The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘My shorts are scratchy!’ said Harry, grabbing at said item of clothing, as his father, breathing hard, pulled up to a halt.

  ‘This is due to the fact that he is currently wearing no underwear,’ Chad informed the group. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask for details.’

  ‘Going commando, dude?’ said Gulliver. ‘Rock on.’

  Harry paused, the process of his thoughts evident to all. If Gulliver, his hero, thought no pants was cool, then Harry was not about to argue.

  ‘Yeah!’ he said. ‘Commando!’

  ‘And on that high note,’ said Charlotte, ‘I propose we depart. If we make good time, we should be back no later than three.’

  She bent down to Tom, who had reached the end of one his jumping rounds, and was now at the bottom of the steps. Patrick observed that Benedict and Chad were desperately trying not to look up her skirt.

  She is wearing Alans, he thought. Good thing, too.

  ‘Tom,’ Charlotte was saying, ‘we’re leaving now. We’re going on the cable car again, so you can watch the big metal rope that you liked so much.’

  Tom looked up at her, which meant, Patrick knew, that he’d heard and understood.

  I suppose that’s one thing to be grateful for, he thought. Tom does know the words, even if he won’t use them. Means he’s not simple, if that’s a term anyone uses these days. Maybe there is a bit of hope, after all?

  They drove back with the same people in each car. Patrick had begun to offer a seat to Gulliver, but Charlotte interrupted with some request about Tom, and by the time Patrick had replied, Gulliver was already in the back seat of the other car, wedged between Rosie and Harry.

  Charlotte was even quieter on the return journey, Patrick noted. The first time she spoke was when they were only half a mile or so from the villa.

  ‘If you need help with Tom,’ she said, ‘when we’re back in London, I’d be more than happy to provide it.’

  Patrick looked at her, surprised. ‘Thanks, but I’ll sort something out,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about it.’

  ‘No, really,’ said Charlotte, her tone more insistent. ‘I’d like to help. I’d even … well, if you needed someone at the house, I could perhaps step in there, too?’

  ‘Be my PA, my nanny and my housekeeper?’ said Patrick in disbelief. ‘Charlotte, it’s true, I may well be that bloody useless, but that is way beyond the call of duty. You’re young, you have a full and active life. I’m hardly about to let you bugger it up because of me.’

  ‘Oh, but I—’

  Whatever Charlotte was about to say was lost as Patrick caught sight of the villa.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said with a frown.

  Chad, arriving first, had pulled up as best he could next to the campervan, which had been haphazardly — and that was being kind, thought Patrick — parked in the space provided for the villa’s guests. Benedict was out of the car, hands clasped to his head in a gesture of horrified disbelief, peering at the driver’s side wing mirror, which appeared to have suffered — being kind again, thought Patrick — a little damage.

  ‘Let me out here,’ Patrick said to Charlotte. ‘Seems we have a situation.’

  Charlotte stopped the car and he hopped from it, just as Michelle, Aishe and Anselo bowled out of the villa’s front door. Anselo, Patrick observed, looked tight-lipped and pale, as if he’d narrowly escaped an accident. Michelle, on the other hand, was flushed and animated. Aishe looked her usual self, but she raised an eyebrow at Patrick, an expression that in so many words said, ‘brace yourself’.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Patrick said. ‘You all have a crash in the campervan?’

  ‘Is there something wrong with the campervan?’ Michelle gave it no more than a cursory glance. ‘But if that’s your guess, you’re not even close!’

  ‘Darrell’s run off with her ex,’ said Aishe, before Michelle could continue. ‘She did a bunk in Como today. Sent Michelle a text apologising. Didn’t say if she’d be back.’

  Shit, thought Patrick. No wonder Anselo looks like he does. Poor sod. I knew they were having difficulties, but I ignored it. Too wrapped up in my own bloody crisis. What an arsehole.

  Patrick reached out and grasped Anselo’s shoulder. ‘What do you want to do?’ he said to him.

  ‘What can I do?’ said Anselo, dully. ‘I’ve no idea where he lives.’

  ‘Ah.’ Charlotte was there, holding Tom’s hand. ‘I may be able to help you with that one after all.’

  33

  The Como–Brunate funicular went, as far as Darrell could tell, entirely vertically up the hill. There’s nary a hint of a slope, she thought. It’s as if you’re being winched up from a sinking ship by a rescue team in a helicopter. Not such an inapposite comparison, Darrell felt, as she tightened her grip on the handle of Cosmo’s car seat. In a way, I have been rescued. What will happen from now on, though, rather terrifyingly, is up to me.

  Marcus had parked the Alfa at the top. He bundled them in, and drove off, singing loudly, ‘Funiculi, funicu-la!’

  I know that song, thought Darrell. Noël Coward. Mrs Wentworth Brewster, to whom life called and fate beckoned at a bar on the Piccolo Marina. As I recall, all the Italian men flirted shamelessly with her, which she found thrilling, and she refused to come home even when her (in her words) la-di-bloody-da family begged her to.

  I wonder if anyone will beg me to come home? thought Darrell.

  Marcus said, ‘I’d planned to head straight back to my apartment. Unless you have another preference?’

  Darrell’s reply, a shake of her head, prompted Marcus to reach out a hand and gently squeeze hers, which were clasped together on her lap, fingers kneading, as if she were cold.

  ‘You know, I’m not expecting anything,’ he said to her. ‘I know what I want, but I’m not expecting it. My intention is only to provide a friendly ear and place for you to gather your thoughts. What you choose to do then is wholly up to you. I won’t try to influence you one way or another.’

  Darrell looked across and was met by his reassuring smile.

  ‘Why not?’ she said after a moment.

  Marcus’ mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘Well, er,’ he began, ‘because that’s what I’ve always been led to believe a gentleman should do. Not that I’m a … oh, sod it,’ he frowned at her. ‘What are you saying? Do you want me to bend you to my will?’

  ‘No,’ Darrell said. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I only know that where I am right now, I can’t think straight. I feel like I need something real, concrete, to react to, rather than just a bunch of waffly emotions. I’m sorry,’ she said to him. ‘That sounds as if I’m using you. I don’t want it to be that, either.’

  ‘In that case, I will tell you what I want,’ said Marcus, ‘because that is as firm as Portland cement in my mind.’

  Quickly, he added, ‘And let me restate, just as firmly, that I do not expect anything from you in return. Having no expectations is a most excellent strategy to avoid disappointment and, as an added bonus, it heightens the pleasure of what you do receive. Everything is a nice surprise, you see.’

  ‘What if isn’t, though?’ said Darrell. ‘What if the surprise is nasty?’

  Marcus smiled at her. ‘You’d be amazed at how little that happens to me,’ he said. ‘Recent employment blip excepted, my adult life has thus far been highly entertaining. My theory is that when you have no expectations, the coin is much more likely to fall on the positive side. If you start imagining scenarios, you’re almost duty-bound to imagine negative ones, and if you give any kind of darkness an inch, it takes a mile, and permeates like a noxious fog. Then you are, in the euphonious Hibernian syllables of Private Fraser in Dad’s Army, doomed.’

  The buoyancy of his optimism filled Darrell with both gratitude and affection.

  That’s why I adore him, she thought. He makes me believe that there’s no reason why everything can’t turn out for the best.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Marcus, pulling up to the
garage gates of the apartment complex. ‘My — thanks to, er, recent events — significantly more sweet home. For a little longer, at least.’

  ‘Has Gus told you when she’s coming back?’

  Marcus lowered his window and pressed a number code on a keypad. ‘No, and she won’t,’ he said as they drove through the slowly opening gates. ‘She’ll turn up when she pleases and, depending on her mood, boot me out or invite me clubbing.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not that fond of your sister,’ said Darrell. ‘Sorry, but if we’re about to bare all, confessionally speaking, then you should probably know that.’

  Manoeuvring into the parking space, Marcus was silent, and Darrell winced, worried that he was offended. But the look he gave her, once he’d set the handbrake, was one of wry amusement.

  ‘I am my sister’s best friend,’ he said, ‘due solely to the fact that no one else can tolerate her for more than five minutes. One of these days, when she is older, less beautiful and lacking the energy for such flagrant promiscuity, she may begin to see an advantage in being less selfish and demanding. But until that day, she will continue to be a prize bitch. I’m not at all surprised that you don’t like her.’

  Overtaken by another rush of gratitude, Darrell leaned over and kissed his cheek. With a swift movement, Marcus caught her face with his hand, and kissed her in return, but in this case, fully and firmly on the mouth. The little voice in Darrell’s mind told her that she should not let him, but it was instantly crushed under a stampede of hormones, emitting Zulu-warrior-like ululations of desire. When his tongue touched hers, a hint of the cacophony inside her must have escaped, because Marcus broke the kiss and sat back.

  ‘Not a good start,’ he said. ‘A pretty clear indication of what I want, but if this is to work, and I am genuinely to help you, then I strongly feel we should be pure as the driven. I’ll consent to patting you on the back if you need consoling, but otherwise, no touching. Not even a friendly hug. Agreed?’

  Darrell had to wait until the last of the stampede disappeared over the horizon before she trusted herself to answer.

  ‘Agreed,’ she said.

  ‘I may regret that,’ he said with a grimace. ‘But come on, grab the bairn and let us away. You proceed to the couch, and I’ll fetch a notebook and pencil. You’ll have to imagine the round spectacles and goatee beard.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Darrell. ‘Really. I’m not sure how I’ll ever repay you.’

  Marcus gave a shout of laughter. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is precisely the sort of scenario I do allow myself to imagine!’

  When Charlotte handed over the address on a piece of notepaper, Anselo’s first reaction was to crumple it in his hand and throw it, as hard as he could, towards the lake. He stared down the mossy boat ramp at the paper bobbing on the water, his back to everyone, sensing all eyes upon him.

  I am judged and found wanting, he thought. And what’s new? She’s done it again, chosen another man over me. I’d better just accept that my fate is to wait at the back, holding up my triangle, until the conductor decides he wants that small, insignificant piece of comedy punctuation.

  Anselo felt a hand on his shoulder. Patrick’s.

  ‘How about you and me go inside and have a bowler?’ the older man said.

  A chat with Patrick, Anselo thought. If we were back home, it’d be Jenico sitting me down, telling me why it’s all my fault, listing everything I’ve done wrong. I don’t need to hear any of that spoken out loud. My head is full of it already, a Greek chorus of all my female relatives in righteous uproar, with Granny Herne up front, making the sign of the hex.

  ‘What’s the point?’ Anselo said. ‘I should just go and pack.’

  ‘Get out the curvy sword, you mean?’ Aishe had come up on his other side.

  ‘She—’ Anselo checked himself, ‘Darrell has run off with her ex-boyfriend. My wife has left me for another man. What exactly is ambiguous about my position here?’

  ‘Do we know that for certain?’ said Aishe. ‘Perhaps she just needed someone to talk to?’

  ‘Talk,’ Anselo said. ‘Right.’

  ‘You got a lot off your chest this morning,’ said Aishe. ‘A veritable landslide of crapola. Who’s to say Darrell’s not unburdening as we speak? I mean, it’s not like she could talk to you, is it?’

  Anselo was silent.

  ‘Go inside with Patrick,’ said Aishe. ‘It’s easier to moan about women to another guy. And he’ll let you get away with more macho posturing than I ever would. Who knows? Between you, you might be able to get halfway towards sorting some of this shit.’

  ‘This study smells like teenage boy,’ said Patrick. ‘And after only two days. Amazing.’

  There were only two places to sit in the study: the divan that had recently doubled as Gulliver’s bed, and an old leather office chair. Patrick took the chair.

  Good choice, thought Anselo. There’ll be only one reason why Gulliver left the campervan to come here, so I’ll just pull the covers up on this divan and not look too closely at the sheets beneath. Anselo remembered how stealthy he’d been in his own teenage years, but whether that had been to avoid his mother’s recriminations about extra laundry, or because he’d felt ashamed, he could not say.

  Shame, he decided. It seems to have been a popular motif throughout my life.

  Protesting squeaks told Anselo, without looking, that Patrick was now swivelling in the old chair, slowly, back and forth. Anselo braced himself.

  Here it comes, he thought. The unfurling of my scroll of failure.

  But Patrick said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been a right elephant.’

  Elephant? Anselo had to think. Oh yeah, Elephant and Castle. Arsehole.

  ‘I should have paid more attention to what was going on with you and Darrell,’ Patrick went on, ‘instead of letting myself get sucked down into the tar pit of self-pity.’

  Anselo screwed up his mouth. ‘Can’t say as I’ve been much better. I don’t even recall asking how you were after Clare left.’

  The two men stared at each other.

  ‘Some holiday this has been,’ said Patrick. ‘We’d have had more fun if the plane had fucking crashed.’

  Anselo managed a grin, and then propped his elbows on his knees, and briefly hung his head. With a deep breath, he sat up again and looked across at his cousin.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop being angry.’

  ‘Angry at Darrell?’ said Patrick.

  Anselo nodded. Then immediately frowned, and shook his head. ‘She’s the focus of it, but I know she’s not the cause. The cause is in me, but every time I look inside, I see something I despise, but which I have no clue how to fix. I don’t like who I am, I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know how to be. And I can’t deal with any of it — simple fact. Which is why I’m always so fucking angry.’

  ‘That’s honest,’ said Patrick. ‘Being honest with yourself is a good start.’

  ‘Points for me,’ said Anselo with bitterness. ‘But if that’s as far as I get, then I’ll be out of the game in no time. Relegated all the way down the league tables to Huddersfield and District Works and Combination.’

  ‘Well, try this,’ said Patrick after a moment. ‘What do you think you want?’

  Jesus, thought Anselo. How many times have I asked myself that question?

  Anselo got up from the divan and moved to the window. He pressed his fist against the glossy white wooden frame, and stared out, down onto the lake that sparkled blue and silver, serene and barely troubled by waves, as it had since the day they arrived. There was a rowing boat below, bobbing twenty feet from the stone wall that marked the lake edge. In it were two old men and a young boy — perhaps eight years old, thought Anselo. They were threading bait on hooks, the older men showing the boy how to do it, warning him, Anselo imagined, not to prick his fingers. The trio were smiling and relaxed, even the boy, who had a lean wiriness that suggested he was constantly on the
move.

  They enjoy being together, thought Anselo. They are easy in each other’s company.

  What do I want? he thought. I want to be acknowledged — not taken for granted, sidelined or ignored. I want respect. I don’t want to be some two-bit Gypsy pleb who will never amount to anything. I want to be at ease with myself. I want to be able to live and love generously and openly, and be loved that way in return. Above all, Anselo thought, I want feel like I’m a real father to my son. I don’t want to be some shadowy figure forever in the background of his life.

  How many times, he thought, have I come up with that answer? And has it, even once, seemed less than impossible to attain?

  ‘Any thoughts?’ said Patrick.

  Anselo gave a short laugh, and turned from the window.

  ‘Truthfully?’ he said. ‘My main thought is that I’d give anything to be more like you.’

  ‘You’re fucking kidding,’ said Patrick, astonished. ‘For fuck’s sake — why?’

  Anselo felt colour rise in his face. Oh well, he thought, this has been a day of humiliation from start to finish. Why stop now?

  ‘Because you’re in control,’ he said quickly. ‘You have power. You know how to make people do what you want.’

  Patrick stared at him for a beat well past comfort. His expression was hard to read, but Anselo was convinced he saw pity there.

  ‘Do you still love Darrell?’ Patrick asked.

  The question put Anselo immediately on the defensive. What’s that got to do with it? he thought.

  ‘I’d say it’s pretty clear that she no longer loves me,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not asking her what she feels,’ said Patrick.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ Anselo yelled. ‘I have no control over what she does! That’s my whole point! I have no control over anyone!’

  The look Patrick gave his younger cousin this time was kind.

  ‘I can categorically state that I love Clare,’ Patrick said, ‘love her with all my heart. And if I get the chance, I’ll own my part in creating this mess, and I’ll apologise for it. Then it’ll be over to Clare, and if she decides against me, I’ll have to suck it up.’