It was a perfect plan, and, until seven-twenty that morning, Charlotte had been humming with smugness about it. But now, all of her — brain and body — was alive with the prospect of an additional plan. The one for Anselo and Darrell would still play out, but it would be secondary to this, which had implications that were almost too tremendous to contemplate.
Even from down in the kitchen, she had heard the argument. As had everyone else in the villa, small children included, which she could confirm because Rosie had immediately grabbed her piece of toast and yelled ‘Toas! Arsehole!’ Fortunately, thought Charlotte, neither of her parents had been there to hear her.
When Clare had stormed past the kitchen door, carrying a suitcase and wearing nothing but an oversize man’s T-shirt, Charlotte had been too surprised to do or say a thing. And it wasn’t until the car started up that Charlotte realised Tom may have just seen his mother walk out on him, without pausing even to register his presence. With some trepidation, she’d glanced at the boy, and been relieved to see that he was concentrating on spooning cereal into his mouth. With luck, he didn’t see her at all. And he’s probably still too young to understand an explanation, even if he comprehended the words being spoken …
That was the moment the full import of the situation had hit her. Oh my God, she’d thought, Clare has walked out on Patrick. They’ve had a serious, no-holds-barred, ding-dong argument and she’s walked out. With a packed suitcase. Which means she’s unlikely to be coming back anytime soon. Patrick’s wife, Charlotte realised at that moment, had left him.
Ambivalence had flooded through her with as much speed and force as the Severn Bore. One wave had carried pity and concern. Poor, poor Patrick, Charlotte had thought, how awful he must feel right now. But the other wave had borne pure, unadulterated glee. Patrick’s wife had left him! Finally — Charlotte had felt a frisson of delicious anticipation — life had arranged itself more conveniently in her favour. If she couldn’t capitalise on an opportunity as perfect as this, she would duly crawl back to England in shame and devote the rest of her life to espaliered fruit.
But as she sat in the now empty kitchen, her conscience broke through the glittery layers of excitement. A wife walking out is still a wife, it said. Patrick and Clare have not suddenly become unmarried. Do you really have the right to leap directly into this breach, clutching a wedge and hammer?
Good point, conscience, thought Charlotte, though possibly not the point you intended to make. I cannot, must not, rush this. I don’t want to be a consolation prize for a Patrick on the rebound. I want him to genuinely want me, which means I need to win him wholly and completely over time. And that means I will need subtlety and empathy and a great deal of patience.
I need to be more like Chad. All he did when he first saw Patrick this morning was clasp him briefly by the shoulder. That simple gesture said everything, and I could see how much Patrick appreciated it. Charlotte found this made her rather envious of Chad. If I were a man, she thought crossly, I’d be able to bond with Patrick much more easily. Mind you, if I were a man, I wouldn’t be in love with him. Well, I might be, she conceded, if I were the type that liked a bit of rough.
An image of a naked Ned Marsh flitted through her head. Thank God for Ned, she thought. If I’m forced to be patient with Patrick, at least I’ll be able to work out my sexual frustrations in Ned’s cosy, if somewhat cramped, single bed.
They’d used up all Ned’s condoms, she recalled with a smile. She’d been very glad that he’d walked her down the hill in the evening, partly because she felt less of an easy mark for perilous vipers, but mostly because her legs were not entirely steady and she was grateful to be able to lean on him for support. I’m still tender, she thought, wincing as she shifted position in the chair. I sincerely hope no one suggests that today we ride bicycles around the lake.
She heard Chad’s calm voice in the living room, and then Harry’s cheerful reply overlaying Rosie’s screech of protest. They’re on the move, she thought, and hastened to rinse her cup and place it in the dishwasher. Harry ran into the kitchen, followed by Chad, Rosie scowling in his arms, and then Patrick, with Tom, his usual expressionless self, in his.
‘We’re going to get Mommy!’ Harry informed Charlotte. ‘And gelato!’
Harry was always most excited by the prospect of food, Charlotte thought. You could offer him his choice of a ride at Disneyland, and he would almost certainly opt to sit quietly in a restaurant and eat waffles shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head.
‘I assume you want me with you?’ she said to Chad.
‘You’re more than welcome,’ he said.
Which didn’t really answer my question, thought Charlotte, but no matter. Even if he’d said no, I’d still be going with them.
‘We’ll need to take the Lawrences’ car as well as ours,’ she said directly to Patrick. ‘I’ll drive if you like.’
His brow creased, as if the subject were unfamiliar.
‘Right. Yeah,’ he said.
‘I’ll go upstairs and grab a few spare clothes for Tom,’ she said. ‘In my experience, he makes gelato defy the laws of physics in its ability to cover any given area.’
‘Right,’ said Patrick.
‘Do you need anything?’ she said softly.
For one terrible moment, she thought he was about to cry. But then Chad reached out — are men secretly trained in this, wondered Charlotte — and touched Patrick lightly on the arm.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Kids are champing at the bit. We’ll meet Charlotte out by the cars.’
With a laboured effort that Charlotte found hard to witness, Patrick gathered himself.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Yeah.’ And he followed Chad out of the kitchen.
If only I could touch him, Charlotte thought, as she hurried up the stairs. I could touch him in ways that would make him forget he had any troubles at all.
Charlotte opened Patrick’s bedroom door and drew up short. The room was a shambles. The bed was rumpled and unmade. Women’s shoes and clothes — Clare’s obviously — were lying strewn in a corner, as if someone had thrown them with force. Other items were hanging off the nearby chair, or still dangling from the half-open drawers.
Unlikely to be Patrick who did this, Charlotte decided. He’s still in shock, still numb with it. He wouldn’t have had the energy. It would explain why Clare was only half-dressed. She wanted to waste no time getting out of here.
As do I, Charlotte thought, opening the drawer that contained Tom’s clothes. Tom was sharing a room with Harry — Rosie, not surprisingly, had a room of her own — and in it was a wardrobe but no chest of drawers. Clare usually laid out a set of Tom’s clothes for Charlotte the night before. But not last night; there had been none outside his door this morning. Charlotte wondered if Clare’s departure had not been entirely spontaneous, but dismissed the thought, given the obvious haste in which she’d left.
Rummaging through Tom’s clothes to find something suitable, Charlotte felt a sudden unexpected burst of anger at Clare. How could she? How could she leave him … leave them? What does she expect? That a better husband and son will now turn up? Well, you selfish cow, thought Charlotte, life doesn’t work that way. I hope you’re already regretting what you’ve done.
But, said another voice in her head, I also hope you never come back.
And in case you do, the voice added, as she jogged down the stairs, I’m making it my mission to ensure that you’re entirely too late.
25
There was a small curved stone bench in the vegetable garden. It was mossy and uncomfortable, designed more for ornamentation than to accommodate rear ends, but Darrell was sitting on it anyway. Cosmo, unusually awake, was in the car seat on the ground beside her, wriggling his arms and staring wide-eyed at the bright display of lemons in terracotta pots that lined the edge of the garden terrace.
At one end of the bench was a tub of herbs: sage and rosemary and thyme. Darrell rubbed a sage leaf between her fingers and s
niffed. It smelled strong and woody — not exactly pleasant but strangely comforting, reminiscent of family Sunday roasts.
‘Were said in t’ old days sage would ward off evil.’
Ned Marsh was halfway up the steps. He had a pair of hedge clippers in one hand, and a Thermos mug in the other. Even viewed at this distance, Ned looked very large, and Darrell quelled a small flutter of anxiety. I have a baby with me, she thought. That’s better than full armour plating and a force field. She reached down and drew Cosmo’s car seat a little closer to her legs.
‘Tha’s named Darrell, aye?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I mean, yes. Good memory.’
‘Not a common name,’ he said, ‘for a lass.’
Darrell realised she could see steam rising from the mug. ‘Is that tea?’
‘Aye.’ Ned glanced down at it. ‘Would tha like some?’
‘What do you drink in winter?’ said Darrell. ‘Slushies?’
Ned gave a quick smile and climbed the rest of the steps. He laid his clippers and mug on the ground, and went down on one knee in front of Cosmo. In that perplexed blinking manner of little babies, Cosmo switched his focus from the lemons to Ned’s face, and to Darrell’s immense surprise, smiled hugely and gave a gurgling chuckle of delight.
Ned laughed and offered Cosmo his index finger, which the baby grabbed and held tight with his small fist. Ned’s finger, Darrell noted, was calloused by labour but quite clean. Not even dirt under his nails, she thought. How does he manage that?
‘He’s a handsome little lad,’ said Ned. ‘Who’s his father? The dark un who looks like he’s related t’ Patrick?’
Darrell nodded. Her desire to discuss or even think about Anselo, and what he’d said to her in the garden earlier, was nil. Less than nil, she thought. Less than nil all the way backwards to infinity.
‘A cousin?’ Ned persisted. ‘One o’ t’ raggle-taggle Gypsy gang?’
Darrell nodded again. Ned must have sensed her reluctance because — thank you merciful God, Darrell thought — he changed the subject.
‘Comfy in tha car seat, lad?’ Ned wiggled his finger in Cosmo’s grasp, prompting more happy gurgles. ‘Are you headed somewhere?’ he said to Darrell.
Darrell shook her head. If she had ever considered going anywhere, such as perhaps, possibly, to Marcus’ flat, she certainly wasn’t now.
Ned gently extracted his finger from Cosmo’s fist. He stood, and Darrell found herself cricking her neck to look up at him.
‘I’m in your way,’ she said, and made to stand as well.
‘No, no.’ Ned held out a hand to forestall her. ‘I only came up here t’ drink this. Allus like t’ have cup before I head off for t’ day.’ He bent to pick up the mug of tea. ‘D’you mind?’
It was five o’clock, and Darrell had hoped that she could avoid seeing anyone until she was forced to eat dinner with them. (Cosmo didn’t really count as a person yet.) But she was finding Ned, in an odd, indefinable way, quite relaxing. It surprised her; Darrell’s first impression had been that he was full to the brim with pent-up aggression. I suspect he still is, she thought. I definitely saw him tense when he mentioned Patrick, but so far he’s been nothing but straightforward and, if not friendly, then not overtly hostile. Cosmo certainly likes him. I can’t remember the last time he giggled like that for me. Then again, I haven’t exactly been chock-full of chuckles myself.
‘I don’t mind, if you don’t,’ she said to Ned. ‘I’m not the most scintillating company at the moment.’
‘’Tis all right,’ said Ned. ‘I’ve nivver been un for small talk. Or any other kind o’ talk, come t’ that.’
He perched on the timber edge of one of the raised vegetable beds opposite. The whole garden terrace, pots and beds included, was no bigger than six yards by six. If Darrell stretched out her foot, she could touch Ned’s boot. She swivelled Cosmo’s car seat, so he could see Ned instead of the lemons. Cosmo gave a shout of pleased recognition, which made Ned grin. Darrell found the black, dull deadness that had been pressing on her lift a fraction, as if she’d been trapped in a coal cellar and had finally been able to budge the heavy hatch and see a crack of light.
I’m still trapped, she thought, but at least I can breathe a tiny amount of fresh air.
‘I like it up here in the veggie patch,’ she said. ‘I like how it smells.’
‘I like it here, too,’ said Ned. ‘Kitchen gardens are what they are. Reliable, if you treat ’em right. And straightforward — honest, if tha will.’ He reached out and plucked a lateral shoot from between the leaves of a tomato plant. ‘No pretentions.’
Darrell said, ‘How long have you been here? In Italy?’
‘Twelve year,’ he said.
Darrell waited, and when no more information seemed forthcoming, she did stretch out her leg and kick the toe of his boot.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘How did you get here? How did a nice boy from Yorkshire end up staking tomatoes in an Italian holiday playground?’
Ned made a face. ‘Mun I?’
‘Of course you mun,’ she said mock severely. ‘How else will Cosmo learn life’s important lessons?’
‘You mean what not t’ do?’ Ned saluted the baby with his mug. ‘Very well, young Cosmo, this un’s for thee.’
He held the mug in both hands, and gazed down into it for a moment.
‘My sister died when she were young,’ he began. ‘Drugs.’
Darrell felt her heart clench. ‘Oh, Ned, I’m so sorry.’
His mouth tightened, but whether in anger or regret, she couldn’t tell.
‘Long time ago now,’ he said, with a slight shrug. ‘Not far short of twenty-five year.’
‘I’m not sure time makes it hurt any less,’ said Darrell without thinking. ‘All it does is find more stuff to distract you with, so you think of it less often.’
Ned gazed at her in surprise. ‘You lost someone, too?’
Hell, thought Darrell. I’m not ready for that conversation, either.
‘Mm,’ she said evasively. ‘But — you first.’
Ned appeared to balk, but Darrell sat tight, mentally crossing her fingers behind her back. To her immense relief, he blew out a resigned breath and continued.
‘To all intents, ’twere only her and us by then,’ he said, ‘so when she went I had no one. I took off from London, went up north, far as I could go. Worked on a North Sea rig for eight long bloody year, then tried salmon boats in Alaska for a couple o’ seasons, until the cold drove us mad. Made good money, though. Enough to travel across t’ States for a year. I got to New York, and, uh …’
Darrell saw colour flare in his cheeks, and grinned. ‘And what? You were spotted in the street by an impresario? Became a star on Broadway?’
‘Summat like that.’ Ned gave her a quick, embarrassed glance over his mug. ‘I were spotted in street. But by a woman. She took us home wi’ her.’
‘I see,’ said Darrell. ‘Let me guess? A rich woman?’
‘Never seen money like that,’ said Ned. ‘She had apartment up so high ’twas in t’ bloody ozone layer, with marble floors and paintings by Picasso and Renoir, and onyx bath, and two bloody awful miniature dogs wi’ diamond-studded collars. Fucking diamonds.’
He shook his head, as if he still could not quite believe it.
‘Why’d you go with her?’ Darrell said. ‘You don’t strike me as a natural toy-boy, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I’m not.’ He gave her another embarrassed glance. ‘Nivver been — confident — wi’ women. But she had confidence for us both. And she were beautiful, rich an’ she had a bed for us. I’d run out of money, an’ I knew no one. I had no place t’ go except street, and I’d done my share of time there when I were a lad.’
Darrell nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Weren’t going t’ stay more ’n a day or so,’ he said. ‘But then I found it. Her garden room.’
‘You mean, like a conservatory?’
‘Ra
n whole length of t’ apartment,’ he said. ‘Were like stepping into jungle. You could forget t’ city were just outside. It were a haven. Sanctuary of green.’
He sounds as though he’s talking about a lover, Darrell thought. More than a lover — the one great love of his life.
‘So you stayed,’ she said, ‘for the garden room?’
‘For two year. Then I had t’ go.’ Ned tipped the dregs of his tea into a pot of begonias, and set the mug down beside him. ‘Afore I lost every last bloody shred o’ dignity.’
‘Then … here?’ said Darrell. ‘To different gardens?’
‘I’d allus been fond o’ gardening since I were a lad,’ he said. ‘Our home — our mother — she were a gardener. And when I were on rig, and ’twere nowt but grey water for fucking miles, I vowed that’s what I’d do, some day, if I could.’
‘And will you stay here?’
‘No reason t’ go,’ said Ned. He shrugged. ‘None t’ stay, neither.’
If he were any other man, thought Darrell, I’d be asking him right now about girlfriends. But all the signs suggest that Ned the gardener is a man who feels very deeply, and if he says he has no reason to stay, then I suspect his last relationship ended badly. If so, best not dig a finger in the wound, Darrell decided. Besides, I’m in no mood to talk about relationships.
‘You fed up now?’
Darrell tuned back in, and realised Ned was speaking to Cosmo, who, she saw to her chagrin, was whimpering and squirming, red faced, in his car seat.
‘Can I take him out?’ said Ned.
‘Yes, of course!’ Darrell said, flustered. ‘I shouldn’t have left him in there so long.’
Ned stooped and undid the fastening, and freed Cosmo from the straps. He lifted him out and, holding him carefully — and quite competently, Darrell noted — sat back down with the baby on his lap, the back of Cosmo’s head resting against Ned’s chest, so the baby could look out on the world. Cosmo laughed and waggled his arms outwards, like a duck flapping.
The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes Page 23
