The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘You’d give up?’ Anselo frowned. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘It’s not a question of giving up!’ said Patrick, exasperated. ‘I’ll be honest; I’ll state my case. I may even fucking beg. It’s a question of acknowledging that Clare is her own person, with her own feelings and her own mind!’

  The chair creaked as he sank his head forward and ran a hand over it.

  ‘My major fuck-up was forgetting that,’ he said. ‘I rode roughshod over Clare for my own ends, my own ego, and I paid the price. And now, no matter what how much I might want it, I can’t force her to be with me. Can’t force her to love me.’

  ‘Why not?’ Anselo said. ‘You’ve made people do what you want for years.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Patrick sat up straight. ‘What I’ve done is been clear about what I wanted and then held my ground. It was always up to them to decide how they’d react to that. If they’d decided to say no, I could never have forced them to change their minds. Mostly, they didn’t. But that was their choice, not mine.’

  He looked Anselo right in the eye. ‘This is my point. The only person I can, and should, have any control over,’ he said, ‘is me.’

  Anselo had to look away, back out the window. His heart was beating oddly, and he had a strange sensation of disconnectedness, as if he’d suddenly discovered that he’d been looking at the world upside down all his life.

  Patrick’s hand on his shoulder made him jump. He had not heard the older man get up.

  ‘It took me years to work that out,’ Patrick said to him. ‘Fucking years. When I was young, I thought I could do anything I wanted, and I thought it was perfectly OK to bully people into doing it with me. I figured they agreed because they liked me, or because they were afraid of me, and I didn’t much care which. Took me years to work out they agreed because they were afraid of what others might think of them. They were afraid that if someone else thought they were a pansy or a wimp, then that’s what they were. They didn’t have the bottle to stand their own ground, and decide for themselves what kind of men they ought to be.’

  Patrick gave Anselo’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘I lost Clare because I lost sight of the man I’d decided to be. I’m not all that fucking sure I can get him back, to be honest, but I’m prepared to put in the yards.’

  ‘But I don’t know what kind of man I need to be,’ Anselo said in despair. ‘I have absolutely no fucking idea.’

  A rap on the door startled them both. As they turned, Aishe entered.

  ‘At the risk of sounding like Suzy Smug-Bitch,’ she said, ‘it seems I was right about Darrell. We just got a call from a Marcus Reynolds, who says he’s driving over from Como to bring your wife back home. They’ll be here around seven.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ murmured Anselo to Patrick. ‘I’ve got just under an hour to finally get that idea nailed.’

  34

  Charlotte was convinced she must have committed some truly heinous acts in a past life. Why else would God be punishing me in such a fashion? she thought. The only time I recall feeling such a heightened level of exasperation, she thought, was when I was a child, bobbing for apples — a pointless and sadistic exercise at the best of times, undoubtedly devised by the kind of joker who thinks it’s hilarious to watch people fall downstairs. I remember that no matter how wide I opened my mouth, I could never get a grip on their shiny little Pippin surfaces. Every time I thought I had one, it scooted away from me, humming a taunting little Pippin ditty. All I achieved was a face both soaked with cold water and boiled red with exertion and humiliation.

  And I was so close! I’d spent the whole drive working up the nerve to broach the subject, she thought, and when I did, he was surprised, but his only real objection was that it would not be good for me! An objection I could have easily overcome, thought Charlotte, if God had not seen fit to assume an ex machina role and contrive a ridiculous and distracting plot twist.

  Curse Darrell and her attention-seeking absconding, thought Charlotte. Curse her husband for being so emotionally half-baked as to require counselling. For hours, thought Charlotte. By the man I had so very nearly persuaded to let me move in with him.

  And now, thought Charlotte, curse Darrell again for her equally dramatic re-entrance, escorted by the man who had assured me that he would leave her alone! I suppose I should feel grateful that Darrell and Anselo appear to be reconciling, but I feel that for every step forward I take, circumstances, aka Patrick’s family members, then conspire to propel me nine steps backwards. It is impossible!

  Despite feeling aggravated, Charlotte had to admit that she was intrigued to witness the sundered pair’s reunion. It had been decided that this should occur in the garden, possibly, thought Charlotte, because there were fewer things to break there if a fight erupted.

  She hadn’t seen much at the onset, because the family had crowded her out of the front row. But being forced to hang back had meant she’d been the only one in a position to overhear the brief conversation that occurred when Marcus beckoned to Anselo, and the two men had left the group on the lawn, and moved closer to the loggia.

  Anselo, Charlotte had seen by the rigidity of his posture, resented being summoned with every fibre of his being, and was now fully on the defensive. As it turned out, the men’s conversation had been brief and entirely one-sided.

  Marcus had said, ‘She thinks the breakdown of your marriage is all her fault, which, as you and I both know, is balls. She also wants to make it work with you, which I think is admirable, but not so admirable that I intend to bow out of the picture completely. Just so we’re clear.’

  Then he’d added, ‘And if you ever again threaten her with separation from her child, then I will not hesitate to have you killed. Again, just so we’re clear.’

  Charlotte had been so sure that Marcus was about to receive a slamming right hook to the jaw, that her mouth had actually dropped open with surprise when all Anselo did was nod once, curtly, and then walk away, back to the group. Charlotte had watched him put his hand on Darrell’s shoulder and, in answer to her entreating look, lead her gently back inside.

  This had caused a barrage of debate amongst those remaining, which Patrick had quelled by proposing, loudly, that they all bugger off to the pizzeria in the village, where they should proceed to order a mountain of food and a bucket of alcohol. Some in the group had demurred until Patrick had added the magic words, ‘My shout’, and everyone had bundled immediately back into the villa to get ready.

  Everyone except Charlotte, who’d decided that if they hadn’t noticed her absence, she did not intend to remind them.

  I don’t think I can cope with proximity to Patrick right now, she thought. All I’ll want to do is re-open our conversation, and I can hardly do that with a dozen flapping ears around me. Frustration, she decided, thy name is currently spelled with two fs, as in Fforbes.

  The smell of cigarette smoke brought her attention to the fact she was not alone. Marcus had retreated to the far end of the loggia and was leaning against one of the supports. He was slouching, one hand shoved in his front trouser pocket, and smoking at speed — all of which suggested to Charlotte that he was not as composed as he’d appeared during his speech to Anselo.

  Charlotte’s footfall on the path made his head jerk around, and when he saw who it was, his mouth twitched in a brief, sheepish sort of smile.

  ‘I’ll have one more cigarette,’ he said, ‘and then I shall ride off into the sunset.’

  ‘You are far too treacherous to be pegged as the hero,’ said Charlotte. ‘You made me a promise!’

  ‘I think if you replay our conversation,’ said Marcus, ‘you’ll find I did no such thing. And I think you will also find,’ he added, with heat, ‘that I have been as self-sacrificing a hero as ever graced the pages of legend! I have lain prostrate on the altar, and offered myself willingly for the greater good!’

  Charlotte watched him tug a rather squashed packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, and proceed to light his
next with his current one, the butt of which he then dropped on the path and ground, with some force, under his heel.

  ‘I have been the very pink of politeness,’ he added, ‘and the pineapple of perfection. I’ve never behaved so bloody well in my life. It’s astonishing what love will make you do. Real love, that is.’

  Charlotte kept quiet, not trusting herself to comment.

  Marcus drew on the cigarette and blew smoke slowly into the evening air before replying.

  ‘I thought I’d been in love before,’ he said, ‘but on reflection, I suspect it was infatuation rather than the real thing. No better than a gigantic, all-consuming schoolboy crush, except with more inventive and proficient sex.’

  Charlotte had a sudden vision of amaretti biscuits and had to close her eyes and breathe deeply for a moment or two.

  ‘This experience has been very different,’ Marcus said. ‘And it’s been sheer hell to boot. My God, the frustration of wanting something that badly and being unable to have it!’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Charlotte could not help herself. ‘Tell me about it.’

  Marcus proceeded to take that as literal instruction. Charlotte, after weighing the options and concluding that she had nothing better to do, resigned herself to being the ear into which Marcus intended to vent.

  I might as well be a garden statue for all he cares, she thought, but it’s a rare opportunity to enjoy a little Schadenfreude, so I might as well make the most of it.

  ‘For the first time,’ said Marcus, ‘I could see myself as a man with something to offer besides an aptitude and willingness for shameless coupling. I could see myself as a provider and a protector — a husband, a father — and for the first time ever in my entire life, I absolutely bloody craved it. Of course,’ he waved the cigarette around, ‘right now I have no home and no visible means of support, but I could see that those would only be temporary obstacles. I could see, and so clearly that I could almost smell it—’

  He paused. ‘You’ll laugh at this.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Charlotte. ‘My capacity for mirth is currently at an all-time low.’

  ‘I could see us all,’ Marcus continued, as if Charlotte had not spoken, ‘Darrell, Cosmo and I, in a little cottage in the country. Darrell upstairs, in a room that looked out over the fields, writing away, and Cosmo and I out in the garden doing … well, whatever one does in a garden. I could see a small farm, a few sheep and cows. I could see myself being very happy indeed.’

  ‘Forgive me for bursting your bucolic bubble,’ said Charlotte, ‘but a few sheep and cows do not constitute a visible means of support, no matter what Beatrix Potter has to say on the matter.’

  ‘I don’t think she wrote about sheep and cows, did she?’ said Marcus. ‘I thought bunny rabbits and mousekins were more her line?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Charlotte heavily. ‘My critical faculties are likewise at an all-time low.’

  Marcus exhaled a contemplative drift of smoke and stared at her, until Charlotte began to wish that he wouldn’t.

  ‘I’ve been a bit of a cad with you, haven’t I?’ he said eventually.

  ‘A cad?’ said Charlotte. ‘Does anyone use that term in a non-satirical manner these days?’

  ‘And a bounder,’ said Marcus, undeterred. ‘I let you clean my flat, when I should have hired a daily weeks back. And I gave you the brush-off that morning I came bearing eggs. I’ve been rude. I apologise.’

  ‘You’ve been experiencing your first real love,’ said Charlotte, ‘and I can attest that it doesn’t do much for one’s ability to care about anyone else except the object.’

  ‘If I’m to tip the karmic scales in my favour, I need to earn some merit,’ said Marcus. ‘So hey nonny nonny, no more caddishness for me. Time to have both feet on either sea or shore, and be constant to one thing ever.’

  Charlotte frowned. ‘Do I interpret that to mean that you’re not giving up on Darrell?’

  ‘Due to my newly minted desire to behave well, I will back off for the time being,’ said Marcus. ‘However, instinct tells me that this union will continue on shaky ground, so I will keep watch from afar, and if I perceive so much as a hairline fracture, I will be in like Flynn to restate my case and, if necessary, go down on one knee and beg.’

  With one last drag, he dropped the second cigarette on the path and stubbed it out with his toe.

  ‘I’d best go now,’ he said, ‘before the mob returns with the tar and feathers.’

  Smiling, Marcus stepped in front her.

  ‘Thank you for listening, Charlotte Fforbes,’ he said. ‘And take care of yourself. Not that you aren’t doing a sterling job of that already.’

  Then he cupped her cheek and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Any distaste Charlotte may have had for the smell of nicotine was overridden by a buzz of desire, sharp as a static shock. But the kiss was over — more’s the pity, thought Charlotte — in a second.

  ‘You’ll pick those up before you go,’ said a voice behind Marcus.

  How does he do that? thought Charlotte crossly. For such a big man, Ned covers the ground as soundlessly as a tiger.

  Ned pointed at the two cigarette butts on the path. ‘Pick those up,’ he said.

  Marcus was standing straight, facing him. ‘And who are you, precisely?’ He glanced enquiringly at Charlotte, who had also moved forward. ‘Who is he? A giant-sized Uncle Bulgaria? Scourge of litterbugs the world over?’

  ‘This is Ned,’ said Charlotte. ‘He’s the gardener. And I will pick up the butts,’ she added. ‘Don’t start!’ she ordered Ned, who had begun to protest. ‘I’ve had quite enough drama for one day.’

  She made a shooing motion with her hand at Marcus. ‘Go!’ she said. ‘Arrivederci!’

  Marcus directed a frown at Ned. ‘Is he safe off the leash like this?’

  ‘Yes!’ Charlotte said. ‘Go! Pronto!’

  And to her relief, Marcus went.

  ‘Must you always clash antlers like that?’ she said to Ned. ‘There is such a thing as a civilised request, you know! It does not have to be accompanied by bellowing and pawing of the ground!’

  ‘He kissed tha,’ said Ned, put out.

  ‘He kissed me goodbye!’ said Charlotte. ‘Even Italian men kiss each other goodbye!’

  For the first time, she noticed that he was not in his overalls, but in the ochre-coloured trousers and dark-blue shirt — his good clothes, Charlotte observed.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ she said briskly. ‘Do you have a date?’

  ‘Course not.’ Ned shook his head, with an irritated frown. ‘Who in hell would I be dating?’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, holiday season is over.’ Charlotte stooped and picked up the two cigarette butts. She looked around for somewhere to put them, and began to walk towards the table on the lawn. Charlotte dropped the butts on the table and, with a grimace of distaste, wiped her hand on her skirt. The pink dress needed cleaning anyway, she reasoned. Besides, they’d be back in England in three days, and a London September was unlikely to be anywhere near as balmy.

  She felt the touch of Ned’s calloused hand on her arm.

  ‘Charlotte,’ he said, and something about his tone and his expression made her stop short and stand very still.

  ‘Charlotte, I weren’t going t’ say nowt,’ Ned went on, ‘because what can I, what can you possibly—’

  He halted. Charlotte could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I can’t get this out.’

  Ned had turned his head away, but Charlotte could see his face was tight with stress. She wanted to ask if alcohol would help, as she, personally, had a sudden and strong urge to consume vast amounts of wine. But she had a sense that any comment she made right now would hit a wrong note. So she kept quiet, and waited.

  Ned drew in a breath, and turned back. ‘Charlotte, I want tha t’ stay. Or I want t’ go wi’ tha. I love you.’

  Charlotte had always thought the phrase ‘weak at the knees’ to
be an outmoded, borderline hysterical Victorianism, akin to clasping a delicate hand to one’s brow before swooning. But it happened — her knees refused to hold her up — and she was forced to grab a chair and sit hastily upon it.

  ‘Ned!’ was all she managed.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ he said. ‘I didn’t want t’ spring it on tha, but tha’ll be off in only days and … and I were afraid that if tha’d not had time t’ think about it here wi’ us around, if tha went straight away, then tha’d think twice, and tha’d—’

  ‘Ned, you can’t love me,’ Charlotte said, with mounting urgency. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I can,’ said Ned, bewildered. ‘I do.’

  ‘You don’t know me!’ Charlotte almost yelled. ‘You said so yourself! You’re mistaking sex for love!’

  ‘No.’ Ned was shaking his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Charlotte’s voice was muffled as she buried her face in her hands.

  Above her, she heard a long, slow and slightly ragged exhalation of breath.

  ‘’Tis all right,’ he said. His voice was dulled with resignation and, Charlotte heard plainly, self-loathing. ‘I had hoped, but … seems I were mistaken in that. I don’t blame thee. What do I have that tha could possibly want?’

  ‘Ned, please don’t,’ said Charlotte in despair. ‘You have so much to offer. That’s not the reason I can’t love you. The reason is that I am in love with someone else.’

  Ned gave a sharp hiss.

  He was not expecting that, thought Charlotte. And fair enough, too. I gave him no clue. I’ve not given anyone a clue.

  ‘Why didn’t you say owt before?’ he demanded. ‘Who? Who is it?’

  Charlotte hesitated, the consequences of a decision to answer truthfully vivid in her mind. But he’s been so brave, she thought, and so honest that I feel I owe him the same in return.

  And with a sense that she was pulling the pin on a grenade that she would be unable to throw away, Charlotte told him.