Well, it’s your own fault, said a voice that sounded a lot like his mother — or possibly one of his aunts. You were the one who decided to throw your weight about. You came down hard on Darrell; acted like a real bully, because only bullies pick on those who aren’t likely to put up a fight. Now that you’ve taken on someone your own size, you should hardly be surprised that they bloodied your nose.
Definitely his mother. Anselo could hear her yelling up the stairs to him, as she used to whenever he retreated to his bedroom. You shouldn’t have sneaked Darrell’s phone, either, she was saying. Sneaks never prosper!
It’s cheats that don’t prosper, Mum, he thought. Trouble is, I’m one of those, too. My karmic balance sheet is so far in the red, my soul is about to be repossessed.
Anselo, still lacking Marcus Reynolds’ address, had suddenly realised that it might be easier to find his phone number. Which he had, in the list of received calls; Darrell didn’t like talking on the phone much, so it wasn’t difficult to work out which was his. Anselo was relieved that she hadn’t yet added the flatworm to her contacts. He knew his own name was in the list because, tragically, he’d double-checked. Darrell had written ‘(Hubby)’ after it, and Anselo had felt his stomach clench with a mix of pleasure and regret. He had very nearly decided not to call, but rather talk to Darrell again, properly this time.
But I wanted to feel like I had some sort of power in this situation, thought Anselo, and that need won out over sense.
He might have handled the conversation better, Anselo decided, if he hadn’t used Darrell’s phone to make the call. In his mind, Anselo’d had a row of measured, cutting demands readied like archers. But Marcus had answered immediately, in a voice full of affection, and with the one word, ‘Angel’, and the only line Anselo, in his fury, could muster was, ‘Stay the fuck away from my wife!’
There’d been a pause, and then Marcus, in quite a different voice, had said, ‘Your wife is her own person, and if she wants me, I will go to her, without hesitation. Your wife is also deeply unhappy, and, if I were you, I’d look closer to home for the cause. You can blame me all you like, but it may pay to ask yourself why she chooses to talk to me, and not to you. And if your dull-witted macho pride still demands satisfaction, then by all means come on over and take a swing. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a genuinely decent laugh.’
And he’d hung up.
Which was why Anselo was now squeezing the phone hard in his fist, rage stampeding through him. It wasn’t only the humiliation, it was the sheer injustice of it! Marcus Reynolds could no more win a fight with Anselo than swim the Channel. How dare he imply that the breakdown with Darrell was Anselo’s fault, when it was Reynolds who was trying to make a move on someone else’s wife? Right now, Anselo was coming up with so many inventive and excruciating ways to hurt Marcus Reynolds, Torquemada would have wept tears of envious joy.
I should take Darrell home right now, Anselo thought. Grab her and Cosmo and hustle them back to England. Leave the liver fluke in the dust. Take charge of the situation.
Throwing your weight about again, in other words, the voice of his mother remarked. You can’t bully people into respecting you, you know.
Yeah, I do know, thought Anselo, as he finally released his hold on Darrell’s phone, and dropped it back into her bag. His grip on it had been so tight that there were red dents in his palm. The stigmata of failure, but at least these marks will disappear. Wish I could say the same for my rampant insecurity. It’s like a fucking hydra, he thought. Think I’ve managed to lop off a head, and two more grow in its place.
Anselo knew that he had not handled things well with Darrell. I did bully her, he thought, and I said stuff to hurt her because I was hurt and wanted to get my own back. I was high-handed, made it clear I had no interest in her viewpoint. So now, if we’re ever going to talk — properly talk — I’ll have to make the first move.
Trouble is, Anselo thought, I don’t know how do that without being defensive — as I’ve pretty effectively proved. I don’t know how to suppress all these resentments and fears I’ve been storing up. I’m afraid they’ll just rise up like a little rebel army and take over. And then we’ll be back where we were: me haranguing, Darrell sitting there, white-faced and fucking miserable.
Which she still is, he thought. That’s why she’s avoiding me, and I can hardly blame her. I must have burned up any goodwill, any respect she might have had for me. Why would she want to talk to me now? he thought. I wouldn’t, if I were her.
Anselo glanced around the bedroom. The bed was made, but he hadn’t slept in it. Last two nights, he’d snuck up to the study and slept there. He suspected Darrell minded less than he’d hoped she would. Where Darrell was at this moment, he had no idea. In the garden, probably, with Cosmo. It was the best place if you wanted to escape.
I should join them, he thought. I should do it now. Make the first move.
But after the humiliation of the phone call, Anselo’s self-confidence, which was usually at the level of an ankle sock with bad elastic, now felt more like a scraping of dog turd lodged in the sole of his sneaker.
Thank fuck Charlotte hadn’t found Reynolds’ address yet, he thought. Even if I laid him out cold in one punch, I’d still lose. He has the knack of attracting people to him. All I do is push them away.
Speaking of people, Anselo decided reluctantly that he’d better put in an appearance. So far, Patrick’s marriage meltdown had been a successful screen for Darrell and Anselo’s own problems, but now Michelle was starting to look at them both sideways. Anselo didn’t want to be forced to explain anything to Michelle.
I’d be more comfortable hanging from the ceiling from a chain attached to my nipples, he thought.
Anselo’s belief in a merciful god had a momentary resurgence when he got downstairs, and found the house empty. But his relief lasted all of two minutes, which was when the French doors that led out onto the terrace crashed open and the villa was filled with a strident medley of querulous demands (Harry, thought Anselo), incensed squeals (Rosie), and briskly firm refusals (Charlotte). Anselo heard Michelle in the background, making some comment about chicken, and then the horde was upon him.
‘Today’s picnic was not a success,’ Charlotte announced as she dumped a bright-patterned cloth on the table, which unfolded to reveal a tumble of plastic plates, cups and utensils. ‘So some of us are having a little quiet time — in our rooms,’ she added, quellingly, as another whining protest arose from Harry, ‘until we can learn to behave like civilised human beings.’
Rosie’s shriek provided an apt punctuation. Chad, who was struggling to hold his irate daughter, said, ‘I’ll take her up.’
‘No up!’ roared Rosie. ‘Bikkit!’
Chad gave Charlotte a helpless look, but Charlotte held his eye and shook her head.
‘Quiet time now,’ she said. ‘Bikkit upon its successful completion.’
Chad’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’ll read to her,’ he said. ‘Might calm her down.’
‘No read!’ yelled Rosie, and made a lunge for his hair with fierce fingers.
Her father grabbed her fist just in time, and held it. ‘Read!’ he said to her. ‘Or bed!’
Rosie pouted, but her father’s expression remained resolute. She dropped her head onto his shoulder and made small, cross mewing sounds, like a cat that’s trapped itself in a cupboard but lays all blame with its owner when it is discovered and finally let out.
Chad caught Michelle’s eye and they exchanged a grin. It was amused and affectionate and Anselo’s gut gave a sudden lurch. Not trusting his own face to stay impassive, Anselo turned to the sink and filled a glass with water.
‘Harry,’ said Charlotte, ‘follow your father to your room. Sit there in profound silence for five minutes and you may come back down for lunch. Any interruption before the five minutes is up will add a further minute to your sentence. Do I make myself clear?’
Harry pointed at Tom, who, as Patrick had su
nk into a kitchen chair, was now sitting in his father’s lap.
‘How come he stays?’ Harry said.
‘Tom stays because he did not rudely snatch biscuits from the plate,’ said Charlotte. ‘Nor did he try to prise the last macaroon from his sister’s hand. Nor did he tip his lemon cordial onto his sister’s leg when said sister refused to relinquish said macaroon.’
Charlotte put a hand on the small of Harry’s back.
‘No more discussion,’ she said. ‘Climb those stairs and we will see you after five blessedly silent minutes.’
Harry’s face was now bright red with frustration and rage. ‘He’s dumb!’ he yelled, pointing again at Tom. ‘He’s stupid! He can’t talk, so he’s stupid!’
‘Harry!’
Michelle’s voice snapped out across the kitchen, and halted Harry in mid-flow as effectively as if she’d smacked his bare leg. His lower lip began to tremble and, with a wail that said all it needed to about the grotesque injustice that had been inflicted upon him, Harry ran from the room and up the stairs.
‘Sorry,’ said Michelle to Patrick. ‘No prizes for guessing where he gets his tactful nature from.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Patrick. He ran his hand gently through Tom’s copper curls. ‘It’s probably better that we get it out in the open. Hiding it’s going to achieve fuck-all.’
‘So did Clare feed him chicken?’ said Michelle.
‘I have no idea,’ said Patrick. ‘But if she did, you can bet it was as free-range as a Swedish nudist colony.’
‘Chicken?’ said Anselo. ‘What the hell has chicken got to do with anything?’
‘Thanks to battery farming, the level of Omega-3 in our chicken has been dwindling since the 1970s,’ said Michelle. ‘And it’s Omega-3 that stops us all going mental!’ Then she said, ‘Not that Tom’s mental, of course. Only a truly tactless person would suggest that.’
Charlotte had tidied up the remains of the picnic. She opened the fridge door, and said, ‘I’m afraid that since we failed to go shopping yesterday, we are down to a cubic inch of cheese and two limp slices of tomato.’ She shut the fridge. ‘And on the bench, a crust of ciabatta and a lemon.’
Anselo checked his pockets for his wallet. ‘I’ll go,’ he said, thankful for the excuse. ‘Any requests?’
‘Where’s Darrell?’ said Michelle.
‘In the garden with Cosmo.’ Anselo prayed his expression did not alert her to the fact his answer was a complete guess.
‘Where-the-heck-abouts?’ Michelle said with a frown. ‘Is there some secret locked-up bit that she’s stumbled onto? Ooh!’ she added, excitedly. ‘If there are secret passages, maybe there’s one that will lead us to George! I could lurk in his wine cellar, and leap on him when he comes down for his next bottle of Montepulci-thingio! Go and get Darrell immediately,’ she ordered Anselo. ‘If she’s been keeping this from me, we will have words.’
Caught, Anselo frantically searched for an appropriate excuse. He was saved by Harry, whose distinctive tread could be heard clumping back down the stairs.
Charlotte, expression grim, moved to intercept him at the door, but he pushed past her, his whole body propelled by excitement.
‘Mommy, mommy, mommy!’ He threw himself at Michelle. ‘There’s a doggy! On the lawn!’
‘A doggy?’ Michelle frowned. ‘What kind of doggy?’
‘A black one!’ yelled Harry. He tugged at her hand. ‘Let’s go see it! Let’s go!’
‘Harry!’
But Charlotte’s warning was interrupted by a loud knock on the front door.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, and strode briskly off to answer it.
In response to Charlotte’s greeting, they heard an English voice, well bred, and male.
‘Who the hell’s that?’ Patrick frowned.
Jesus, Anselo thought, every muscle tense. If it’s that fucker Reynolds, I’m about as well prepared to do battle as Custer at Little Big Horn.
Charlotte reappeared in the kitchen, and when it was Anselo’s eye she caught, he braced himself.
‘It’s your sister,’ she said.
‘What?’ Anselo had heard, but it made no sense.
‘Actually,’ said a tall, blond young man from the doorway, ‘it’s only me at this juncture. Aishe and Gulliver are outside with Darrell. She let them in through the garden gate.’
‘Benedict!’
Michelle leapt up and planted a kiss firmly on his cheek, which flushed pink.
‘Michelle,’ he said. ‘Hello.’
‘Fuck me.’ Patrick, grinning, was also on his feet, Tom now in his arms. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Mommy, mommy!’ Harry was tugging at Michelle’s skirt. ‘The doggy!’
‘Harry thinks he saw a dog,’ said Michelle.
‘Ah,’ said Benedict. ‘He did. It’s ours, I’m afraid.’
‘You bought the fucking dog?’ said Patrick.
‘Pet passport,’ said Benedict. ‘Any EU country accepts them. Jenico was helpful enough to steer us in that direction.’
‘Jenico,’ said Patrick, his grin gone. ‘Did he send you to hold a pity party for me?’
Benedict’s eyes widened. ‘Not at all! Gulliver had one last jazz concert in Grenoble, so we thought we’d drive the campervan over and—’
‘Sponge off you.’
A small, dark and extremely beautiful woman in her mid-thirties pushed past Benedict, and made her way across the room to Anselo.
‘Hope you don’t mind,’ she said to him. ‘Too bad if you do.’
‘Aishe,’ said Anselo.
‘Saw Darrell in the garden with the baby.’ His sister paused for a moment. ‘So. How’s it going?’
Once more, Anselo was saved, this time by a clatter of claws on tile and the arrival of a panting, hairy black missile that shot into the kitchen, circled it, sniffing and barking, and then launched itself out the door again.
‘Doggyyyy!’ Harry let go of his mother’s skirt and rushed out after it.
‘You brought the dog.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘Un-fucking-believable.’
Chad now appeared in the doorway, Rosie in his arms. His expression was irritated, hers smug.
‘Quiet time,’ he said, ‘has been a spectacular failure. Through no fault of mine, I might add.’
‘Chad, look who’s here!’ Michelle grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room. ‘You remember our former nanny, Benedict? Who, as you know, is now shacked up in England with our former neighbour, Aishe—’
A lanky teenage boy with a mass of copper curls identical to, if slightly less clean than, Tom’s sloped into the kitchen.
‘And here’s our former babysitter!’ added Michelle. ‘Gulliver! How are you?’
‘Starving,’ he said, and picked up the crust of ciabatta from the bench. ‘This anyone’s?’ And he stuffed it in his mouth.
‘You’ll find tomato and a square of cheese in the refrigerator,’ said Charlotte, arms folded, mouth thin with disapproval. ‘If you also have an appetite for raw lemon, by all means, feel free.’
‘Groovy.’ Gulliver opened the fridge door, and extracted the food, leaving both empty plates inside. He wrapped the tomato slices around the cheese, ate it in one bite, and leaned back against the bench.
‘So here we all are in Italy,’ he said. ‘Rock on, good people. Where’s the party?’
29
‘I’m firmly convinced that six degrees of separation is a myth,’ said Charlotte. ‘How else can you explain it? Michelle moves across the United States and ends up living in the same street as her best friend’s husband’s sister. Oedipus Rex has a less ridiculously incestuous plot!’
Ned lifted his mouth from her nipple and began instead to circle it with his thumb.
‘So t’ red-headed lad is t’ sister’s,’ he said. ‘Who’s t’ father? Not t’ skinny blond bloke, surely? He can’t be more ’n thirty.’
‘Benedict is not the father, no,’ said Charlotte, ‘and yes, he is at
least four years younger than Aishe. They met in the States — Benedict took a job as Gulliver’s tutor, and also for a time, God help him, as Michelle’s nanny. Gulliver’s real father, so I gather, is the drummer in a Norwegian heavy metal band, who unknowingly impregnated Gulliver’s mother when she was eighteen.’
‘Unknowingly?’
‘It appears Aishe never told him she was pregnant,’ said Charlotte. ‘She had the baby, married an American who died, and lived in the States until last year, when they returned to England because Gulliver wanted to acquaint himself with his extended family, from whom his mother had, I also gather, long been estranged.’
‘T’ infamous Herne clan.’ Ned flicked his tongue over Charlotte’s other nipple. ‘Sound like she had some sense, keeping away.’
‘Well, she’s back in the fold now,’ said Charlotte crossly, ‘with son, boyfriend, and bloody menagerie all in tow, not to mention a campervan and a conglomeration of musical instruments. The villa now resembles backstage at Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey, complete with aroma of eau de chien and unwashed adolescent!’
And I can’t get near Patrick, was the thought Charlotte kept to herself. He’s been annexed by Benedict and Gulliver, and now even Chad’s joined the cabal. Only Anselo seemed to be keeping his distance. But right now, I don’t have the energy to care about him and his problems. If I don’t breach the stronghold of maledom that has arisen around Patrick, all my good work thus far will be lost.
‘Tha must be thankful for tha day off then?’ said Ned.
Charlotte caught a note in his voice, and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps she was not being as responsive to Ned’s attentions as was, in the circumstances, polite.
And I daren’t tell him it’s actually my second day off this week, she thought. I’m not sure he’d appreciate hearing I spent the previous one with another man, even if the only time I ventured into his bedroom was to vacuum it.
Charlotte had hoped Patrick would have noticed her absence, but when she had arrived home around five, grimy and dusty and smelling faintly of stale ale, the only person who’d said a word was Rosie, and that word was ‘Tea!’ So Charlotte had taken a quick shower, returned downstairs and given the children their tea, all the while trying to quell a mounting resentment that a) no one had noticed she’d gone, which meant b) they clearly did not value any of the work she did. That was why, the following day, Charlotte had deliberately not gone food shopping in the morning. There’d been just enough lemon cordial and biscuits for the children to have a picnic in the garden, and there, for today, Charlotte had thought, my responsibility ends. But then Anselo’s bloody sister and her performing troupe had arrived, and Charlotte’s big point about there being no food had lost all its impact. Curse them, she thought, and the house-bus they rode in on.
The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes Page 26