right to be forgiven.

  I doubt Clare will forgive me. I doubt Tom will either, down the track, when someone tells him the truth about why his parents aren’t together.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, Patrick chastised himself. You can self-flagellate all you like, and it will make sod-all difference. Get a grip, he ordered. Grow up. Be a man.

  He scrolled through the contacts on his phone until he came to H. Then he touched the screen and made a call to Jenico Herne.

  27

  Charlotte intercepted Anselo in the hallway the next morning, as he was heading towards the front door. She made it appear a coincidence, but she’d been on the lookout since rising with the children an hour earlier. Charlotte wished to find out how her plan was progressing, but knew that eliciting information would require subtlety and patience on her part, Anselo generally being as garrulous and forthcoming as a slab of granite atop a tomb.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘All well?’

  Anselo gave her a look that suggested he’d be having more fun if he were on fire.

  He said, ‘Peachy. Thanks.’ And took another step towards the door.

  ‘Will you be taking the car?’ said Charlotte. An unnecessary question, she knew, as the car keys were in his hand.

  Anselo halted, spine stiff with reluctance. He wants to escape as quickly as possible, thought Charlotte. Well, we all have to get used to disappointment.

  ‘Why?’ said Anselo. ‘Do you need it?’

  ‘There was talk of a trip to Cadenabbia,’ said Charlotte. ‘The Villa Carlotta has some very fine gardens, which we feel are large enough for us to safely release Rosie.’ She gave Anselo her most gracious ‘we’ll make the best of it’ smile. ‘But I’m sure the children won’t be too upset if we postpone until tomorrow.’

  Poor man, she thought. He’s visibly sagging with resignation. Oh well. Needs must. If I let him escape now, I’ll never get anything out of him.

  ‘Right.’ Anselo stared down at the car keys for a moment, as though willing another set belonging to a new car to magically appear, before replacing them slowly on the hall table.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Charlotte. ‘Were you going somewhere in particular?’

  A wry smile came and went. Anselo shook his head. ‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘Which pretty much sums up my life.’

  Charlotte felt a genuine pang of sympathy for him. Guarded and emotionally constipated Anselo might be, she thought, but he was fundamentally decent. And he was Patrick’s cousin and business partner, which placed him squarely on the right team. Unlike Marcus Reynolds, who could not be less on-side if his middle name were Quisling.

  Charlotte placed a hand briefly on Anselo’s arm. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  He gave a short, surprised laugh. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Unless you happen to know the address of Mr fucking Marcus Reynolds?’

  Excellent, thought Charlotte. I am the grand master and the pieces are well placed. Now, I just have to decide my next move. Do I play the knight, Anselo? Or do I wield the ultimate weapon, the queen, aka yours truly?

  The risk of a mano-a-mano showdown, she decided, was that men found it tricky to accept defeat. A bloodied nose was very likely to lead directly to bloody-mindedness. And the last thing she wanted was Marcus feeling forced to make some kind of dramatic ultimatum. Women like Darrell seemed to be notorious suckers for the last-ditch ‘I’ll expire without you’ type of emotional plea.

  No, Charlotte concluded. Queen’s move. But I will throw Anselo a bone.

  ‘I don’t have his address,’ she said to him, ‘but I guarantee I’ll be able to find it.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Anselo.

  Charlotte smiled. ‘Leave it to me.’

  Charlotte had not lied. Though she had been in Marcus Reynolds apartment, she had no idea where it was, other than on a hill overlooking Lake Como. As the lake was surrounded by hills packed with houses, this hardly narrowed it down.

  She solved the problem by phoning art galleries in Milan until she found the one owned by Marcus’ sister. Then she informed the person (who, fortunately, spoke perfect English) that she was the personal assistant of an old boyfriend of Gus’, who was in town and wished to call on her. This, not surprisingly given Gus’ sexual orientation, caused a little confusion, but the address was imparted nonetheless. It will give them something to gossip about, thought Charlotte, which will relieve the tedium of being forced to stare all day at undoubtedly awful examples of modern art.

  Now all that remained was the issue of transport. Charlotte knew that she was shirking her duty by hiving off to Como, but she had time to think of a plausible excuse. Not that anyone would care — Patrick, Anselo and Darrell were barely functioning. Michelle might protest, but Chad would smooth the waters. Besides, Charlotte had had only one day off in three weeks. And she hadn’t even wanted to take that one!

  But she didn’t intend to be completely selfish; she would not deprive them of a car. There was bound to be a bus she could catch from the village. Failing that, a taxi. Failing that — well, Charlotte was sure she’d think of something.

  She could hear that Chad had come into the kitchen. Good, she thought. He’ll look after the children. She grabbed her bag and slipped out.

  ‘Grazie! Grazie!’

  Charlotte waved as the little old man in the Fiat Panda tipped his hat and pulled back out into the traffic without looking, causing a rider on a Ducati motorbike to do such a rapid braking stop that his back wheel lifted into the air. There had been no bus due in the village any time soon, and no taxis, so Charlotte had approached the gaggle of old men on the lakefront. Alfonso or Affonso (hard to distinguish through the accent) had been about to deliver his eggs to an organic food shop in Como. At the speed he drove, Charlotte thought, there would never be an issue with breakage. The Ducati rider was not the first motorist this morning to be made apoplectic by the ancient egg-man.

  Gus’ apartment was in a complex no more than three storeys tall, nestled in a patch of greenery. There was a panel of bells and a speaker system inside the front entrance. Charlotte pressed the correct bell and waited for the speaker to crackle. It stayed mute, so she pressed the bell again, for longer this time. Still no answer.

  Bother, thought Charlotte, he’s not there. Or if he is, he’s refusing to answer, most likely because he is sleeping off the excesses of the night before.

  Charlotte stood in front of the sliding glass doors that would let her in to the apartments, but they refused to budge. She waited for several minutes in the hope that someone would come, and she could persuade them to flout security. But no one came.

  Damn it, thought Charlotte, I refuse to give up. And she pushed her thumb against Gus’ bell and left it there.

  It had been at least three full minutes, and Charlotte’s thumb was starting to ache, when, finally, the speaker crackled and an intensely pissed-off voice yelled, ‘Vai a cagare!’

  ‘Marcus, it’s me.
Charlotte.’

  There was a pause. ‘It’s not an ideal time,’ he said.

  ‘Let me in,’ said Charlotte. ‘Or you will be sorry.’

  ‘Hell,’ she heard him mutter. The speaker went dead.

  Charlotte waited, fingers crossed. Then the glass doors went click. Not trusting the lift, Charlotte took the stairs. Gus’ apartment, she recalled, was at the end of the top-floor hall, and she hastened to it before he changed his mind.

  There was another bell by the door. After what seemed an age, she heard the sound of a security chain being loosened and locks unbolted. Marcus opened the door.

  ‘My, my.’ Charlotte pursed her mouth. ‘I must say — you’ve looked better.’

  Marcus was unshaven, and wearing a shirt that desperately needed washing. He desperately needs washing, thought Charlotte. He smells like the cloth a publican has just used to wipe the bar, the floor and, finally, the ashtrays.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting company,’ he said.

  ‘You should have been,’ said Charlotte. ‘Misery loves company.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  Charlotte stood, waiting. Marcus sighed, and opened up the door. ‘Come in, and take your chances. I refuse to apologise for the state of the place.’

  The apartment wasn’t quite as Charlotte remembered it. It was still stylish, with some very nice designer pieces. But it was now also a shambles squalid enough to rival Mr Krook’s in Bleak House. Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink and bench (Arclinea, Antonio Citterio). The stovetop (Bertazzoni) was encrusted with what looked like charred baked beans. Rubbish overflowed from the bin (Brabantia, matt white), and there was a pile of empty beer bottles at its foot, and another on the floor by the sofa (Bill by Hannes Wettstein, if she wasn’t mistaken). Someone, Marcus she assumed, had turned that second pile into a little pyramid.

  The only thing that appeared to have remained unscathed was the large black-and-white photograph of the hairless pudenda.

  Charlotte gestured to it. ‘I presume that’s Gus?’

  Marcus had flopped back down on the sofa, head on a pile of cushions, legs outstretched.

  ‘It isn’t,’ he said. ‘Gus refuses to wax. She says any lover who can’t deal with cunt hairs in her mouth is not adventurous enough.’

  He picked up the cigarette that was in the ashtray on the floor beside him, and took a long drag. Charlotte had not previously smelled any trace of nicotine on Marcus, but she assumed chain smoking was de rigueur if one wanted to attain a state of true squalor.

  Charlotte approached the sofa, but decided against sitting on it due to the stains. She could not tell what had made the stains, and had no inclination to investigate further.

  ‘I realise the apartment has had over a fortnight to go downhill since I was last here,’ she said, ‘but how did you reach this level of personal seediness in only a few days? You were looking reasonably dapper when you came to collect Mrs Anselo Herne.’

  Marcus gave her a sideways look that wasn’t entirely friendly.

  ‘Sheer hard work and determination,’ he said. ‘It’s a strict regimen that involves beer, cigarettes, a lot of sensationally mediocre television, and the occasional wank. I intend to write a self-help book based on it. I’ll make millions.’

  ‘And are you simply bored?’ Charlotte said. ‘Or is there a more compelling reason for it?’

  Instead of replying, Marcus got up and walked to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. He flicked off the top, and came back to the sofa, and resumed lying on it, drinking and smoking.

  Charlotte decided that the far end of the sofa was relatively sanitary, so she perched on its edge.

  Seducing Marcus might help achieve my goal, she thought, but given his listless and frankly disgusting state, it would be deeply unsatisfactory.

  Charlotte knew that the secret to being a good tactician was the ability to adapt on the fly, so she quickly weighed her other options and decided, for expediency’s sake, to go for a full-frontal attack.

  ‘Why are you doing your best to destroy Darrell’s marriage?’

  Marcus’ cigarette smoke went down the wrong way, and Charlotte had to wait while he coughed up what sounded like an entire lung and a good portion of spleen.

  ‘Who were you in a past life?’ he said, eyes streaming. ‘Himmler?’

  ‘You are causing a lot of angst,’ said Charlotte. ‘And I am suspicious of your motives.’

  ‘Are you?’ said Marcus. ‘And what precisely are your motives here?’

  Charlotte had not expected that. She gave thanks, not for the first time, for her ability to remain as impassive as the Mona Lisa, except without even a hint of a smile.

  ‘Darrell and Anselo have a new baby,’ she said. ‘It’s a time that puts every marriage under stress, and I feel you are taking advantage of that. You’re putting pressure on Darrell when she’s at her most vulnerable.’

  ‘Himmler crossed with Mary Whitehouse,’ said Marcus. ‘Stemming the tide of turpitude, one transgressor at a time.’

  He took a pointed drag on his cigarette. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘this whole series of events — meeting you, meeting Michelle, seeing Darrell again — only reinforces my theory that fate forces us to live within ever-decreasing circles. Like a noose tightening around one’s neck.’

  ‘Full marks for avoiding the subject,’ said Charlotte. ‘But I won’t be diverted.’

  Marcus stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray, and ferreted under the sofa for the pack, which turned out to be empty. He crumpled it in his hand and threw it with force across the room. It hit a Kartell table lamp, which wobbled but, to Marcus’ obvious annoyance, remained upright.

  I’ve pushed him as far as I dare, thought Charlotte. Time to take the steel out of the gloves.

  ‘I think you should leave Darrell alone,’ she said gently. ‘It will hurt too many people. People I care about.’

  Marcus stared out the window, which had, Charlotte observed, an extremely fine view of the lake.

  ‘And what if I were in love with her?’ he said.

  Charlotte resisted an impulse to roll her eyes. Love? What did Marcus Reynolds, world-champion shagmeister, know about love?

  ‘You’ll still hurt her,’ she said, and gave the knife a twist. ‘You’ll hurt Cosmo, too.’

  ‘Gawd,’ he muttered. He laid his head on the back of the sofa, and covered his face with his hands.

  Charlotte felt a quick surge of triumph, but warned herself not to celebrate prematurely. Many a slip twixt cup and lip and all that. A bowed Marcus Reynolds was not necessarily beaten.

  He lifted his hands and sat up. ‘Yes, all right,’ he said wearily. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘And?’ said Charlotte.

  ‘And what, for Christ’s sake?’ Marcus demanded. ‘You’ve already flayed all the skin off me. What more do you want?’

  ‘You’ll leave her alone?’

  Marcus gave her a long look.

  ‘The reason,’ he said eventually, ‘that I’m in this state is that I’ve already convinced myself that Darrell will never, ever say yes to me. Which hurts like a bastard because I’ve also convinced myself that I do love her.’

  Horrified, Charlotte interrupted. ‘Are you telling me you’ve already … propositioned Darrell?’

  ‘Naturally you’d choose a word that makes it sound indecent!’ Marcus was riled. ‘Yes, in short — I have. But before you get out the small crotch-height guillotine, let me make it clear that I will be leaving her alone. Not because of you, but because it’s what I’ve already promised her. I’ll wait here instead, wallowing in self-made filth and pity.’

  Charlotte gathered herself and took stock. Marcus had already stated his intentions, which was bad. But Darrell had not yet responded, which meant the situation could still be managed.

  I’ll work on Darrell, Charlotte decided; she’s easily swayed. But I’ll keep Marcus on-side; I won’t make any more demands of him. Best if he thinks I’ve accepted things,
she thought, best if he thinks I’m no longer a threat. Anselo, too — I’ll have to keep him away, no point in them clashing like stags now. If Marcus felt pressured by either of us, then he might try something foolish, like eloping with Darrell to Dubrovnik.

  ‘Would you like a hand cleaning up?’ said Charlotte. ‘I can’t do much about the pity, but I can help you with the filth.’

  Marcus blinked. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ll expect you to do your share, of course.’

  He gave her a mock salute. ‘Jawohl, Heinrich.’

  Charlotte glanced down at the sofa. ‘Although I think these stains will need professional treatment. What did you spill?’ she said. ‘Or do I not want to know?’

  Marcus peered at the yellowy blotches. ‘Looks a bit like urine, doesn’t it? Or it might be beer. As I can’t remember, and have no intention of sniffing it, why don’t we just assume that it’s either of those?’

  ‘It’s somewhat appalling to leave your sister with a urine-or-beer-stained sofa.’

  ‘She left me with a toilet blocked by a strap-on dildo when she stayed with me in LA,’ said Marcus. ‘Fortunately, the plumber was a lesbian, too. I let her keep it.’

  Charlotte smiled, and not just because she was amused. Marcus was being friendly, and friendly meant the plan was back on track.

  And now that I’ve bought some time, Charlotte thought, I can put my focus on the one person who’s really important to me. And to whom I intend to inch closer to each and every day.

  28

  Anselo was rigid with fury. Adrenaline pumped through every muscle, and he yearned for something to lay into, hard, with both fists. Ideally, that something would be Marcus Reynolds, who had just hung up on him. That action and the conversation that preceded it were the reason Anselo’s anger had risen to a level that gave him new insight into the phrase ‘maddened with rage’. Anselo’s rage was such that his urge to smack something bordered on uncontrolled, and he was beset with glorious visions of berserker-like destruction, wherein he hacked the limbs off a thousand Marcus Reynolds and watched blood spurt in scarlet geysers from a thousand severed arteries.