‘You didn’t need to be my white knight,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have wound him up in the first place. Can’t help myself. Officious jobsworths seriously get on my tits.’
Anselo gazed after the overall-clad figure disappearing into the trees at the back. ‘He thinks I would have lost.’
‘Given the size of him, he’s probably right,’ said Aishe. ‘Though I’m sure you could have got in a few kicks to his hulking gonads before he smashed you with a giant green fist.’
‘Fuck him.’ Anselo spoke more to himself, as he thumped angrily back down in the chair.
‘I can see why Patrick and he might once have been mates,’ said Aishe. ‘Tweedledum and Tweedledumber went out to fight a battle.’ She nudged the now sleeping dog with her toe. ‘And you’re the dumbest of the lot, you brainless mutt. No more digging, or big Ned will hurl you lakewards by the tail like a hairy Olympic hammer.’
‘Maybe big Ned’ll have a go at Patrick before we leave.’ Anselo leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. ‘Be more entertainment than I’ve had on this holiday so far.’
Aishe gave him a look that made Anselo brace himself.
‘Darrell seems to be friendly enough with Ned,’ she said. ‘She got the keys from him to let us in the garden gate.’
‘Did she?’
‘She was also looking like shit, I have to say,’ said Aishe. ‘What’s up with that?’
Anselo had a sense that a large wave was looming above him, and he was staring into its crystalline, dark depths as it poised, ready to break and engulf him.
I’m not brave enough for this conversation, he thought. He did not meet his sister’s eye, pretended instead to investigate a knot in the wooden tabletop. ‘Breastfeeding makes her tired,’ he said.
After a beat, Aishe said, ‘You know when we were little?’ She paused again.
Not knowing where this was going, Anselo shrugged, and said, ‘Yeah?’
‘And I had that Chinese-burn technique that could drop guys twice my size to their knees, screaming in agony?’
‘Cute.’ Anselo shook his head, smiling faintly. ‘And if you weren’t my sister, you’d apply wires to my balls?’
‘Look, Christ knows I’m no expert in relationships,’ said Aishe, ‘but even I can tell when one is in the crapper. Your wife’s in the garden when you’re in the house, and vice versa. I’ve barely heard you say one word to anyone else, let alone to each other, and unless it was a ventriloquist who said “I do” at your wedding, I’m pretty sure you’re both capable of speech. What’s up?’
Good question, Anselo thought. What is up? One really huge thing? Or a bunch of tiny things that add up to something huge? I’m not sure I know any more.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘ever since Cosmo, she’s been—’
‘Whoa, whoa!’ Aishe held up her hand. ‘Nope. Ixnay. Nyet. You will not bring the baby into this. Babies cause sleep deprivation and make you smell like scented wipes, but they do not change the fundamental dynamic between two people. If it’s wrong now, it was going wrong before Cosmo turned up. He’s just highlighted it, in baby-cack yellow.’
Anselo felt heat rush into his limbs and face, its source a commotion of shame, anger, regret and fear. A primal urge to yell out loud, to hit and smash, seized him, but he could not tell where, or at whom, he truly wanted to direct that energy. Aishe was closest, and perhaps part of him knew she could handle it.
‘You’re wrong!’ he yelled. ‘It was fine until she got pregnant!’
‘She?’ Aishe raised an eyebrow.
‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘All right! It was fine until Darrell got pregnant! We were together, and we were cool, happy — we were. But then she left me. She fucking left me, with no fucking word, no notice whatsoever, and she flew off back home to ask her dead husband whether she should abort our child! I had no say! I may as well have not existed then, and I may as well not exist now! Since he’s been born, it’s all about Cosmo! I’ve done everything for her, and she won’t let me near. But she’ll spend time with her fucking ex, won’t she? She’ll let him in. I am so far down the line of what matters to her! I’m not even second fiddle; I’m the guy right at the back with the fucking triangle! And I’m tired of it! I may as well just hand her back my wedding ring and be fucking done with her. Done with all of it, even Cosmo. Because it’s not like I’m much chop as a father, right n—’
His throat tightened, as if a murderous hand had closed around it, and he had to stop.
Fuck, he thought in panic, I’m going to cry. He stared hard at the too-bright surface of the lake, and focused on bringing his breathing under control, aware that Aishe was beside him, dreading what she would inevitably say.
But it was quite some time before she said anything.
‘I’m crap at hugging,’ said Aishe. ‘Even Gulliver gives me shit about it, and he’s fifteen and doesn’t even want me to stand too close to him.’
She reached out and gave his arm a quick rub. ‘That’s all I got,’ she said. ‘It’ll have to do.’
‘Do you hug Benedict?’
Anselo did not feel up to reverting to the previous subject. Or subjects plural, he thought. All my resentments spewed out, just as I suspected they would, and out loud they sounded even more petty, selfish and stupid.
‘Benedict hugs me,’ said Aishe, ‘until he gets a punch in the kidneys, which is our agreed code for him to back off. Not sure other couples communicate that way, but it has the advantage of being unambiguous.’
‘Do you love him?’
The question came out before Anselo could stop it, and he found he wasn’t sure what answer he’d prefer to hear.
‘I’m working on it,’ she said. ‘The two men I loved with everything I had — they both died. Hard not to think that’s my lot. Hard to love wholeheartedly when you’re afraid fickle fate wants to make it a hat trick. They must have a bloody laugh up there sometimes. Karmic cunts.’
‘You had your husband for two years,’ said Anselo, almost absently. ‘Darrell had hers for ten.’
‘You know, I’ve never really thought about that,’ said Aishe. ‘Me and your wife being in the dead husbands club. I suppose we should include Mum in there as well. She’d really inject the merry into us widows, wouldn’t she?’
‘Mum never got over it,’ said Anselo. ‘And do you blame her? Dad was only forty.’
‘Is that what Darrell really told you?’ Aishe said after a pause. ‘That she flew back home to commune with her husband’s ghost?’
‘She didn’t. But why else would she go all that way?’ he said with a shrug. ‘I met her parents. Nice people but … well, you know, we had tea in the “drawing room”, and my slice of seed cake was served on a doily.’
‘Ouch,’ said Aishe. ‘Not the types who let it all hang out, then. Her mother probably dries underwear inside the hot-water cupboard where no one can see.’
‘And then irons it.’
Anselo caught his sister’s eye, grateful to her for lightening the mood, and for not giving his big speech the slow hand-clap it so richly deserved.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Any sage advice?’
‘Sage is for stuffing,’ said Aishe, ‘and I know that I would rather gouge out my eyes with a shit-covered stick than accept anyone’s advice. You’re feeling a bit hard done by, and fair enough, in many ways. The downside, and I speak from personal experience, is that hanging on to shit like that doesn’t leave you much room to manoeuvre. All ends up a bit last samurai, you know? The only way out is to extract your own guts with a curvy sword.’
Oh, I’ve manoeuvred, thought Anselo. I’ve made all sorts of moves, but not one of them has taken me closer to what I want. Could be because I’ve no idea what I want. Could be because I’ve never felt anything I’ve wanted ever to be anywhere within reach.
‘Gulliver starts school as soon as we’re back,’ said Aishe. ‘He’ll be in the fifth form. How the hell did that happen?’
‘When Cosmo’s fifteen, I’ll be
fifty-one,’ said Anselo. ‘I can’t picture that, for either of us.’
‘Well, you’ll get there,’ said his sister, ‘whether you go willingly or not.’
She reached out and laid her hand on his arm again. But this time, she left it there.
‘Might be worth deciding now, big bro,’ she said, ‘just how rough you want that journey to be.’
31
‘Are we still friends?’
Michelle set the glass of lemonade on the kitchen table next to Darrell. Darrell did not want lemonade, but Michelle had insisted. Michelle had also insisted that Darrell sit down, so they could have a chat. Darrell could not find the energy to say no, and suspected that if there did happen to be any still clinging to some ledge within her, a chat with Michelle would prise its fingers from its precarious hold in seconds flat.
When Darrell had poked her head round the kitchen door, the house had been so quiet that she’d confidently expected to find the room empty. Anselo (who’d been forced back into their bedroom by Gulliver’s commandeering of the upstairs study) had left while she was feeding Cosmo, and she had spied him not long after, walking out onto the lawn with his sister and her dog. A clatter of feet down the stairs, accompanied by the thump of a hand hitting the wall at the landing, had announced Gulliver’s departure from the study and, moments later, Darrell had heard a clamour of voices, adults and small children, with the usual enquiries about who, truthfully now, had been to the bathroom, and who’d seen the bloody car keys, followed by the slam of the front door and a ringing silence. Darrell had counted two cars starting up, and had assumed — hoped — that everyone else had left.
Her first thought was that now she’d have time to do some real, uninterrupted thinking. The need for this had been pressing on her since yesterday, when her phone had beeped with a text message. Retrieving the mobile from the depths of her bag, Darrell had read: ‘For D: You OK?’ When the blood had stopped thumping in her ears, she’d realised the ‘For D’ was a little odd. Who else could it be for? Instinct had prompted her to check the record of calls and she found one she knew she hadn’t made.
Anselo had phoned Marcus, she’d thought. Yikes. Did he threaten him, too?
Not that Anselo had really threatened me, she’d thought, because I still can’t — won’t — believe he meant it. But he did say it, and he hasn’t apologised — won’t even speak to me. He slept on the floor last night, and I can only imagine he’ll do so until we leave.
The prospect of what might happen after that, when they were finally home, had made Darrell desperate for time to think. She’d considered staying in the bedroom, but she’d had no breakfast, and feeding Cosmo, as usual, had left her ravenous. I’ll slip down and grab some fruit, she’d thought. Cosmo asleep in his cot, Darrell had hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Where she’d found Michelle.
And now I’m sitting here, thought Darrell, drinking lemonade that I don’t want, being forced to waste what is potentially my only available opportunity for serious, vital cogitation because Michelle wants to chat, and I do not have the gumption to say no.
‘Are we?’ said Michelle again. ‘Friends?’
‘Of course,’ said Darrell.
‘It’s just that we’ve spent bugger-all time together since we got here, and I feel bad about it. Not bad enough to blame myself,’ Michelle added, ‘because it takes two to mambo Italiano, doesn’t it? And I’d have to say you’ve been a bit like one of those hermits who posh freaks used to keep in grottoes in seventeen-something, who’d get dragged blinking into the light whenever the host took guests on a perambulation around il giardino.’
Darrell avoided answering by taking a sip of her lemonade.
‘Mind you, I can’t talk,’ said Michelle with a sigh. ‘The prospect of yet another day-trip with the cast of National Lampoon’s Family Vacation made me come over all fragile, like a Southern belle whose Mammy’s pulled her corsets so tight she can’t even pluck the leaves for the mint julep. By golly,’ she added, ‘I am the Mistress of Metaphors this morning!’
Michelle sipped her own lemonade and made a face.
‘By rights, this should be wine,’ she said, ‘but it’s only ten o’clock. At least thirty minutes too early.’ Her expression darkened. ‘That strumpet Aishe said she’d go shopping with me, but she’s been holed up with your husband for eons now. What are they doing? Plotting the downfall of the free world? I wouldn’t put it past her, the spiteful bint.’
‘Have you heard from Clare?’ said Darrell.
The mention of Anselo had filled her with a guilty panic, and she latched onto the first diversion that came to mind. Not the most ideal one, she realised too late. Marital discord was hardly a topic she wished to expand upon.
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Michelle. ‘Pretty sure Patrick hasn’t, either. And Aishe told me that her family, which is obviously Patrick’s family, too — so borderline incestuous — have also not heard a dicky bird. Clare must have gone underground, like a mutant alligator.’
Michelle sat back in her chair and let out the tetchy sigh of the bored.
‘Yes, everyone’s abandoned me,’ she said. ‘My friends, my husband, my children. All right, I might have insisted that the latter did so, might even have closed the door thankfully behind them, but still.’
She gave Darrell an appraising look that made Darrell’s heart sink.
‘Let’s you and I go out!’ said Michelle. ‘We can take the babe. He sleeps more than Rumpelstiltskin, so I can’t imagine he’ll trouble us.’
‘Oh, I don’t know …’
Cosmo had been Darrell’s best excuse, and now Michelle had trumped it, Darrell was struggling for another.
But Michelle was on her feet.
‘Come on, come on!’ she insisted. ‘You need to get out. You’re acquiring the pallor of uncooked pizza dough. And I need to make a token gesture towards being a better friend. Come on.’
She took hold of Darrell’s arm and hauled her from her chair.
But Darrell had just had a thought, which gave her a faint hope of reprieve. ‘How will we get there with no car?’
‘The campervan, of course!’ said Michelle. ‘Benedict leaves the keys on the hall table. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
‘What about Aishe?’
‘She snoozes, she loses,’ said Michelle. ‘Serve the fickle strumpet right.’
It had been well over ten years since Darrell had driven anywhere with Michelle, but she could not recall any previous experience being this scary. The drive into Como was so terrifying, in fact, that Darrell had to shut down her brain, lest she be lobotomised by the shock. I can’t believe I was worried about taxis and planes and Italian drivers, she thought. It’s like worrying about climate change when there’s a flaming asteroid hurtling towards Earth.
Michelle drove the way she spoke, relentlessly and with total disregard for others.
It was like a car chase in a bad movie, thought Darrell, complete with pedestrians scuttling for cover, trucks swerving and waiters pirouetting on the footpath, as they sought to avoid having their trays clipped by the campervan’s wing mirror, which resembled Dumbo’s ear encased in carbonite. All we need now is a little old lady on a crossing and two guys in the middle of the road carrying an enormous sheet of plate glass. Oh, and Nicholas Cage, because he’s always in that type of movie.
‘Where’s this bloody parking lot?’ said Michelle, leaning over to look at the map on Darrell’s lap. ‘Oh, I see — yes, yes! Grazie, grazie!’ she added, waving at the driver in a red sports car, who had made full use of his ABS brakes when Michelle had cut directly in front of him to take the turn. Darrell caught a glimpse of him leaning against the steering wheel, gasping, as if winded.
‘Right,’ said Michelle as they walked out of the parking lot. ‘We’ve got forty-five minutes before the shops do that stupid Italian thing and close for an eight-hour lunch. No wonder their economy is in the shittio. No one does anything close to a full
day’s work!’
Darrell was looking around. The car park was on an unattractive scrubby lot, on the more modern outskirts of the city. But as they walked towards the centro historico, they started to see older buildings whose carvings and frescoes held a promise of more beauty and charm to come.
This is the first time I’ve been here, thought Darrell. I’ve been in Italy for over three weeks, and I’ve barely left the house. Well, apart from a day’s drive to the Stelvio Pass.
Her thoughts now began to ricochet like a pinball between her husband and Marcus, racking up so many guilty panic points that Darrell became convinced she’d be entitled to a free game.
‘Luckily, it doesn’t take long to walk round the shops here,’ Michelle was saying. ‘We can kill time with lunch in the piazza, fending off the feral booksellers. And then, if we’re desperate, I suppose we could look at the duomo. Ha!’ she added. ‘The Como duomo. I wonder if the Italians think that’s funny, or if it’s like that town in Germany called Fucking, whose locals have no clue why it keeps cropping up on the internet.’
Darrell followed Michelle from shop to shop, grateful that her friend’s enthusiasm and patchy grasp of Italian gave her little time to focus any attention on Darrell.
‘What do you think of these boots?’ Michelle held up a pair in patent leather, with stiletto heels and pointed toes. ‘Too fuck-mio?’
‘No, I like them,’ said Darrell automatically.
‘Chad will like them,’ said Michelle smugly. ‘When he gets home at night from the incredibly well-paying job that I know he will get the instant we’re back home, I can greet him in the kitchen, wearing nothing but these and a G-string. Who needs dinner when you’ve got a slutty wife?’
‘Just don’t stand too close to an open flame,’ said Darrell. ‘Unless you’ve had a full bikini wax.’
The sudden buzz of her phone made her leap. Luckily, Michelle was having trouble pulling on the boots, so she did not notice.
Darrell pulled the phone out of her pocket and, turning away from Michelle, checked the screen.
The Misplaced Affections of Charlotte Fforbes Page 28
