The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes

by Catherine Robertson

  35

  Of all the times for Cosmo to be awake, Darrell thought. Not only awake, but alert, watching us, wide-eyed.

  She and Anselo were in their bedroom. The room was large, and in one corner were two armchairs. There was also the spare blanket that Anselo had been sleeping under, and he’d thrown it to one side, hastily, embarrassed. He and Darrell were now sitting facing each other. Although Anselo was barely sitting, thought Darrell. He was right on the edge of his armchair, leaning forward, elbows propped on his thighs, hands clasping and unclasping in the space between his knees. Cosmo was in the bouncinette, at an angle where he could see both of them. Every so often, he gave a little start, and his arms would fly up and he’d bounce on the netting for a few moments. But he stayed silent, his eyes — they’ll definitely be brown like Anselo’s, thought Darrell — round and watchful.

  I thought I had it all worked out, Darrell told herself. I was sure I had it all straight in my mind. But now it’s time to say it, it’s as if someone has stuffed a soft cloth down my throat, making it hard to breathe and impossible to speak. It’s as if we’ve erected so many barriers between us, even without meaning to, that I can’t even reach out and take his hand, even though he’s less than three feet away. I feel paralysed, she thought, but with what? Fear? That I’ll blow this, our best chance? Or that I’ve already blown it, that I blew it months ago?

  A sense of panic drove her to clear her throat. Anselo’s head shot up immediately, his face expectant, but also wary.

  ‘I’m not sure how to start,’ said Darrell, feeling her heart start to pound, ‘so I think I’ll just leap in. I should probably let you interrupt me, ask questions, but I suspect that might derail me completely. I don’t know — what do you think?’

  ‘I think I’ll sit here and listen,’ said Anselo. ‘If I have questions, I’ll ask them later.’

  ‘OK,’ said Darrell, and she took a breath to gather herself. ‘OK, I’ll start here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I kept my pregnancy secret from you, and I’m sorry and so ashamed that I ran away. I was terrified, you see, more terrified than I have ever been in my life of anything, and I’d like to make the excuse that it temporarily deranged me, but I know I had a choice to act as I did. So, really, I have no excuse at all.’

  Darrell put her hands in her lap, and stared down at them, as she twisted her fingers.

  ‘I was terrified that I suddenly had responsibility for a life besides my own. No,’ she frowned, ‘it’s simpler than that. I was terrified that he would die. I was terrified that he would die while I was pregnant, that I’d miscarry, or worse, that he’d die after he was born, from cot death or illness, and that it would be sudden and there’d be nothing I could do to stop it. I could not stop thinking about it, and every time I did, the images in my mind got worse and worse. So I ran away. I ran away to the only place that I’ve ever felt a hundred per cent safe. It sounds ridiculous, I know.’

  She glanced across at Anselo, and he gazed back at her, and shook his head.

  ‘It does,’ said Darrell. ‘It was. I was an idiot. Because do you want to know where I went? I went to the forest, out the back of where we used to live, where there’s a river, and a place beside it where my parents used to take me for picnics. It was — is — the most peaceful, extraordinary place, under the canopy of trees, with the water flowing past, slowly; it’s wide there, the rapids are further on. When I was a child, I imagined that the trees were guardians, peaceful giants, who would not let anything bad enter and harm me.’

  She offered her husband a quick, rueful smile. ‘You know what my imagination’s like. I went back hoping to feel that again, feel safe and protected. But I didn’t really feel safe until you came.’ She glanced at him, tentative this time. ‘Until you came and found me.’

  Anselo had his hands over his mouth, and above them, his eyes were wide — almost aghast, thought Darrell. Oh, God. I’ve blown it. He’s thinking, how the hell could I have run away for such a stupid reason?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m sorry for going, and I’m sorry for not telling you why I went. It drove a huge wedge between us, and that’s all my fault.’

  Her fingers felt cold, even with all the twisting. I feel cold all over, she thought. It’s dread, I suppose. It’s like having my head in a guillotine. The blade is poised above me, and I’m dreading how it will feel when it drops.

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Anselo breathed the words more than spoke them. Then he said, ‘But you’re still terrified, aren’t you? That’s why you stick to him like glue, and hate travelling with him.’

  ‘It’s got better.’ Darrell felt spots of warmth flare on her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been so stupid.’

  ‘No,’ said Anselo. ‘Stop saying that.’

  He hung his head, staring at his clasped fists, and Darrell could almost hear the sound of the blade being released above her.

  Suddenly, he sat up, and said, ‘OK. My turn now. I’m sorry, too. Sorry for being an arsehole and a bully, and for not having the guts to ever ask you straight out about any of this. I made a whole bunch of assumptions, on which I founded a whole bunch of wrong-headed grudges. I used those grudges as an excuse not to take responsibility for how I felt, or for what I was doing to our marriage, and for that I am truly, sincerely sorry.’

  There was a sheen of sweat on his face. This may be the toughest speech he’s made in his life, Darrell thought. I know mine was.

  ‘I want to be able to talk to you about anything and everything,’ he went on. ‘I want to be brave enough to be honest with you, and to hear you be honest with me. I want to be a real father, do my fair share of looking after Cosmo. Be your partner in the true sense of the word—’

  He stared at her, breathing hard.

  ‘Is it too late?’ he said. ‘Have I done too much damage?’

  ‘We did the damage,’ said Darrell. ‘We both let it happen. What a waste. I regret it. I regret it profoundly.’

  ‘Did you sleep with him?’ Anselo blurted it out. ‘Sorry. I had to ask.’

  ‘No,’ Darrell shook her head. ‘I did kiss him. I’m sorry.’

  Anselo nodded. ‘Bastard,’ he said, more to himself. ‘I fucking hate him.’

  ‘I know,’ said Darrell unhappily. ‘I’m—’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Anselo. ‘You have so little to apologise for, compared to what I’ve done to you.’

  Then he said, again, ‘Is it too late?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Darrell. She looked down at Cosmo and smiled. ‘I think we make a pretty good family, don’t you?’

  Anselo reached down and tugged on the end of Cosmo’s big toe. Cosmo’s face lit up with a huge grin, and he cackled, delighted. Anselo broke into a smile of his own.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’d like to think so, too.’

  Patrick sat at the noisy table of friends and relatives, and thought that not long back, he would have loved being here. He would have enjoyed watching Harry and Rosie negotiate for — in Rosie’s case, demand — extra garlic bread and orange drink instead of lemon; enjoyed the banter between Benedict and Gulliver, debating whether or not opera was, in Gulliver’s words, ‘pointless and kind of creepy, the synchronised swimming of the music world’; enjoyed Aishe and Michelle openly assessing the relative sexual attractiveness of Marcus Reynolds and George Clooney, enjoyed Chad’s occasionally successful attempts to get his wife not to speak quite so loudly, his argument being that a few Italians actually did speak English and that a good percentage of what she was describing was still a crime in the eyes of the Vatican. He would have enjoyed being here with Tom, who seemed content lining up the sachets of sugar on the tabletop and chewing thoughtfully on a pizza crust. And, he thought, I would have loved the relaxed bonhomie, or whatever the Italian equivalent is, of the people here, the other families in this pizzeria, all loud and enthusiastic and enjoying each other and this moment in their lives.

  But I can’t enjoy it, he thought, because I don’t have Clare. Gullive
r had once given him a disc of rock bands covering old songs — Faith No More doing ‘I Started a Joke’, and Guns n’ Roses doing that song from the ’fifties, something about not having plans and schemes, or hopes and dreams, or anything, and at the end, Patrick recalled, you can hear Axl Rose saying ‘Yeah, we’re fucked.’ Said it like he meant it, too, thought Patrick.

  He was roused from his thoughts by loud voices just outside the pizzeria’s front door. Sounds like Charlotte, was all he had time to think before he was grabbed by the shirt front by a furious Ned Marsh, hauled from his chair and thumped in the jaw.

  Patrick’s old fighting instincts kicked in, and he managed to duck his head enough to avoid the worst of a blow that, by rights, should have felled him like a tree. Even so, Ned’s fist hit hard, and Patrick staggered, his ears buzzing and small white spots flashing in front of his eyes.

  Blinking them away, Patrick became aware that Ned had been restrained, not only by Chad and Benedict, but also by two of the more strapping young waiters at the pizzeria. The head waiter was in front of Ned, standing on tiptoe to so he could rant right in Ned’s face. Patrick did not have to know Italian to get the gist of what he was saying. Ned was arguing back in equally heated Italian and twisting to try to get out of the grip of the four men who were only just holding him back. Everyone else in the pizzeria had stopped eating and drinking and were now staring, wide-eyed. Including, Patrick observed, Charlotte.

  Patrick could taste blood in his mouth. Gingerly, he ran his hand over his jaw, and his tongue over his teeth. One at least felt loose.

  ‘Ow!’ he said to Ned. ‘That fucking hurt!’

  Ned made another attempt to shake free his arms. ‘Getting soft in your old age, are ye?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I fucking am!’ said Patrick. ‘What the hell was that all about? You been saving it up as a bon voyage gift?’

  ‘Tha fucker,’ said Ned. ‘Tha cunt. Were tha put on Earth just t’ fuck up my life?’

  ‘Is this still about Julie?’ said Patrick, exasperated. ‘Jesus, Ned, I’ll apologise for the fiftieth fucking time. And then I’ll be out of here in three days and you’ll never see me again. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Ned.’ Charlotte had crept forward, and now she stood in the gap between the two men. ‘I know you’re upset, but this really is not the place. There are children here, and good people trying to have a relaxing evening. It is not ringside at Madison Square Gardens.’

  ‘Upset?’ Ned said to her in disbelief. ‘Upset?’

  ‘Charlotte,’ said Patrick. ‘What the fuck is all this about?’

  The head waiter let fly another salvo of Italian, and Ned shot back with ‘Si! Andro!’

  He shook his arms again. ‘Lasciarmi!’ he said to his captors. ‘Leave off! I’m going!’

  ‘Let him go,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘You sure?’ said Chad.

  ‘Yeah, are you sure?’ said Patrick, fingering his jaw. ‘I’m not that keen for another thumping.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Charlotte nodded at the head waiter, who did the same to his two employees, and all four men released their hold.

  Ned flexed his shoulders and Patrick braced himself.

  But all Ned said was, ‘One day, I hope someone takes summat tha love from thee, so tha’ll finally know how bad it fucking feels.’

  And then he turned around, shoved past the four men, and strode out.

  Patrick expelled a relieved breath. His jaw was throbbing and his legs weren’t entirely steady, and he longed to sit down, but—

  ‘Charlotte, what the fuck?’ he said. ‘What was all that about?’

  Her face was drawn and unhappy, and she had difficulty meeting his eye.

  ‘Is there any chance I could explain in private?’ she said.

  Patrick glanced round at the table. Everyone had resumed their seats, but no one was eating. Their attention was fully focused on him and Charlotte. Gulliver had taken Tom onto his lap, and even Patrick’s son was staring. Everyone in the room is staring at us, Patrick observed, after a rapid scan.

  ‘Private’s a fine idea,’ he said to Charlotte. He touched her arm. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘That is so unfair,’ he heard Michelle say, as they walked off.

  But then he heard Rosie’s piercing voice yell, ‘Cun! Fuck!’

  ‘That’s it, Rosie, my girl,’ he murmured. ‘Create a distraction.’

  The pizzeria had a courtyard out front, and Patrick led Charlotte to an empty table in the far corner.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I’m so sorry he hurt you,’ said Charlotte miserably. ‘I tried to stop him.’

  ‘Charlotte,’ said Patrick. ‘Get on with it. My nerves are on enough of a fucking knife-edge as it is.’

  ‘Oh, dear …’ Charlotte beat a light tattoo on the table with her fingertips. ‘Very well. Ned is angry because he is in love with me, but believes me to be in love with you.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘What? Why the fuck would he believe that? Why couldn’t you set him straight?’

  Charlotte could not look at him. ‘Because it’s true,’ she said.

  Like someone fast-rewinding a videotape, Patrick’s mind began to play back incidents and snippets of conversation that on a second viewing proved to have quite a compelling subtext.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. More gently, he added, ‘Charlotte, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘I know,’ said Charlotte. ‘I never wanted you to. I wanted you to fall in love with me without it being obvious that’s what I was trying to bring about.’

  ‘But—’ Patrick felt utterly at a loss. ‘You must have known I wouldn’t. You must have known how much I love Clare — how much I still love her, even if — well, who the fuck knows?’

  Charlotte did look at him now, her mouth set and determined. ‘If you love her that much, then why did you sleep with that other woman?’

  ‘What?’ Patrick said. Making an effort to lower his voice, he added, ‘What bloody other woman? What are you on about?’

  ‘I heard you,’ said Charlotte, ‘having sex with someone in your office! The door was closed but I heard it quite clearly! I am not mistaken!’

  ‘Charlotte.’ Nonplussed, Patrick shook his head. ‘You might have heard it, but it was not me. I swear it!’

  ‘Who else could it be?’ Charlotte demanded. ‘Who else has a key?’

  The same thought struck both of them at once.

  ‘Shit,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Charlotte, and buried her face in her hands.

  36

  Anselo’s expression almost made Patrick reconsider. He looks happier than I’ve seen him in months, thought Patrick. And I’m about to dump a big steaming pile of guilt on him. But I can’t leave it unsaid. It’ll only fester and grow and poison the atmosphere, like black mould behind a damp wall.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ Patrick said to Anselo in the hallway. He pointed. ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘Sure.’ Anselo frowned, faintly puzzled.

  Patrick shut the door to his bedroom and decided there was no point in softening the blow. It would hit hard, no matter how gentle the lead-in.

  ‘Charlotte went back to work one night,’ he said, ‘and heard you at it in my office.’

  When Anselo blanched and began to shake his head, Patrick said, ‘Come on. Who else has a key? You want me to believe Ludmila the cleaner’s running a knocking shop from the premises?’

  ‘Shit.’ Anselo sank down on the bed and put his hands over his mouth.

  He didn’t look happy any more, thought Patrick, and cursed Anselo’s stupidity, and his own inability to leave it alone.

  ‘This a regular thing?’ Patrick said.

  ‘No! God, no! It was just the once, I swear!’

  Patrick had a sudden urge to clip the younger man about the ear. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why else?’ Anselo said bitterly. ‘I wanted to feel like more of a man.’

  ‘You moron,’ said Patrick.

&n
bsp; ‘Yeah,’ said Anselo. ‘I know.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me I’d find her face familiar,’ said Patrick.

  ‘No,’ said Anselo. ‘She was a stranger.’

  ‘Were you careful?’

  Anselo pursed his mouth. ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Patrick. ‘You’re a fucking moron.’

  ‘I know!’ Anselo got off the bed and paced to the window. ‘I get it!’

  Patrick stared at his cousin for a long minute.

  ‘You’ll have to tell her,’ he said.

  Anselo whipped around. ‘No!’

  ‘Anse, you have to,’ said Patrick. ‘You can’t keep this from her. Secrets and guilt will do your head in, later if not sooner. If you really want to make a fresh start, it’s got to be a clean one.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Anselo said, breathless with panic. ‘That’d be the end of us.’

  Patrick moved up to his younger cousin and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ he said. ‘But look, I won’t push it. It’s your call.’

  He gave Anselo’s shoulder a squeeze. If we were Italian, Patrick thought, we’d be hugging. We’d probably be wearing lilac pants and all.

  ‘And as far as I’m concerned,’ Patrick said, ‘this conversation ends here. I won’t ever bring it up again, with anyone. I promise.’

  Anselo’s nod was subdued but grateful. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Come on.’ Patrick gave his shoulder a final squeeze. ‘Let’s go downstairs. Make the most of our last couple of days before the cold flannel of reality slaps us in the boat race once again.’

  In the kitchen, Charlotte, assisted by Benedict, was tidying away mid-morning dishes. Chad was attempting to wipe a squirming Rosie’s face, and Michelle was telling Harry that if he didn’t hurry and finish his biscuit, they would leave for the playground without him. Darrell was on the floor with Cosmo, entertaining him with a rattle. Gulliver was showing Aishe a video on his computer. Flea the dog was under the table, tongue lolling damply.

  Charlotte glanced up as Patrick and Anselo entered. Patrick met her eye and saw doubt flicker on her face. He winked, and she gave him a slightly embarrassed smile. Then she frowned.