‘D: text now or I surround villa with crack SAS team,’ she read. ‘Not kidding. Have connections.’
‘I’m OK,’ she texted back hastily. ‘In Como with Michelle.’
The screen was blank for what seemed to Darrell to be at least a century and a half. Michelle had given up struggling with the boots, and had summoned a shop assistant to help her. The assistant was now attempting to get a shoehorn under Michelle’s heel. If he’s not careful, thought Darrell, he’ll lose an eye.
Her phone buzzed and, once more, Darrell leapt as if stung.
‘Where in Como?’
‘No fixed location,’ Darrell texted back. ‘Shopping.’
‘Meet me in one hour. Ticket office. Funicolare.’
‘Can’t! With Michelle!’ she texted frantically.
‘You’ll find a way. One hour. XXX.’
Hell, thought Darrell. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t even be thinking about doing this.
You will, though, said the other voice in her head. Because right now, you’re desperate to talk to someone who’ll actually listen, and who’s positive and warm, and who, quite possibly, cares more about you than anyone else does.
But what if he asks me to leave Anselo again? thought Darrell. What if he demands an answer?
You can’t hide forever, said the voice. Grow a spine and make a decision.
Darrell wondered if other people had similar voices in their heads. For their sakes, she sincerely hoped not.
‘Oh, that’s absurd!’ Michelle tossed the boot onto the floor. ‘Loco!’ she said to the assistant, tapping her temple with her forefinger.
‘I think that’s Spanish,’ said Darrell. ‘What’s up?’
‘The boots won’t go over my calves,’ said Michelle. ‘Stupid stunted Italians and their retarded sizes. At this rate,’ she said, folding her arms, huffily, ‘I’ll be greeting Chad in a pair of thigh-high rubber fishing waders.’
Doing her best to look casual, Darrell checked her watch. Cosmo was still asleep in the car seat, so she couldn’t use him as an excuse. But luckily, Italian opening hours provided one for her.
‘It’s after twelve-thirty,’ she said. ‘They’ve been staying open just for us, I think.’
‘Good.’ Michelle gathered up her sandals and pulled them on. ‘See!’ she said to the assistant. ‘American shoes are normal sizes, not like something you get with a stupido Happy Meal!’
Outside, Michelle said, ‘Let’s go and get pizza and gelato. I can comfort-eat to compensate for being made to feel fat.’
Darrell thought, it should take me no more than fifteen minutes to walk to the funicolare; I know where it is, I saw it before on the map, it’s right along the lakefront. That means I need to make an excuse to leave in about forty minutes. True, I didn’t have the gumption to find an excuse not to come into Como, she acknowledged, but I was at a low ebb this morning. Now, she thought, well, I’m not sure what I feel. My feet are tingling, I do know that. Perhaps that’s a sign that I need to move right now?
‘Um,’ she said, ‘call me crazy, but I have a sudden urge to see the lake. I know, I know, I see it every day!’ she added, when Michelle opened her mouth to protest. ‘But not this bit of it. This bit I’ve never seen, and I may never have the chance again. Cosmo will wake up, and I’ll be stuck. It’s now or never.’
‘But pizza and gelato are that way.’ Michelle hooked her thumb over her shoulder.
‘You go,’ said Darrell. ‘I’ll be half an hour max. Order a pizza for me.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Michelle. ‘But if I order one you don’t like, don’t expect me to pick the yucky bits off it.’
‘Thanks.’ Darrell turned, eager to go. ‘I’ll see you soon!’
I’ll be early, she thought, as she walked, but that’s OK. I’ll sit and wait, and with luck, Cosmo will let me do so in peace.
By the funicolare, Darrell was surprised to see that the small post office next door was still open. There seemed to be some sort of commotion occurring inside. Curious, she poked her head in, and saw a crowd of mostly elderly Italians bunched up around the counter, gesticulating and shouting. They all had in their hands the kind of paper numbers that you’d expect to take from a roll in a deli, so that everyone waiting would be served in their proper turn. Those little slips of paper, Darrell observed, seemed to be the source of their discontent, and the focus of their ire a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit, who was alternately wringing his hands and throwing them up in the air.
‘Scusi, signora,’ came a polite voice from behind her. Darrell turned and tried to not to gape. There was a priest, in full-length black robes and dog collar. Darrell made room for him to pass, and noted that in his hand he had what looked like a small silver flask. To Darrell’s astonishment, he walked up to the gang of disgruntled elderly and began to chant and splash each of them with drips from the flask. The man in the bad suit rushed forward, bobbing his head, his smile a rictus of desperate gratitude, and clasped the priest’s hand. For a second, Darrell was convinced the man was about to kiss it, but the priest lifted his hand from the man’s grasp and made a languid circular gesture that brought to mind the Queen waving to the crowd from her Rolls.
The man in the terrible suit is the manager, Darrell guessed, and he’s called in the priest, like a one-man A-team, to come and calm the old folk, enraged by having to take a number and get in line (a new system, obviously), by dispensing good words and a sprinkling of holy water. They should try that in Waitrose at Christmas, Darrell thought, to defuse the brawls over the last ham.
Darrell put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sudden urge to laugh. It’s the first time I’ve felt like laughing in more weeks than I can count, she thought, but I doubt the giggles of a disrespectful foreigner will help the situation. They might all turn on me. Even the priest. It’ll be worse than being hexed by Granny Herne.
She ducked back out of the post office, and laughed out loud into the safety of the open air. And there was Marcus, coming towards her, smiling with both pleasure and relief. Darrell let him take Cosmo and place him in his seat gently on the ground at their feet, and then she let him gather her tightly into his arms.
32
‘Hate To Say I Told You So’ by The Hives ended on a screech of guitar reverb, and Patrick pulled out the iPod earphones, and handed them back to Gulliver.
‘I was never a punk fan,’ he said. ‘More a classic rocker, me. But I like the energy. Hard to believe they’re Swedish, though. Thought all Sweden ever produced was Eurovision pop, sung by blondes with shapely arses.’
‘The Swedes also do a good line in death metal,’ said Gulliver. ‘Not so many shapely blondes in those bands, though. More big bearded dudes with tats, who probably wouldn’t appreciate it if you checked out their arses.’
Patrick grinned. He and Gulliver were leaning up against the wall outside a church in the Bergamo Alta piazza, waiting for the others, who were off trying to find a bathroom for Harry. Despite insisting he had not needed to go when the toilets were close by, he had, not five minutes later, been clutching at his pants and declaring a pressing urge. Rosie, who was still in nappies, and thus did not need a toilet at all, nevertheless demanded to be taken to one, at a volume that caused a few passers-by to hastily cross themselves. Chad had taken Harry to an amenable-looking café, while Charlotte and Benedict, knowing no café was that amenable and aware that anything to do with Rosie was a two-person job, had retraced their steps to the public toilets at the foot of the citadella. Tom, also still in nappies (yet another thing that made Clare grind her teeth, recalled Patrick) was on the steps that led up to the church, jumping down them, one by one. When he reached the bottom, he’d climb back up and start the whole process again. Patrick, keeping an eye on him, found The Hives’ jangly, jaunty punk declarations merging in his mind with the more menacingly intent lyrics of The Beatles’ ‘Helter Skelter’. Finding that disturbing, his mental jukebox immediately switched records to another Beatles
’ song, ‘Yesterday’. Apt, thought Patrick, but depressing as all fucking get out. Sod you, McCartney. If you really accepted your fate gracefully, you’d stop dying your bloody hair.
Patrick had heard nothing from Clare since she’d left. Neither had Michelle. Neither had Patrick’s family back in London, who, on Patrick’s behest, had been going round to his house every day to check. Patrick had even contemplated calling Clare’s parents in Hampstead, but quailed at the prospect of explaining why. Clare’s parents appreciated that their daughter had married a wealthy man, Patrick knew. But he also knew they would have much preferred it if he’d had the additional redeeming qualities of being a scion of an established upper-middle-class family and the graduate of an Oxbridge college (a good one, of course, not one of the ghastly new ones, like Keble). Clare’s mother would answer the phone, Patrick thought, and I don’t want to hear even a hint of hope in her voice that Clare and I might be splitting up. Divorce would be their ideal scenario. Clare would still get the benefit of my money, but her mother would no longer have to make an effort not to cringe when I speak. And she’d finally be able to minimise my influence on Tom’s life, too, he thought. Scrub the Cockney Gypsy out of him like she would the skid-marks out of Clare’s dad’s underpants.
Am I stupid to hope Clare hasn’t left me for good? wondered Patrick. Or is it like being convinced you still might eat that celery in the refrigerator, even though it’s as limp and yellow as an old man’s todger?
He felt an urgent need to change the subject.
‘How’s it working out for you,’ he said to Gulliver, ‘having more family than just your mother around you for the first time in your life?’
Gulliver pursed his mouth and nodded slowly. ‘Interesting,’ he said.
‘Jenico kicked your arse yet?’
‘No need,’ said Gulliver. ‘I’m a model teenager. Unlike some of my cousins.’
‘Jenico will bring them under control,’ said Patrick. ‘If he can do it with me, he can do it with anyone.’
Gulliver circled his thumb to scroll the menu of his iPod. ‘Jenico says what you needed was a father. Says by the time he was old enough to step into that role, it was a bit late. You were off the rails, big time.’
‘Yeah, well, by all accounts, my charming Irish father was also a drunk and a thief, a chory,’ said Patrick. ‘So I doubt his presence would have substantially altered my moral character. And besides,’ Patrick gave Gulliver’s shoulder a quick shake, ‘not having a father around didn’t do you any harm, did it?’
‘That’s because Mum has bigger balls than most men,’ said Gulliver.
‘Yeah, fair call,’ said Patrick. ‘Although that’s really no way to talk about your mother.’
Gulliver gave him a look. ‘Considering what comes out of my mother’s mouth,’ he said, ‘it is a source of amazement to all who know us that my language is as moderate as it is.’
‘How are you getting on with—?’ Patrick hesitated, suddenly unsure if his question was appropriate. I’m the master of the fucking clanger, he thought, and I may have just dropped another.
But Gulliver seemed unfazed. ‘How am I getting on with Benedict?’
When Patrick gave an embarrassed nod, Gulliver said, ‘It’s more like having an older brother than a father. Which, if you ignore the sick, weird picture that conjures up, is actually OK. We get on, we like the same stuff. He diverts Mum’s attention away from me, which is a major bonus, and he has a pretty good strike rate at preventing her getting into scraps with the rest of the family.’
Gulliver shook his head. ‘Sometimes, you know, she’s like one of those dog breeds that people get up petitions to ban.’
Patrick watched his young cousin plug in his earphones and settle back against the church wall. He’s a good kid, Patrick thought. Possibly a bit too smart-arse, but his survival instincts will ensure he never pushes it too far. Lucky young bastard. He’s on a winning path already, at only fifteen, and he knows it. Whereas it was sheer luck that I found my yellow brick road, thought Patrick, and a fucking miracle that I had the brains to follow it.
He glanced at Tom, still jumping down the steps, as intent and focused as if he were in the hurdle race at the Olympics. Sadness dragged on his heart.
Tom and Gulliver have the same hair, he thought, but I’m afraid that’s all they have in common. I’m afraid my little boy’s path will be rough and hard, and there’ll be sod-all I can do to make it easier for him.
A flash of pink caught his eye. Charlotte, in her short bright dress, was crossing the piazza, followed by Benedict, carrying Rosie. Charlotte had driven Patrick and Tom to Bergamo, while Benedict and Gulliver had shared the Lawrences’ rental with Chad, Harry and Rosie. Patrick seemed to remember suggesting that there was room for one of them in his car, so it needn’t be such a squeeze, but somehow, that hadn’t happened. Charlotte had driven well, Patrick admitted, and he was grateful she hadn’t felt a need to make conversation. Every so often, she’d point out a landmark, or a particularly attractive scene, but mainly, they’d driven in silence.
It’s why she is such a bloody good PA, thought Patrick. She always knows exactly when to leave me alone. The other evening, when she’d come to the bedroom, was a rare exception, he thought, and to give her credit, she’d probably been worried he was going to do something brainless, like drink himself into a coma.
Not outside the bounds of possibility, that one, thought Patrick. If I had a quid for every time I’d woken up in pool of my own vomit when I was young, I could reinvigorate the economies of several African nations.
He saw Charlotte stop and have a sharp word with Rosie, who scowled and buried her head in Benedict’s shoulder. That’s another thing Charlotte’s done bloody well, Patrick thought. I wasn’t sure she’d cope, looking after the children, but she’s risen to it with all the cool aplomb of Thatcher telling the Argies to shove it.
She needs a boyfriend, Patrick decided. And if I were to pick one, he thought, I’d pick a bloke exactly like Benedict: good-looking, perfect manners and, despite a public-school education, a genuinely kind heart.
Why Benedict had ended up with Aishe — who could have operated as a one-woman inquisition armed only with her tongue — he had no idea. Then again, Clare and I had been a mismatch on the surface. We’d connected through our ambition and by our appetite for risk and for life. No shrinking violets, we, thought Patrick. And how I loved her for it.
Charlotte and Benedict were almost upon them. It occurred to Patrick that in less than a week, he and Charlotte would both be back at work.
Back to our usual roles, he thought, back to the usual grind. If I’d been finding it hard going before, it could only be worse now.
What’s the point in working if Clare’s not in my life? he thought. What’s the point in anything?
‘The décor of this church,’ said Charlotte as she joined them, ‘appears heavily influenced by pfefferkuchenhaus.’
‘By what?’ Patrick said.
‘Frau Pfefferkuchenhaus is the name the Germans give the witch in Hansel and Gretel,’ said Benedict. ‘You may recall she had a gingerbread house.’
‘She also locked small children up in a cage, and then cooked them,’ said Charlotte with a pointed look at Rosie. ‘I can see the appeal of that as a calling.’
Patrick glanced up at the church. It did look as if someone in charge of a load of marzipan had gone temporarily insane.
‘It’s a riot inside, too,’ he said. ‘Gulliver and I had a quick look, but our eyeballs started to fry. It’s like the painters were threatened with a flaying if they left even a millimetre of wall un-bedecked with frills and furbelows. Not that I’d know a fucking furbelow if it fell on me,’ he added.
Charlotte was turning on her heel, surveying the piazza with a smile on her face. ‘I’m so glad we came here,’ she said. ‘Such a stunning place. A true mediaeval walled citadel, high on a hill.’
‘Cue the lonely goat-herd,’ said Benedict. Catching C
harlotte’s expression, he added hastily, ‘No, it’s spectacular, I agree!’
Rosie had been ignored for too long. ‘Drink!’ she yelled, and thumped Benedict on his chest.
‘You are no less a harridan than you were when I first met you!’ said Benedict, grabbing both her fists to prevent any further assaults. ‘And back then you couldn’t even talk!’
Then his eyes slid to Tom, still jumping down the steps, and he blushed. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Patrick. ‘That was tactless.’
‘You don’t have to spare my feelings,’ said Patrick. ‘And I’m pretty sure Tom doesn’t give a shit, either.’
Gulliver pulled out his earphones. ‘So what’s the plan? Are we over Bergamo Alta, or has it got something more to give besides freaky churches and a plus-size stone wall?’
‘You are an uncultured swine,’ said Benedict. ‘The great Donizetti was born here, you know.’
‘You mean the poet guy, who married the red-headed chick who died, and he opened her coffin to find all her hair had kept growing in a totally creep-tacular way?’ said Gulliver.
‘That’s Rosetti,’ said Benedict. ‘Donizetti wrote the opera, Lucia di Lammermoor.’
‘Opera.’ Gulliver shuddered. ‘The only thing worse than a coffin full of a dead chick’s hair.’
Charlotte, who had stationed herself beside Patrick, her arm pressing against his, gave a small cough. ‘There is a science museum here,’ she said, ‘and a botanical gardens.’
‘Wow, kill me now,’ said Gulliver. ‘Then you can check if my hair keeps growing.’
‘I’m not sure Rosie would be the ideal visitor to either of those in her current frame of mind,’ said Benedict apologetically, while keeping a firm hold of Rosie’s fists. ‘I suspect it might be best to head back, or I fear the fortifications here may be put to the test for the first time in many centuries.’
‘I think Chad might agree with you,’ said Patrick, who had caught sight of him striding across the piazza, dragging a protesting, reluctant Harry by the hand.
The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes Page 29