‘Irrelevant,’ Michelle had said. ‘We are temporarily free of husbands and children. Well, almost.’ She’d frowned at Cosmo. ‘Such a glorious opportunity happens only once in a blue moon. George would be a fool to miss out and he knows it.’
That was an hour ago. Darrell reached out for a slice of peach and found they were all gone. Breastfeeding makes me constantly hungry, she thought, but I cannot be bothered going back inside to forage for food. Possibly, I also don’t trust that Michelle and Clare would keep an eye on Cosmo. That bottle of wine is almost empty, and I haven’t been able to touch a drop.
Clare said, ‘So what do you think of our Ms Fforbes, Darrell?’
Darrell shrugged. ‘She seems … efficient.’
‘The Final Solution was efficient,’ said Clare. ‘It’s not always an endearing quality.’ She leaned back in the chair and stretched out her legs. ‘You know, I think I preferred Patrick’s last PA, despite the fact she was tragically besotted with him.’
‘My friend’s husband slept with his PA,’ said Michelle. ‘Her name was Brandi, with an “i”. I think that should have been grounds for divorce on its own. But no, my friend stood by her man, bless her simple little cotton socks.’
‘Patrick’s PA was called Janice,’ said Clare. ‘She was fifty-eight, and possibly the last surviving non-ironic wearer of the panty-girdle. She wore low-heeled court shoes and knit suits with ruffled blouses come snow or shine. Her hair looked like she lifted it off at night and put it on the bedside table. She was single and owned a cat called Mr Higgins.’
‘She sounds a bit classy for Patrick, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Michelle. ‘I thought that kind of woman only developed a pash for nice young men like vicars and doctors?’
‘And if she ever heard them use the terms “dogging” and “cottaging” would assume they’re describing a weekend in the country?’ said Clare. ‘Yes, Janice was exactly like that. But I suspect Patrick may have once put his arm around her shoulders, and that was enough to make her repressed hormones fizz up like a sherbet dab.’
‘Did Patrick know how she felt?’ said Darrell.
‘Of course not,’ said Clare. ‘Patrick’s dense as a teak log when it comes to that sort of thing. I practically had to sit on his face to get him to notice me. And to give Janice credit, she hid it well. The dead giveaway was her Christmas presents. She gave him handkerchiefs that she’d monogrammed herself.’
‘How could you tell?’
‘I found an embroidery kit in her desk drawer. The thread was an exact match.’
‘Did you then go and boil a rabbit in her kitchen?’ said Michelle. ‘I ask because snooping to that extent is crazy behaviour, you do know that?’
‘I like to be sure of things,’ said Clare, her mouth set. ‘And besides, all’s fair in love and war.’
‘Not in my world.’ Michelle shook her head. ‘If Chad thought for one second that the balance of power was equal in our relationship, he’d take all sorts of liberties. Like assuming there might be an answer other than “yes” when I ask him to do things.’
‘I’m not sure you’ve fully understood the meaning of the “all’s fair” quotation,’ said Clare. ‘But you’ve got the spirit of it nailed to a letter.’
She lifted the wine bottle and discovered it was empty. ‘Shall I get another?’
‘What’s the time?’ Michelle threw up her hands. ‘Why am I asking that? We’re in Italy! It’s always wine time!’
‘Darrell?’ Clare turned to her.
‘I’m breastfeeding.’ Darrell tried not to look glum, because when she did, as several people had pointed out, her mouth turned into a perfect downward curve, like in a cartoon.
‘Can’t you shoot inside and quickly pump some out?’ said Michelle.
‘In my case, the word “express” doesn’t mean fast,’ said Darrell. ‘More like the pony express after it’s been attacked by Injuns and left in the desert for the vultures.’
‘Bummer,’ said Michelle. ‘Oh well,’ she beamed at Clare, ‘all the more for us!’ She stood up and said, ‘I’ll fetch it. I have an urge to pee almost as bad as when I saw the signed photo of George in the newsagent.’
Darrell felt the usual frisson of anxiety that occurred whenever she was about to be left alone with Clare. She checked Cosmo, hoping for a distraction, but he’d gone to sleep, so she pretended to be studying the view. Which was glorious, Darrell had to admit. The lake shone silvery-blue, its edge an ever-shifting sparkle of light against the dense, solid green of the hills that sloped steeply on all sides. Dotted among the green were little villages, the houses in seashell hues of peach, yellow and terracotta. Spires and bell-towers pointed to the great reward and crown of glory, and the buildings below them, unlike their English cousins, thought Darrell, were full for every service. The closest church had ‘Jesus’ hand-painted above the door. Patrick had wanted to ring the bell and ask if he could come down the pub. Clare said that if Patrick were beaten to death with a thurible and his trussed body tipped into the lake, it would serve him right. She added that if he intended to do his Quasimodo impression every time the bells rang, she’d beat him to death herself.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Darrell turned, on alert, but Clare was smiling, leaning contentedly back in her chair.
‘What happened to Janice?’ Darrell found the courage to ask.
‘Got arthritis and retired early to the Costa Brava,’ said Clare. ‘Probably shagging a tiny nuggety Spaniard whom she insists on calling “Hoo-arn”.’
‘And Patrick hired Charlotte in her place,’ said Darrell.
Clare gave her a sharp look. But before she could speak, there was a rustling about twenty feet away, in the bushes at the edge of the lawn. Something large and dark was moving around in them. Both women sat up.
‘There are no bears in Italy, are there?’ said Clare.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Darrell. ‘Aren’t there some in Germany?’
The rustling figure emerged, and revealed itself as a man. Clare shot to her feet and grabbed the empty wine bottle.
‘Don’t move!’ She brandished the bottle. ‘I can smash this quick as you like!’
The man froze and stuck his hands up in the air. Darrell, who’d been poised to shield Cosmo with her body, registered that he was dressed in brown overalls and carrying a garden fork.
‘Um,’ said Darrell to Clare’s back. ‘I think we’re safe.’
‘What?’ Clare hissed over her shoulder. ‘Why?’
‘Look at him!’ Darrell hissed back. ‘He’s the gardener!’
With obvious irritation, the man in overalls dropped his hands, and jabbed the fork into the lawn. Darrell could see that he was well over six feet tall and broad shouldered. His hair, she saw with interest, was dirty blond, with that sun-streaked straw-like quality common to surfers and Kurt Cobain. Northern Italians, she’d observed, could be taller and fairer than their southern counterparts, so he may have been a native, even though he didn’t look like one.
Clare replaced the wine bottle on the table.
‘Sorry,’ she called out. ‘Don’t sneak up on us next time.’
The man stared, and with a brief, dismissive shake of his head, tugged the fork free and pushed his way back into the bushes.
Clare watched through narrowed eyes until he’d disappeared, then resumed her seat.
Darrell grinned at her. ‘Nice move. All we needed was the piano player, and we could have been in the Silver Dollar Saloon.’
Clare tried not to look smug and failed. ‘Hampstead could get rough on a Friday night.’
From the open doors behind them came male voices, raised and cheerful, and out onto the terrace came Patrick, Chad and Anselo. Chad was carrying a plate with more food. Michelle, scuttling up, handed him the wine bottle to carry, too, which Darrell saw required some deft adjustment of the plate on Chad’s part. But he didn’t protest. He was too busy listening to Patrick, who was talking loudly, wh
ile making movements with his hands that suggested he was holding an invisible steering wheel.
Darrell’s eye went to Anselo, who was shaking his head and smiling. After only four days in the Italian sun, his face and arms were already a deep tan. In a few more days, Darrell knew, he’d be the colour of roasted coffee beans, whereas her own skin would only turn a light gold. Although Anselo and Patrick had similar colouring, Patrick’s half-Irish genes would always keep him paler. Chad, who had been following the sun for months, was like a bronzed Nordic god, blond hair almost white. Michelle and Clare were rigorous in their application of sunscreen, so they would barely tan at all. I should be more diligent, thought Darrell. I’ll regret it when I’m old and wrinkly, and their skin is still as smooth and pale as a camellia.
‘Michelle’s husband is quite ridiculously handsome,’ Darrell heard Clare say.
As usual, whether it was censure or praise was hard to tell — and the others were upon them before Darrell could decide if Clare expected her to comment.
Anselo saw Cosmo, still asleep on the mat, and frowned.
‘Why didn’t you let Charlotte take him to the playground?’
‘He’s three months old!’ said Darrell. ‘He’d cramp their style.’
Anselo pulled out the chair next to her. ‘You should take a break from him.’
Darrell smiled at him, and gestured at the table and the lake. ‘I haven’t exactly been rushed off my feet.’
‘Still.’
Anselo’s tone was disapproving, insistent, and Darrell found herself bridling.
‘Yes, all right!’
Her reply was more snappish than she intended. But before she could apologise, Patrick reached across and poked Anselo in the shoulder with a bottle.
‘Beer?’
Without waiting for a reply, Patrick handed it to him, then beamed around at the others. ‘Though by rights, he should get a magnum of champagne for that last lap. Never seen a diesel go that fast!’
Clare fixed them with a stare. ‘Are you telling us that you drove our rental car around a racetrack?’
The men’s smiles vanished and they exchanged hasty, guilty looks.
Patrick spoke up. ‘Wasn’t just us! There were loads of other cars.’
‘And motorcycles. And a busload of German pensioners,’ said Anselo, ‘who, when Chad was driving, almost overtook us.’
‘I’ve never driven a stick shift!’ Chad protested. ‘They barely exist back home!’
‘Poor sweetie.’ Michelle patted him on the back. ‘It’s all right. Your manliness has not reduced a jot in my eyes.’
Chad gave her a sideways look. ‘I’m not sure how high it was to start with. But thank you, anyway.’
‘And how did you do, Ayrton?’ Clare said to Patrick.
Patrick avoided her eye and muttered something inaudible. Anselo set the beer bottle to one side, and reached instead for a glass, which he filled with wine. Smiling, he said, ‘Your husband does an impeccable handbrake turn, and a truly mean doughnut. He made those tyres smoke.’
‘Really?’ said Clare, with pointed emphasis. ‘And when, pray tell, did you learn to do tricks like that?’
‘Driving them getaway cars,’ said a quiet voice from behind them. ‘Weren’t it?’
The gardener was standing a few feet away. Darrell could see him clearly now, and even if his accent had not betrayed him, his face marked him unquestionably as English. He was in his mid-forties, Darrell saw, and could have been extremely handsome, if his blue eyes had not been so hard, nor his mouth so thinly compressed. He looks as if he’s spent his whole life being bitter and angry, thought Darrell. He’s the kind of man who sees people looking at him funny in pubs.
The scrape of Patrick’s chair on the tiles made her jump. He rose slowly to his feet, his expression still and guarded, only the slightest frown on his forehead.
‘Ned,’ he said.
His voice sounded flat and cold. There wasn’t a hint of his usual easy friendliness.
The gardener met his eye, and a slight, mocking smile lifted the corner of his mouth.
‘Patrick,’ he replied.
Clare broke the pause. ‘Just a hunch,’ she said, ‘but I’d wager that you’re not long-lost best buddies. Am I wildly off the mark?’
Patrick ignored her. ‘What are you doing here, Ned?’
The man called Ned stretched wide his hands. ‘I’m doing this garden. Yours for t’ month, I gather. Very nice.’
‘I mean, in Italy.’
‘I go where t’ work is.’ Ned’s mouth had no trace of a smile now. ‘Don’t have a choice. Unlike some.’
Michelle piped up. ‘Are you from Yorkshire?’
The question took him by surprise, and he hesitated. ‘Long time ago.’
Michelle smiled, satisfied. ‘Thought so. That explains your sunny disposition.’ She added, ‘I’m from New Zealand, by the way, and so’s Darrell here. Just in case you’re interested.’
Ned stared at her. ‘Fine cricketers come from there. Well,’ he inclined his head, ‘not so much lately …’
‘Ha!’ Michelle laughed. ‘No! Our team are super cute, especially that Daniel Vettori, but they suck big time. We can’t even beat Bangladesh — and their pitches are under water eight months of the year!’
‘Mitch.’ Chad placed a hand on her arm. ‘Maybe another time?’
‘You are telling me not to talk about sport?’ Michelle said. ‘That’s against nature.’
‘Ned.’ Patrick raised his voice. ‘Do you want to—?’ He gestured towards the villa.
‘Don’t think so, do you?’ said Ned. ‘I’ll get on.’ He made a point of nodding, one by one, at everyone at the table. ‘Leave you good folk t’ your pleasures.’
He turned his back and strolled off, not into the bushes this time, but up the grass bank that led to the garden at the back.
‘Wow,’ said Anselo to Patrick, when Ned had gone. ‘What’s his problem?’
Patrick was still standing. He lifted a hand to knead the nape of his neck.
‘Same thing it was almost thirty years ago,’ he said. ‘Me.’
10
Charlotte sat on the bar stool and reviewed the progress of her plan to date. There had been none. Darrell and Anselo’s marriage was still intact, which was good, but so was Patrick and Clare’s, which was not.
The only change Charlotte had detected was that some kind of atmosphere had developed at the villa. Charlotte, who took every opportunity to eavesdrop on the other adults’ conversations, had not yet gleaned a single clue as to the cause. She had a distinct sense that a situation had arisen that no one wanted to talk about, even Michelle, who, Charlotte had discovered, had no filters whatsoever. Michelle did not even spell out rude words in front of the children.
Rosie’s first teacher, thought Charlotte, is going to be in for a very special treat.
Charlotte had to admit that, over the past two days, she had not been fully focused on effecting her plan, mainly because she was spending very little time at the villa. She had kept her cool during the bathroom tableau, as she liked to refer to it, but ever since, her nerves had been as taut as a line attached to a five-hundred pound marlin making a last-ditch surge for freedom. Now that she was getting to grips with the varying demands of the children’s personalities, it was actually less of a strain taking them out for day trips than staying in and risking bumping into Patrick.
Four-year-old Harry, Charlotte had learned, was happy as long as you gave him clear instructions, reassured him constantly, and kept him off anything that moved, which included pretty much everything in the playground except the bench seats. Harry did not like to go up and down, or side to side, or at a pace faster than walking. His favourite activity so far had been watching the old men fish off the lakefront. Their aim, as far as Charlotte could tell, wasn’t actually to catch fish, but to stand there and dangle their lines into the water, possibly until the crack of doom. If she spoke better Italian, she could have asked if
Harry could sit with them, while she took Rosie and Tom off to do something that didn’t make one want to chew off one’s arm to relieve the boredom.
To be fair to Harry, thought Charlotte, Tom wasn’t much better. At least you could hold a conversation of sorts with Harry, whereas most of the time Tom didn’t appear to hear you at all. He never spoke, and Charlotte had, at first, decided this must be the fault of an overbearing mother, who ordered him around constantly and gave him no chance to get a word in edgeways. But despite her own best efforts to coax him, he remained mute. So Charlotte gave up and ordered him around, too, and unless he was in the middle of something, he obeyed her. Trouble was, Tom could spend hours absorbed in a single, repetitive task — such as stacking blocks, lining up pieces of string, or jumping on and off a raised surface — and he objected strongly to being interrupted. More than once, Charlotte had had to bundle a bellowing, flailing two-year-old under her arm and march him off.
At least Tom doesn’t bite, Charlotte thought. Rosie not only bit, she scratched, kicked and held her breath until she turned puce. She could also scream at a pitch and volume to rival Axl Rose on the introduction to ‘Welcome to the Jungle’. A full Rosie tantrum was a bravura performance, which brought to mind a drunken Lindsay Lohan being hauled off once again to jail.
But Rosie had two weaknesses. One was men, for whom she instantly behaved beautifully, and the other was food. If Rosie looked like she was building up a head of rancorous steam, all Charlotte had to do was find the nearest café or gelato parlour, and summon the male staff. One time, when there wasn’t a café in sight, Charlotte had steered them all into the nearest enoteca, where she’d let Harry, Tom and Rosie make an astonishing mess of a pizza margherita while she downed two glasses of house red.
Fortunately, when she’d brought the children home, all the adults in the house were on the terrace, engaged in conversation and surrounded by empty bottles, so Charlotte had been able to sneak them into a shared bath and into bed without anyone batting an eye.
Then I collapsed into bed, she thought, but lay awake most of the night imagining what it would be like if Patrick were naked under the covers with me. After a few hours, her mental conjuring had become so feverish that Charlotte had been forced to seek relief in the fashion much maligned by Victorians. But it was nowhere near as satisfying as his skin on mine would be, she thought. His naked skin that was so close I could have reached out and touched it. What would have happened if I had? Charlotte wondered. If I’d just stretched out my hand and taken hold of …
The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes Page 9
