The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘You don’t like the girlfriend?’ I asked him.

  ‘She’s a cow.’

  ‘A fat cow? A selfish cow? An actual cow? Like a Jersey?’

  ‘A stuck-up cow.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘Blonde. Skinny.’

  I hated her already. I was beginning to hate Tyso, too, for his complete inability to give me any information worth a damn.

  ‘What famous woman does she most closely resemble?’

  Tyso furrowed his forehead as he thought. ‘That old chick. The dead one,’ he said eventually.

  The toast popped up. I refrained from throwing it at his head.

  ‘The Princess one,’ he added. ‘Who died in the car crash.’

  ‘Princess Diana?’

  ‘Nah, nah, nah. The old one. In the old movies.’

  I searched my memory. ‘Princess Grace? Grace Kelly?’

  ‘That’s her!’ Tyso snapped his fingers. ‘She looks like her.’

  ‘Good lord …’ I buttered my toast thoughtfully. ‘Is she rich?’

  ‘She’s an architect. Lives in St John’s Wood.’

  I assumed that was Tyso’s idea of a yes.

  Anselo and a well-heeled architect who looked like Grace Kelly. The more I thought about it, the more it failed to compute.

  I made two mugs of tea and handed one to Tyso. ‘Didn’t he want a nice Gypsy lass, then?’

  Tyso made a face. ‘We haven’t been proper Gypsies for years. My granddad said there was serious harassment in the sixties, kicking us off our sites and all that, and my family just got sick of it. We’re didikoi now.’ ‘Diddy-what?’

  ‘Gypsies who don’t live as Romany any more. Didikoi is also what you are if you marry outside the tribes.’

  ‘Like Patrick? Anselo’s cousin?’

  Tyso gave me a knowing grin. ‘He was didikoi before. His mum is Roma but the Kings weren’t. They were Irish Gypsies. Travellers.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Whoa!’ Tyso’s eyes opened wide. ‘Big difference! Travellers are a whole different tribe. Even have their own weird language.’ He gave me the knowing grin again. ‘Us Hernes are proper Gypsies. Patrick King’s family are nothing but pikey tinkers.’

  ‘You snob!’ I accused him. Then I asked, ‘Herne? Is that Anselo’s surname, too?’

  Tyso nodded. ‘His dad and my dad were first cousins. His aunt is Patrick King’s ma.’

  ‘So even though you don’t live as Gypsies, you still stick together?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tyso’s grin was positively wicked this time. ‘Thick as thieves, us.’

  It occurred to me that, fascinating though this was, I’d been distracted from my original purpose.

  ‘So why don’t you like Anselo’s girlfriend?’ I asked quickly.

  Tyso shrugged. ‘She’s a cow. Likes to dress him up and take him places.’

  The mental pictures this evoked were, quite frankly, disturbing. But before I could ask him to tell me whether he meant Glyndebourne or something out of Eyes Wide Shut, the front door slammed. The dress-ee was here.

  Hastily, Tyso replaced his mug on the bench, jumped into the courtyard and snatched up a hammer. I soon saw why. Anselo’s face was like Alex Ferguson’s on a bad day at Old Trafford. Someone’s head was at risk of connecting with the blunt end of a hurled boot.

  I waylaid him with a smile. Just to see what would happen. ‘Tea?’ I asked brightly.

  He scowled and shook his head, ready to push past me. But then he paused and, seemingly with some effort, met my eye.

  ‘No,’ he said, and added, ‘thanks.’

  ‘Tequila slammer? Semi-nude bar girl optional, of course–’

  I saw the corner of his mouth rise ever so faintly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.’

  ‘Maybe later?’

  He studied my face.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Maybe–’

  I could fully understand his uncertainty. I mean, my God – what was I doing? I didn’t want to go for a drink with Anselo; what possessed me …

  Maybe it was nerves? That was Michelle’s fault. I’d messaged her about Claude and the flowers, expecting her to be as over the moon as I was. But she was really quite downbeat about it. Posh people may have good manners, she’d told me, but that doesn’t mean they care. Good manners can be, in fact, a substitute for actual emotional commitment. Well then, how do I find out whether he’s just being polite, I’d demanded? Ask him out again, she’d replied. And be upfront – make sure he knows it’s a real date, and not a play-date like the last one …

  That had to be it. Nerves had temporarily fried my brain, and now I’d dropped myself right in the poop. But Anselo wouldn’t consider it a serious invitation, would he? Not from me. And besides, he had a girlfriend, didn’t he? A rich, beautiful one to boot …

  Anselo’s phone beeped. It was still in his hand. He glanced down at the screen. Then he almost but not quite looked back up at me and said, ‘I have to go somewhere. Later.’

  ‘Understand,’ I nodded. I was relieved, but then again …

  No. No! I didn’t want to go for a drink with Anselo! That was nerves, goddamnit!

  I searched for an excuse to scarper, but Anselo beat me to it by turning his back on me and stepping into the courtyard. As he did, I heard his phone beep again. This time, he didn’t glance at it, but shoved it deep into his toolbox.

  I went to the door and grabbed my coat. There seemed no need to say goodbye, so I didn’t.

  As soon as I entered the café, I spotted a man in the smoking section. For an instant, I was on high alert. But, of course, it wasn’t Big Man. How could it be? It was far too early for him to be out of hospital. And this man was far too well dressed. He was wearing an extremely nice mid-length grey wool coat with a herringbone pattern. His trousers were a darker grey, and he had, I noticed, one highly polished black brogue propped casually and somewhat arrogantly on the neighbouring table’s chair. He was sitting in the far corner angled away from me, cigarette in one hand, phone in the other. His hair was dark and touched his collar, but I could not see his face.

  To be honest, confronting Big Man would have been the least of my worries. I had no clue what to say to Claude. Should I say anything at all? Let’s face it, it would be a whole lot easier and less potentially humiliating if I let him make the next move.

  Claude had seen me come in, and was rising to pull out a chair for me. I took a moment to study his face – was he happy to see me? – but I couldn’t see anything past his usual pleasant, bland courteousness. Perhaps that was what he was always like with women? Perhaps that was as demonstrative as he got? I had a sudden vision of what Tom would be doing if it were him I was meeting. Well, for starters he wouldn’t be pulling out a chair for me. Not because he was a rude bastard, you understand, but because he always saw us as equals. If there were stuff to be carried, we’d both do it. Whoever went through a door first held it open for the other. No, Tom wouldn’t have offered me a chair – but he would be standing, so that as soon as I got close enough, he could hug and kiss me soundly, no matter where we were or who was looking.

  All Claude touched was the back of my chair. But he was smiling at me. That was something, I suppose.

  As I sat down, I peeped over at Miss Flaky. She had her head in a magazine this time. It was about natural health. I swear there was a headline on the cover that suggested it was beneficial to drink your own wee.

  I glanced back to see that Claude’s gaze had also been drawn in that direction. Miss Flaky’s eyes stayed on her magazine, but I saw her straighten her spine just a fraction – and I knew she knew that he was looking.

  And then Claude became aware that I knew he was looking, and he turned back to me with a quick smile.

  ‘Well–’ he said, lifting his cup, as if in salute. ‘Another juncture in the quotidian progression of our lives. Another coffee spoon to measure by.’

  I have to say, a s
uitable response didn’t leap instantly to mind. But, mercifully, he went on: ‘Thank you for the other day. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said hastily. ‘I should have thanked you yesterday, but I, um, had something I had to do …’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ he replied. ‘We must do it again some time.’

  I waited a fraction, but it was clear no more concrete invitation was about to be issued. Michelle’s warning about politeness flashed annoyingly in my mind, and I knew she was right. If I did not ask – clearly and unambiguously – for a date, then I might not get one. I’d be left with nothing but a lingering waft of something vaguely pleasant as good manners swept on by me and vanished up the street.

  I was girding up my nerve when a voice right behind us made me jump. ‘Am I interrupting something? Or is that too much to hope for?’

  The chair beside me was pulled out and down into it thumped a man. I registered a hint of herringbone and a whiff of nicotine. And then I saw his face.

  I was still staring when I realised someone at the table was speaking. It was Claude. But ‘–meet Darrell’ was all I caught before he stopped.

  Claude had introduced me, and I had not heard a word. This was bad.

  The face was smiling. It was a smile that suggested he knew exactly how furiously my brain was churning.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  His voice was lazy, amused. He was laughing at me.

  It was a fair call. I do not think I have ever been as gobsmacked as I was at that moment. I could not speak but neither could I shut my mouth. I was less goldfish and more one of those clowns in an arcade, mouth fixed shock-wide open on a slowly rotating head. It was tragic.

  In my defence, you weren’t there and you didn’t see him. It was as if all my book hero types – yes, all right, all two of them – had risen from the page and merged into one ultimate, superlative hero type. He was Pierce Owen. Clive Brosnan. Owen Peirsnan. Brice – well, you get the picture. He was about thirty-five, fair-skinned and hazel-eyed. He had a classic handsomeness that was only enhanced by a slight pugilistic twist to his nose and mouth. You could picture him posing for a painter of Greek vases, wearing nothing but sandals and a dead lion. But it wasn’t his looks as much as the presence of him that was creating all the havoc within me. He throbbed, pulsated with sexual energy. I could see now why certain actors really had what it took to mesmerise audiences. Just like with Polly in Nancy Mitford’s Love in a Cold Climate, with him you were simply compelled to gaze and gaze. Which I was doing. With a humiliating and comprehensive lack of subtlety.

  ‘Your espresso, signor.’ Mario placed a cup and saucer in front of him.

  ‘Mario,’ said Claude. ‘This is my brother, Marcus.’

  ‘Ah!’ beamed Mario and spread his hands wide. ‘Fratello. Welcome. Whatever you need, you ask.’

  And he bustled off to tend the counter.

  Marcus grinned at his brother. ‘Can he get me a gram of cocaine and have somebody whacked?’

  ‘Don’t be a vulgar bigot.’

  ‘Don’t be a humourless git.’

  I watched him rip the top off one sachet of sugar and then two more, and dump the contents into his small cup of coffee. The men’s brief interchange had been enough for me to sweep my scrambled thoughts into a rough heap. They weren’t ordered, but they were at least in one place, instead of pinging off all four corners of my brain.

  Claude’s brother. Marcus. My goodness. Not what I had expected at all. I mean, they were so completely unalike. Colouring, features and, above all, the fact that beside his brother, Claude exuded all the wattage of a fridge light. Then again, it wasn’t really fair to compare them on that score; if sexual energy could be harnessed, the younger Perfect could power a mid-sized European nation.

  God – he was looking at me again. And he was still grinning.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘your name is Darrell. Was there an error at the hospital? Did your parents receive the wrong child and decide to make the best of it?’

  What could I do but reply? Well, I could sit there like a retard, I suppose, but that didn’t seem like the best option. Easiest, yes. Best, not really. I prayed my voice wouldn’t come out all high and squeaky …

  ‘I have no idea why my parents named me Darrell. It could be worse. They could have named me Nigel.’

  He laughed! I did a little mental hoppity-skip of relief. Not only had I not squeaked, I’d actually managed to crack a joke! Nice one, me!

  Marcus slid a glance at his brother. ‘Yes, I’m always grateful that our father didn’t choose to afflict me with a humorous handle. As he did Claudius here.’

  I blinked at Claude, surprised. ‘Are you really Claudius?’

  Claude gave me a resigned smile. ‘Our father considered himself something of a Latin scholar. I suppose it, too, could have been worse. I could have been Horatio.’

  ‘Or Pontius,’ said Marcus.

  ‘Or Tiberius,’ I contributed.

  ‘Our sister is Augusta,’ said Marcus. He drained his coffee and smacked the cup back onto the saucer. ‘No wonder she became a dyke.’

  ‘Marcus–’

  Claude’s voice held a warning tone. I wasn’t exactly sure why. Did he object to the crudeness of the term dyke? Would ‘daughter of Sappho’ be more to his taste?

  Marcus rolled his eyes at me. ‘Claudie gets in a bit of a lather when I rattle the family skeletons in public.’

  ‘I do not feel that’s unreasonable–’ Claude retorted.

  ‘Despite the fact that as regards our family,’ Marcus continued, ‘not a single person on this planet gives a flying fuck.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point,’ said his brother.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘It isn’t. No. The point is that I am entitled to my personal privacy, and if I choose to favour discretion, then you should respect that.’

  ‘And what if I choose the opposite? Do I get any respect in return?’

  Claude clicked his tongue, irritated. ‘You invariably choose the opposite. For every stance I take, it’s inevitable that you will assume a contrary position.’

  Marcus paused. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  Then he burst out laughing.

  His brother did not join him. Noting the lemony expression, Marcus added, ‘Oh come on, Claudie! Lighten up, for Christ’s sake! That was quite a passable joke!’

  He turned to me. ‘You smiled. I saw you.’

  My eyes shifted guiltily towards Claude. ‘Um …’

  Marcus grinned. ‘Don’t panic. I won’t make you choose sides. You can stay on Team Claudie. It’s certainly safer.’

  I glanced at Claude but he was avoiding my eye. Suddenly, I resented Marcus’ presence. I would have no chance now to ask Claude anything, let alone something as personal as – would he like to go out with me? And I resented the ‘safer’ remark, too. I mean, that wasn’t a bad thing, was it? I decided that the younger Perfect was, let’s face it, a bit of an arrogant arse.

  The arse was leaning back in his chair and surveying the interior of the café. I saw his eye light upon Miss Flaky. As he watched her, he shifted from interest to disbelief.

  ‘Dear God,’ he said, making no attempt to lower his voice. ‘Why on earth does a woman that good looking wear clothes that appalling?’

  Miss Flaky didn’t raise her eyes even a millimetre. But in steely tones, she said, ‘I can hear you.’

  Claude shifted in his chair to face her. ‘I must apol–’ he began.

  Marcus overrode him. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m a rude bastard. But covering up looks like yours in those unflattering rags is, quite frankly, a crime. Am I to excuse it on religious grounds?’

  Slowly and deliberately, Miss Flaky closed her magazine. She bent to pick up her bag, then rose from her chair, and started to walk towards the door. At our table, though, she halted. She looked Marcus right in the eye and, after a pointed, unsmiling pause, said, ‘I don’t dress for the likes of you.’

  Wit
hout missing a beat, Marcus said, ‘As it happens, I’d much prefer it if you undressed for me.’

  Miss Flaky’s head jerked backwards. But oddly, it was Claude she turned on.

  ‘You should keep your creatures on a shorter leash,’ she spat. ‘Or better still, under a bigger rock. So they can’t crawl out.’

  Claude shot out of his chair. ‘I am so–’

  She didn’t stay to listen. She wheeled around and stalked out the door, her blanket skirt swishing and snapping around her feet.

  Claude remained standing, staring after her, his usually ramrod-straight figure sagging a little in the aftershock.

  After what seemed an age, he looked down at his brother, who had been sitting there throughout, smirking with amusement.

  ‘You complete shit,’ Claude said to him. ‘You absolutely contemptible excuse for a human being.’

  Marcus gave an astonished laugh. ‘Claudie! You said “shit”!’

  But Claude removed his jacket from the back of the chair, nodded once to me, and walked out without a backwards glance.

  I rose from my chair, but Marcus said, ‘Don’t bother.’

  I glared at him. ‘Why not?’

  Marcus looked up at me. ‘He’ll be fine. In fact, he loves this sort of thing. Any excuse to fuck off on his own.’

  He nodded at my chair. ‘Sit back down. Let’s talk.’

  I resented his tone, but I couldn’t deny that his invitation had appeal. He was an arse, but he was still also very much Pierce and Clive. Pierce Arsenan. It was hard to resist.

  Slowly, a little warily, I resumed my chair. ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘Anything. I don’t know … Are you shagging my brother?’

  I did the goldfish again. ‘What–’

  ‘Shagging.’ He pronounced it slowly and distinctly, as if to a backward child. ‘Or, as they say in my beloved new homeland, “parking the beef bus in tuna town”.’

  I had to laugh. ‘That is terrible!’

  ‘Yes, it is. Are you shagging him?’

  ‘No!’ I was blushing, damn him. ‘We’ve only just met!’

  ‘Personally, I’ve never found that to be an obstacle.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘If I’ve just witnessed your pick-up technique, I’m astonished you get any at all.’