When Charlotte Fforbes inadvertently falls in love with her boss, her usually cool self-control is tested to its limit. Thus far, Charlotte has carefully avoided love’s emotional tar pit, but suddenly she is in it up to her neck. Her first strategy is to ignore it — for one thing, boss Patrick is a husband and father.

Then Charlotte is given a clue that Patrick’s marriage may not be as stable as believed, and that is enough to fan a spark of hope into an infatuation-fuelled inferno. Transformed from efficient PA into a woman whose reason has been muffled with duct-tape and locked in a cellar, she’ll now do anything to find a way into Patrick’s heart.

Anything includes arranging to be nanny-for-a-month to the small children of Patrick and his wife and two other families at a Lake Como villa. Charlotte’s complete lack of child-minding experience daunts her the least. If she’s to win Patrick, she must also prevent his cousin’s wife being seduced by her charming, feckless ex, while fending off dogs, Gypsy gatecrashers and a large, vengeful ghost from Patrick’s past.

But Charlotte’s biggest test will come when she is forced to question whether her affections have been entirely misplaced — and, if so, was this her last ever chance to feel love like this again?

Contents

1. Title Page

2. Dedication

3. 1

4. 2

5. 3

6. 4

7. 5

8. 6

9. 7

10. 8

11. 9

12. 10

13. 11

14. 12

15. 13

16. 14

17. 15

18. 16

19. 17

20. 18

21. 19

22. 20

23. 21

24. 22

25. 23

26. 24

27. 25

28. 26

29. 27

30. 28

31. 29

32. 30

33. 31

34. 32

35. 33

36. 34

37. 35

38. 36

39. 37

40. 38

41. About the Author

42. Copyright

For Nicky, who was blessed in an Italian post office

1

Charlotte wasn’t sure of the exact moment she’d fallen in love with her employer. She suspected there had never actually been an exact moment, but more a series of inexorable progressions. It reminded her of the time she’d become stuck in a Thames mudbank, while walking from her friends’ yacht to the riverside pub in which said friends were sitting warm and dry and free of mud, having left earlier in a rowing boat when the tide was higher. The problem had not been the walking, as such; it had been when she’d paused in the evening gloom to make sure she was still going in the right direction, the lights from the pub being blocked by branches. The pause had allowed the mud just enough time to creep up around her boots, thus creating a suction that completely prevented her, when she attempted to do so, from lifting either of her feet.

The emotions she experienced at that moment were very similar to those that arose within her when she had realised how she felt about her boss. There was a small amount of panic but, as Charlotte’s grip was always firm, the primary emotion was disgust — at her own stupidity. Charlotte worked very hard to keep control over all aspects of her inner and outer life, and it was times like these that confirmed for her that if there was a higher power then He/She/It was disposed towards the kind of practical jokes that only the perpetrator finds funny. Despite Charlotte’s best efforts to be vigilant, she was unable to completely avoid life’s side-splitting sack of flour poised atop the door, or fate’s riotous handshake buzzer that makes your fillings pick up radio signals for a week.

But while both the suctioning mud and her newfound pash for her employer seemed fine examples of Providence’s plastic wrap across a toilet bowl, Charlotte consoled herself that the two situations were quite different. Stuck in the mudbank, she’d had to acknowledge that unless she wanted to wait several hours until the tide changed (which, in any case, may not have worked to her advantage), humiliation was unavoidable. So it proved. After several texts to gain her friends’ attention, Charlotte was rescued by them and pretty much everyone else in the pub, who banded together to lay down planks on the mud, haul her out and spend the rest of the long, long night laughing at the fact she was now wearing a pair of ancient Brimsdown Rovers shorts (away colours) and socks with cartoon reindeer on them that had been pinned up behind the bar one Christmas and never taken down. Charlotte suspected the memory still prompted a fond chuckle from some of the pub regulars. Her rescue had apparently been even more exciting than the time a fellow regular (since deceased) had caught a nine-pound chub on a boilie. Charlotte had no idea what that meant and considered it a matter of personal pride that she would never, ever look it up.

With the boss situation, by contrast, Charlotte knew humiliation could be avoided. All she had to do was continue to maintain the air of efficient, professional aloofness that had been the hallmark of her employer–employee relationships thus far. She knew Patrick was not one for hierarchy and treated everyone — clients, contractors, cleaning lady — alike, but she was determined not to let his informal manner dupe her into dropping her guard.

Charlotte believed the risk of this was slim, for the simple reason that an efficient aloofness was in fact the hallmark of all her relationships. Her childhood had been an object lesson in the fruitlessness of expending emotion in an effort to gain affection, and now that she was an adult, she preferred friendships that required little investment past lending an ear. Charlotte was happy to lend an ear, as long as this was all she was required to do, and her friends were happy that she listened and had no desire to bend their ears in return. One friend said that Charlotte had been more use than the Jungian therapist who’d charged three hundred pounds an hour.

Possibly for this reason alone, Charlotte had never lacked for friends. True, since she’d hit her thirties, her circle had been shrinking as various members had married, bred and moved out of the city so they didn’t have to send their children to schools that shone a light on the architectural merit of HM Prison Wandsworth. Some of these friends still called Charlotte. She wished they wouldn’t. Charlotte had as much affinity with children and their ecosystem of education, nutrition and large vehicles as she did with the theory of dark matter, and felt convinced that, if she ever became interested enough to put her mind to it, the latter would be much easier to understand.

However, she had no desire to become a recluse. She enjoyed going out for an after-work drink with the friends who were left in the city. She enjoyed, when she felt like it, picking up men in suitable bars or nightclubs and taking them to a suitable venue (never her flat) for sex. When a film-director friend had said he would sponsor her to become a member of the private and rather swanky Shoreditch House, Charlotte realised, after one dinner there with said friend, that everyone in the place knew everyone else, which simply wouldn’t do. She did not want to see the same faces in her bed more than once. Ideally, she would even avoid learning their first names. Romance novels and vicars of a certain vintage might use ‘intimacy’ as a synonym for sex, but Charlotte saw no need to elevate the connection beyond the physical. That was simply asking for trouble, most commonly expressed by the dreaded question: ‘When can I see you again?’ Charlotte had a variety of answers on the theme of ‘never’, a spectrum that began with letting them down gently (for those she quite liked) and ended with the actual word ‘never’ for the egomaniacs or the odd one who’d turned out to be as dumb as a box of gravel.

No, Charlotte did not want to cut people out of her life entirely, but, pre-Patrick, she had never contemplated giving up living alone. She’d seen no need to analyse this preference; the facts spoke for themselves. Alone, she could do what she liked, when she liked, how she liked. Alone, she was in complete control. For that reason, and with acknowledgement to William Ernest Henley (though she considered his poem on the whole ridiculous), she had believed that the menace of the years would find her unafraid. She was extremely attractive in a way that many considered supremely English, with perfect skin, cornflower-blue eyes and pale strawberry-blonde hair in a straight shoulder-length bob. So she had good reason, and the evidence of Helen Mirren in her sixties still looking hot in a bikini, to believe she’d remain attractive. And she knew she’d always have the choice to let people, if only briefly, into her life. Even if all her friends eventually slipped away, there would forever be men in bars and clubs who would be up for no-strings sex. It was one of the laws of the universe.

But now the universe was proving unreliably, disturbingly elastic, and any smugness that had accompanied Charlotte’s feeling master of her fate and captain of her soul had been crushed like a bug. By a man who looked as if he should be first in line for the casting of Bill Sikes.

When Charlotte had applied for the job as Patrick King’s personal assistant, all she’d cared about was that the hours were reasonable, the location of his office convenient and the salary fair. She’d had no interest in who he was, though she’d quickly found that this indifference was not shared by others. From those others, she’d learned that her soon-to-be new boss had made a lot of money in property development (the estimates ranged widely, but judging by the fit-out of his offices Charlotte guessed it was several million, and not a million-billion-trillion as one of her friends had declared, spilling her mojito as she stretched her arms out wide to illustrate), and that he might have gained it through criminal activity (the evidence for this being that he was six foot five and had the face and accent of an East End gangster). He was married, and one friend started to mutter about Frances Shea, Reggie Kray’s unfortunate young wife who took her own life, until another friend said that he’d met Patrick King’s wife and, while she was undeniably gorgeous, it would be she who drove people to suicide, not the other way round. Someone else said they thought he had a child, and at that point everyone lost interest and started talking about Damien Hirst.

Once she’d started working for Mr King (she’d politely refused his invitation to call him Patrick), Charlotte also learned that he had a large, extended family of Gypsy origin, whose members phoned and emailed constantly. By noting how fast Patrick (which she did call him in her mind) replied, Charlotte was able to ascertain the family pecking order. At the top by miles was Patrick’s Uncle Jenico, and when he visited the office in person Charlotte could see why. Jenico Herne was like a giant redwood: on one hand, he was tall, broad and majestic; and on the other, if you ran up against him, there was no doubt you’d come off second best. He exuded a calm but categorical promise of retribution to those who might do him or any of his family wrong. Patrick, Charlotte observed, had a similar presence — you’d think twice before annoying him — but he lacked the imperturbable bearing that made his uncle truly terrifying.

Charlotte’s first-hand knowledge of Gypsies was admittedly nil, but, still, she didn’t think Jenico looked as Gypsy-like as Patrick did. Patrick was all dark hair, eyes and skin — swarthy, as Charlotte’s father would say when he was pretending not to be racist — whereas Jenico’s skin was fairer and his hair a dark red. She decided it was a genetic quirk, because two of Patrick’s young cousins had the same red hair and, more intriguingly, so did Patrick’s little son, Tom, who was nearly two.

Charlotte had seen photos of Tom because Patrick had them all over his desk. He also had a few photos of his wife. Her name was Clare, and Charlotte had to admit that she was, indeed, gorgeous — chestnut haired and in her mid-thirties, which made her about ten years younger than Patrick. Clare never came into the office because, according to Patrick, she was too busy with Tom.

So it was to Charlotte’s surprise that Patrick had brought Tom to work one morning. The reason given was that Clare was ill. Charlotte had gathered that Clare being ill was like pandas mating; it almost never happened. Now that it had, it seemed the family had been unprepared.

‘Don’t you have a nanny?’ Charlotte had asked. ‘Or an au pair?’

Patrick had started to say a word beginning with ‘F’, then glanced guiltily at Tom and turned it into a cough. ‘Clare would sooner skin a cat and eat it raw than have a nanny. If I suggested an au pair, she’d skin me.’

‘What about your family? Can’t they help?’

‘Clare suspects that my family skins and eats cats on a regular basis.’

Charlotte had given him a steady look. ‘And do they?’

Patrick had grinned. ‘These days, only on very special occasions.’

Charlotte’s eyes had travelled to where Tom stood, beside the sliding cabinets that housed files. They were very nicely designed sliding cabinets, with whisper-quiet mechanisms that meant they shushed to and fro with barely a sound. At least, they did if you weren’t trying to crash them together, which Tom was. Repeatedly.

Charlotte had given Patrick another steady look. He’d screwed up his face apologetically, and said, ‘I don’t suppose—?’

‘No.’

‘Not even if—?’

‘No.’

Patrick had blown out a breath. ‘Fuck.’

Then the door to the office had opened, and in had walked one of Patrick’s cousins. Despite the regularity of their contact with Patrick, the identities of most of the Herne/King clan tended to blur for Charlotte. She could distinguish Jenico, Patrick’s mother, Consuela, and one of his female cousins, Aishe, only because they were all, in their own way, more than a little scary. Consuela, Charlotte was convinced, would hex her without a qualm, and Aishe was unfailingly impatient and blisteringly rude. Not to Charlotte, but about numerous of Aishe’s own relatives, including Patrick (but not, Charlotte observed, Jenico). Charlotte quite enjoyed her conversations with Aishe.

The cousin who had just walked through the door was Aishe’s brother. He was about thirty-five, dark like Patrick and extremely good looking, but so reticent that if Patrick had not recently hired him to manage a construction project, Charlotte would have had difficulty singling him out from the rest of the muddling Gypsy crowd. Even now, she had to think for a moment to recall his name.

‘Anselo!’

Patrick had greeted him with such bonhomie that anyone who knew him would have been instantly on their guard.

Anselo instantly was. Charlotte had already decided that his good looks were marred by a tendency towards surliness, but in this case she felt he had every right to look distrustful. She’d seen his gaze slide to where Tom stood, happily slamming the filing cabinets.

‘No.’ Anselo had shaken his head. ‘No way.’

‘It’ll be good practice.’

That’s right, Charlotte remembered. Anselo’s wife was about to have a baby.

‘Do you want this project completed on time or not?’

‘What’s one day?’ Patrick had scowled.

‘The difference between on time and not.’

Patrick had scowled harder. ‘Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with him?’

‘Take him to the Natural History Museum, or Madame Tussauds, or something.’

‘He’ll shit himself at Madame Tussauds. And he’ll probably break something at the Natural History Museum. Like a large dinosaur skeleton.’

‘Legoland, then. It’s a bit of a drive, but …’ Anselo had shrugged.

‘How about the zoo?’ Charlotte had said.

Both men had stared at her.

‘Can I go to the zoo in a suit?’

‘I don’t think they charge you more. Just don’t stand too close to the chimpanzees. They can throw quite accurately.’

Patrick had inhaled a deep, slow breath and then turned towards his young son.

‘Come on, you. We’re going to the zoo. And if a chimpanzee so much as fucking looks at me, I’m going to vent my frustrations by kicking his hairy backside from one end of Regent’s Park to the other.’

That had been two months ago. Anselo’s wife had had her baby — a boy, whom they’d called Cosmo. Patrick’s own wife had been ill twice more, and, though Patrick had obviously managed to find a better place for Tom than outside the ape enclosure at London Zoo, Charlotte knew that things weren’t going smoothly on the domestic front. She knew because she’d overheard more than one heated phone conversation, and because she had caught him twice now wearing the same clothes as the previous day, a sure sign that he had not been home.

And some time during those two months, Charlotte had fallen in love with him. Charlotte had not been in love before and was disturbed enough by its symptoms to look them up on a medical website. Even then, it took her quite some time to grasp that a rare strain of Peruvian pig flu was not the reason why, whenever Patrick was around, Charlotte felt her stomach hurtle up through her oesophagus and thump to a halt at the top of her windpipe, dramatically restricting her ability to either speak or breathe.

When she did finally work it out, she was so disgusted by herself that she had to take an early lunch break and go pound the streets, muttering, until she realised her fellow pedestrians were giving her more space than they’d willingly give a sane person. This prompted her to duck into the nearest church, a place she felt would welcome her as it had most likely given up all hope of attracting anyone bar the homeless or the kind of little old lady who still wore interlock undergarments. Sitting on the hard pew, Charlotte had another surge of panic. Unlike the time on the mudbank, Charlotte knew no one could rescue her from this. Short as yet of a solution, she briefly considered praying, until she saw the name of the church’s resident saint, and sensed the hand of the divine prankster sneaking upwards to press the water-filled bulb of his fake buttonhole. This was the church of St Etheldreda. To Charlotte, that said it all.

Still, the church was quiet, and Charlotte managed to compose herself. But no matter how hard she thought, she could not answer her most pressing question: why him? Why on earth had she fallen for this man, when all others (she chose not to be too specific about actual numbers) had left her unmoved, her heart beating no faster than if she’d been reading a job ad in The Times? He wasn’t handsome. He wasn’t ugly either, to be fair, but his features were less refined than, say, his cousin Anselo’s. Yes, he had personal magnetism; people turned their heads when he walked into a room. But any very tall and broad-shouldered man drew your attention, Charlotte decided, simply because they took up a lot of space.

He made no attempt to disguise his Cockney roots, his language was blue, and he was often blunt to the point of tactlessness. Charlotte used to find men like that unappealing. She’d considered those who aspired to geezer-chic to be puerile and deluded. And if they spoke Mockney, she’d felt they deserved to be locked up with real geezers who, with luck, would show them exactly the extent of bodily harm that could be achieved using only a plastic fork. Patrick, however, Charlotte was charmed by. She found his honesty and lack of pretention refreshing, and she admired his truly versatile usage of the word ‘fuck’.

He was kind, too. He asked her questions about herself, and appeared genuinely interested in her, albeit careful, answers. He was brave and optimistic; he disliked problems as much as the next person, but he refused to let them beat him.

Those were fair enough reasons to fall for someone, Charlotte decided in St Etheldreda’s dessicated presence. Reasonable reasons. But it was all the little things, Charlotte was appalled to realise, that had been the true nails in what she could only think of right now as the love coffin. Little things such as the fact he’d occasionally, without being asked, buy her lunch, and that he always remembered what kind of coffee she liked: a latte with one sugar. And what about him telling her she’d done a great job? Charlotte had never before needed that kind of reinforcement; she knew she was an excellent PA. But when Patrick said it, in that genuinely pleased way of his, Charlotte’s insides would melt. It was a miracle, she thought with disgust, that she’d refrained from simpering in return. She’d certainly had the urge.

Charlotte could see now that Patrick’s little gestures of kindness had meant more than she’d been aware. They had sped past all her defences and landed right in the quick of her, where they’d bloomed and spread and consumed her from the inside. For that, and for simply existing, Charlotte damned him to the fiery pits of hell.

Back at the office, Charlotte considered resigning. The parlous state of the employment market, plus the fact she actually enjoyed her job, dissuaded her. She decided, instead, that she would accept her ‘condition’, as she chose to call it, and put her mind to how to deal with it. The strategy she decided on was not giving him a single clue.

At first, Charlotte was convinced that this would work. The skills she’d learned to conceal disappointment in her childhood had been honed in adult life by her determination to ensure one-night stands did not extend even a half hour past that. Charlotte had become an expert in the limited display of emotion, as inscrutable as a pre-age-of-political-correctness Chinaman, a veritable Mr Spock minus the unusual hand gestures. But to her dismay it now became clear that, by distancing herself in this way, she’d reduced the amount of emotion she had to limit to bugger all. Now, by contrast, she was awash with the stuff. It sloshed around inside her as if she were a fish bowl which, no matter how carefully you carried it, always threatened to slop its contents over the sides. Now, her self-control was being tested to its utmost.

It helped that Patrick was increasingly distracted. Well, it helped in that he was less likely to notice anything odd about her. It did not help in that it made her feel pity, and thus even more affection, for him. The water lapped ever closer to the edge of the fish bowl every time Charlotte came into his office and caught him staring off into space, or noticed that his shirt collar was grubby, or that he gave off the faint but unmistakable smell of a cheap pub. Charlotte did not know where he went when he did not want to go home, but she was in no doubt that it had a dart board, a snug and a barman named Reg.

Still, Charlotte hadn’t got to where she was today by being namby-pamby. She was resolved on her strategy of remaining aloof and inscrutable, and did not intend to deviate from it one inch. And that would have been that — if she had not come back to work one evening after drinks with her friends to fetch her phone from where she’d mistakenly left it on its charger.

As she unclipped her phone, Charlotte heard noises coming from behind the closed door of Patrick’s office. She’d made enough of these noises herself to have no trouble identifying them. The woman seemed to have an accent — her yeses had a definite foreign lilt to them, Charlotte decided. He was being quieter, which suggested to Charlotte that the moment of crisis was nigh. What would he yell, she found herself wondering? Most of her liaisons usually petitioned a variation on the Lord God Almighty or Our Saviour, Jesus Christ, although one had once yelled ‘Madonna!’ She wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t meant the ex-Mrs Ritchie.

As it was, behind the door, he just shouted. A single yell that coincided with a foreign (or was it Welsh?) sounding ‘Yes!’ And then it all went quiet, which is when it occurred to Charlotte that they could probably get to the office door quicker than she could get to the main door and, if she didn’t want to lose her job, she’d better leg it.

On her way down the stairs, Charlotte found that her attitude, like a black cab being hailed by someone famous, had done an abrupt U-turn. In place of her determination to be distant there was now a different idea. It was only an idea at this stage, because Charlotte did not yet have a plan for how to put it into action. But a plan she would form, because the idea was far too powerful to ignore. In Charlotte’s mind it started to repeat itself, like a mantra, its six words gaining in charm and seduction every time.

The idea was: ‘If her, then why not me?’

2

Patrick King stood facing his front door and rethought the bunch of flowers in his hand. They’d seemed a good idea when he’d bought them thirty minutes ago. For Patrick (and, he suspected, most men), flowers had always been a safe choice because they could never be the wrong size, not her colour, not her taste, a ridiculous waste of money or the reason she was forced to rearrange absolutely everything on the living-room shelves. Flowers wouldn’t hit the wrong note for the occasion because they had no pretentions to be anything other than cheerful and temporary. Flowers were a gift without risk of reproach. Yet somehow Patrick still sensed that they would not do.

He toyed with the idea of giving them to ninety-two-year-old Mrs Livingstone next door, but decided the shock of receiving flowers from a man for the first time since the year Churchill lit his last cigar might very well stop her heart. He gripped the bunch more firmly and turned the key in his front door.

Inside, Patrick dropped his keys in the bowl on the hallway table. He liked the hallway; it was where his stuff (the items he’d managed to save) had ended up after Clare had redecorated. Here were his prints of Victorian sportsmen, his Georgian card table (the only antique he’d ever bought) and his faded Doulton bowl, an inheritance from his grandmother, of sentimental value only.

Patrick had owned the house for several years before he’d married Clare. It had proved a good investment. Although he had a knack for spotting property trends, he couldn’t pretend that had been his motivation in this case. He’d bought the house because it was near the key members of his extended family, was in decent nick, and had been briefly owned by one of The Who. When they’d married, Clare had moved in with him but had kept hold of her own house, about ten minutes’ walk away, in a slightly less salubrious part of Islington. Her place was much, much smaller, and was now being rented by Anselo and his wife, Darrell. Patrick wasn’t sure they loved having Clare as a landlady, but because Anselo had been a builder before he came to work for Patrick, the couple had no reason to bother Clare about repairs or maintenance — or anything, really. Patrick felt that the arrangement worked well for all concerned. Especially since Darrell had had the baby. Clare didn’t have much time for babies that weren’t her own.

Patrick stood in the quiet of the hall and listened. The stairs at the end led up to the living rooms and bedrooms, and down to the big open-plan kitchen, where Clare spent most of her time with Tom. At one end of the room, under the windows that just dropped below the level of the street, was the kitchen itself. Patrick had originally had an electric stove, but Clare, making the admittedly fair point that he never used it, had replaced it with an Aga. The Aga appeared to Patrick like something out of a Grimms’ fairy tale. Things bubbled in it.

In the middle of the room was a large scrubbed pine table, which sat twelve at a squeeze. The last time twelve people had crammed around it was the Christmas before Tom was born. Clare had insisted that, instead of them schlepping to Jenico’s house as they bloody well always did, those members of Patrick’s family whom she could tolerate could bloody well come here. And so they had, but only after a large amount of behind-the-scenes wrangling, pleading and appeasing from Patrick. Over two years’ later, he was still appeasing those who had not been invited.

At the far end of the room, beside French doors that opened out onto a small Italianate courtyard, there were bookshelves, and a squashy couch facing a television. Not that Clare ever let Tom watch television. Tom was not even allowed to watch educational videos because screen time for under twos was not recommended by paediatric associations, who said mothers should concentrate instead on activities to promote proper brain development. Clare liked to be at the forefront of techniques to promote proper brain development. Last year, Patrick found a CD of Don Giovanni in the bin after Clare had read that Mozart seemed to have a more stimulating effect on microbes in sewage plants than on your baby’s IQ. Now Clare focused on the aforementioned brain-developing activities, which comprised playing, singing and reading together. She had scheduled in appointments every day to play, sing and read with Tom.

At this time, six-thirty in the evening, Patrick knew that if the day had gone well Clare would be having a little sing-along with Tom after his dinner, which would be followed by bath, bed and the reading of a children’s classic. If the day had not gone well, there would be no singing. The presence or absence of his wife’s voice raised in song was what Patrick listened for now.

What he heard was the bang of the French doors, a yell of ‘Oi’, and then the clatter of what sounded like the feet of a thousand-strong orc army hastily scrambling up the stairs. Launching itself around the corner into the hallway, with a banking turn that nearly sent it sideways into the wall, came a dog. It sped past Patrick and came to a skidding halt at the front door, where it stood, tail furiously wagging, and barked.

Patrick just had time to register that the dog was a black Labrador and still a puppy before quieter but no less urgent footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Patrick turned to see his wife, her face pink and her expression enraged.

‘You sod!’ she said.

Patrick, opting to decide she meant the dog, turned to the front door, where said dog was now sitting facing them, its mouth wide open in what looked like a smile, its tongue lolling out limp and damp like a just-used chamois.

‘He was inside for five sodding minutes,’ Clare went on, ‘and he managed to rip apart a cushion and eat the entire bag of carrots I’d left on the bench! So I put him outside, and he dug up my icebergs!’

The name rang a bell. ‘Your … lettuces?’ said Patrick.

‘My sodding roses!’ said his wife. ‘The huge big standard ones! The courtyard looks like the Villa d’Este after the Allied bombing!’

‘Um …’ Patrick chose his next words carefully. He did not want Clare to think he was blaming her for anything. But the fact remained: there was a dog running riot in his house and, for once, it had nothing to do with him. ‘Whose dog is it?’

‘Your sodding cousin’s!’

Mentally, Patrick scratched the bit about it being nothing to do with him.

‘My—?’

‘Aishe!’ said Clare, as if it should have been obvious which of Patrick’s horde of cousins she meant.

The dog wandered over to Patrick and sniffed his shoes. Patrick stooped to fondle the velvety ears, and the dog began to lick his hand with an eagerness that suggested that Patrick’s hand was now his most favourite thing in all of the world.

His wife compressed her lips. ‘Bacon sandwiches for lunch again?’

Patrick straightened up. The dog bounced off the floor, aiming for his hand. Patrick ignored it. ‘Why did Aishe leave her dog with us?’ he said.

‘She didn’t,’ said Clare. ‘She got her charming stooge to do it for her.’

This, Patrick knew, meant Benedict, Aishe’s boyfriend. Benedict had not been born to a posh family, but he’d been smart enough, and his father rich enough, to gain entrance to a public school. Benedict now had the accent, the courteous manner and the kind of tall and slim, pale blond good looks that would make him a shoo-in for a doomed lover role in any new adaptation of RF Delderfield. He could not have been more different from Aishe, who was small, dark and cranky. Patrick saw the merit in sending Benedict to do her dirty work.

‘They’re off to Edinburgh. Aishe’s son’s jazz band is playing in some inter-school competition up there for—’ Clare suddenly broke off. ‘Shit!’ she said. ‘Tom!’ And she dashed back down the stairs.

Patrick forced himself not to run after her. Normally, Clare was hyper-vigilant when it came to her small son, and quick to criticise other mothers who were not. ‘She shouldn’t have taken her eyes off them,’ was her response to any news item in which a toddler had been drowned, lost or run over. If Patrick pointed out that even if you did watch them like a hawk, they were still capable of making a break for it, often with a speed to rival Usain Bolt, Clare would only snort. ‘All the more reason to stay alert,’ she’d say. ‘If you’re too busy reading porn on your Kindle, then you deserve all you get.’

Patrick knew Clare would be cursing herself for her lapse, hating the fact she’d even momentarily failed. If he followed her too quickly, she’d feel he was censuring her. So despite his mind conjuring vivid images of Tom reaching for the knives or placing his head inside the glowing Aga, Patrick counted to ten before he started down the stairs. The dog, seeing his newly beloved hand disappearing, barked once and then raced on down behind.

Clare was standing at the kitchen bench, slamming the lid onto the kettle, a gesture Patrick interpreted to mean that Tom was fine. Sure enough, his son was sitting in front of the squashy couch, playing with his favourite toy, a board with variously shaped holes into which you hammered matching shaped blocks. Tom was really too old for this toy but could not be parted from it. Patrick knew that Clare had tried only yesterday to take it from him for good. The fact it was now in front of Tom was probably another reason Clare was slamming kettle lids.

‘Are you going to hang onto those all night?’ she said to him.

Patrick remembered he had a bunch of flowers in his hand. The tightness of his grip, he observed, hadn’t done them a lot of good.

As he reached out to hand the flowers to Clare, the dog leapt up and seized them in its mouth. It bounced around the floor, worrying the bunch as if it were some kind of large, paper-wrapped, pastel-hued rat.

‘For fuck’s sake!’

Patrick reached down and grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck. Then he whacked it on its rear. The dog yelped, dropped the flowers and shot under the table, where it sat, trembling and whining.

‘Nice one,’ said Clare. ‘You and the Dog Whisperer should form a team.’

Shaking her head, she dropped to one knee to start gathering up the shredded flowers and sodden paper.

Patrick put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that.’

‘No,’ said his wife. ‘You can deal with the dog. And I don’t mean put it outside.’

‘Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with it then?’ Patrick was starting to feel he had some right to be aggrieved. ‘Why’d you say yes if you couldn’t handle it?’

Clare shot to her feet. ‘Because I thought,’ she said, her voice low and furious, ‘that it would be nice for Tom.’

She yanked open the lid of the rubbish bin and shoved the remains of the flowers inside, punching down any recalcitrant stems that refused to fit.

‘I was thinking of our son.’ She slammed the bin shut again. ‘So sue me.’

‘How long are Benedict and Aishe going to be away?’ Patrick asked after a moment.

‘Five days.’

‘Has Tom noticed the dog at all?’

Clare’s gaze travelled to the far end of the room to where Tom was pulling out blocks and hammering them in, over and over again. ‘It licked him and he laughed. He also laughed when it tore apart the cushion. Then, after the carrot incident, I put it outside, and they both forgot the other existed …’

Patrick stared at his wife. He noted how far her cheekbones jutted, how tightly she set her jaw. He saw the dryness around her nose and mouth, and the almost bruised darkness under her eyes.

‘I’ll take the dog to Jenico’s,’ he said.

‘Will he look after it?’ Clare sounded sceptical.

‘Unlikely. But he’ll know someone who will.’

‘Uncle Jenico to the rescue again.’

Patrick shrugged. ‘We are his family.’

‘No,’ said his wife. ‘You are.’

Anselo Herne came home to find his son peacefully asleep in his cot and his wife in the next room, curled up, sobbing, under their bed.

‘For Christ’s sake, Darrell.’ He dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. ‘What have I said about watching the bloody news?’

He stroked her arm until her tears slowed to small hiccupping shudders.

‘Come on,’ Anselo said. ‘Come on out from there.’

He helped her to her feet, and after she’d wiped the last tears from her face, and the dust bunnies from her jeans, he took her hand.

‘Come with me,’ he said.

The next room, being very warm, was redolent with the powdery, yeasty-sweet smell of baby. Being also small, there was enough space only for a low chest of drawers, which doubled as a change table, and a cot that Anselo had built and painted himself. He’d had to make it because the cot his family had given them, the one that had held seven generations of Herne children, proved to be a Victorian mahogany monstrosity that resembled a miniature coffin. Darrell had refused even to touch it. Luckily, one of Jenico’s daughters was about to have a baby of her own, so the coffin cot was reallocated without undue fuss. Anselo, knowing Jenico’s daughter, suspected that rather than holding an eighth-generation Herne, the cot had ended up on eBay, with the proceeds gone towards a brand-new, six-hundred-pound designer sleep unit from Born.

The cot that Anselo had made in record time, with the baby due at any minute, was white-painted pine. Inside it, asleep, was eight-week-old Cosmo. One arm was up beside his head, and his little fist was clenched, so that he looked to Anselo like a tiny unionist pledging solidarity on the strike line. Cosmo’s skin was dark like Anselo’s and his hair was brown, like both his parents. His eyes behind the closed lids were still newborn murky blue, and Anselo secretly hoped they would become Darrell’s grey rather than his own brown. Anselo did not want to feel ashamed of his ethnicity, but he would prefer it if Cosmo did not look so obviously Roma.

‘Look.’ Anselo wrapped his arms around his wife’s shoulders and brought her to the cot. ‘He’s there. He’s fine.’

Darrell had her hands over her face.

‘He was only eight months old.’ Her voice dropped to an appalled whisper. ‘He drowned in the washing machine …’

Anselo resisted the urge to demand how the hell an eight-month-old child could possibly get into a washing machine full of water. As it was, he could feel her shoulders starting to judder again.

Instead, he said, ‘Cosmo’s fine. He’s safe. Don’t you worry.’

He dropped a kiss on her hair, and drew her closer to him into a hug. He hoped that she might reciprocate. But her body remained rigid, her hands in front of her face.

Anselo had to remind himself yet again that he was the one who had it easy right now. He did not have a sea of deranging hormones coursing through him. He was not carrying extra weight, his breasts were not engorged and enormous, and his private parts were unscathed.

But it did not feel easy. It felt, thought Anselo, as if all three of them were on a makeshift raft, and it was his responsibility to keep constantly tightening the ropes, lest the raft split and the half bearing his wife and child become swept away beyond his reach.

Knowing that in the Herne family any hint of domestic unrest was circulated at a speed that warped the space-time continuum, Anselo had not asked any of his female relatives but had Googled how long it might take for a new mother to start feeling human again, instead of, as Darrell had put it, like ‘the bloated corpse of an unhinged minke whale’. The internet gave him varying answers, but the accepted average seemed to be six months.

Four months to go, thought Anselo. Four months of me continuing to do what I’ve done since Cosmo was born: bring home money and food, fulfil my duty as the so-called man of the house. I’ll put on hold any physical or emotional needs of my own because that’s my place, my role — that’s what’s required of me.

Trouble was he was finding it tough enough now to keep the raft ropes tight. One had already slipped momentarily out of his grip, and he regretted it. But if all the intimacy continued to happen only between his wife and child, he thought, what then did they expect his role, his place to be? Did they believe there was any place for him at all?

3

Charlotte brought in coffee for Patrick and Anselo. The two men, rather than sitting around Patrick’s Raul Barbieri glass-topped table working, were slumped in dejected silence at each end of the Arik Levy sofa. Charlotte liked designer furniture and admired the taste of whoever had decorated Patrick’s office, which she knew could never have been Patrick, who if left to his own devices would almost certainly have opted for one of those hideous recliner chairs, probably in faux buttoned leather, as well as a beer fridge and a snooker table, full size.

‘Would you like me to add a dash of whisky? To elevate the spirits, as it were?’ she asked, placing the tray on the table.

The two men raised themselves to stare at her.

‘I thought we were all out,’ said Patrick.

‘No,’ said Charlotte. ‘There’s still the bottle of Suntory single malt that Mr Shimizo gave you in gratitude for making him such a nice profit on the sale of that warehouse in Leonard Street.’

‘Japanese whisky?’ said Anselo. ‘Isn’t that a bit like saying Scottish cuisine?’

‘And it’s attitudes like yours,’ said Charlotte, ‘that have motivated the Japanese to become the powerhouse of innovation and production that they are today.’

‘I thought that was the Chinese,’ said Anselo.

‘The Chinese don’t care what anyone thinks.’ Charlotte held up the coffee pot. ‘Whisky or no?’

Patrick glanced at his watch. It was just after three. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘Why not? But better not put it in my coffee,’ he added. ‘Not even raw moonshine could cut through that amount of milk and sugar.’

‘It’s quite good, isn’t it?’ said Anselo an hour later, holding his third glass up to the light.

‘It is,’ said Patrick. ‘But this had better be the last — I can’t go home pissed. Well,’ he amended, ‘I can, and more than once have. But best not make a habit of it.’

Charlotte was sitting on Patrick’s desk chair (Spoon by Antonio Citterio with Toan Nguyen), which she’d wheeled out alongside the sofa, because the men had decided they didn’t want to drink alone. She wasn’t much of a whisky fan, but she would have happily tipped used machine oil down her throat for the chance to stay in the room and listen in.

‘I could go home with an arm cut off and I’m not sure anyone would notice,’ said Anselo.

‘They would if they wanted you to make tea,’ said Patrick. ‘Though I suppose you could pull the jug lid off with your teeth.’

Then he added, ‘It’s always shit for the first few months. Hang in there.’

Anselo gave the older man a look. ‘And then it gets better, does it?’

Charlotte saw colour flare briefly in Patrick’s cheeks. He sank back into the sofa and stretched out his legs.

‘What’s happened to us won’t happen to you,’ he said. ‘God fucking willing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Anselo, subdued. ‘Is there definitely something wrong?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘They can’t find anything. No problems with his hearing. Mouth and tongue seem to be OK. Apparently doctors don’t worry too much if they’re under two. So we’ve got a week or so before we need to start panicking.’

He lifted his glass and knocked back an amount that made Charlotte wince.

Anselo said, ‘Cosmo’s so young that it’s just all about the basics. Sleep, food, clean pants — that’s it. The sum total of his needs.’

‘Add in the dog track and a pint of stout, and you’ve got Granddad Herne,’ said Patrick. ‘He was a happy little bastard, too.’

Out on Charlotte’s desk, the phone rang. Charlotte hopped up, but Patrick said, ‘Leave it. If it’s important they’ll ring back. If it’s not they can fuck off.’

The ringing stopped. Immediately, over on his own desk, Patrick’s mobile began to buzz.

‘Do you want me to—?’ Charlotte offered.

‘No, it’ll only be some relative.’

Charlotte watched as he hauled himself to his feet, and took his time getting to the desk. The mobile was still buzzing urgently. He snatched it up.

‘Yep? He’s here. Three Suntorys down. Good luck.’

He held out the phone to Anselo. ‘Beatrix. She’s been trying to ring you.’

‘Shit.’ Anselo took the phone, fumbling for his own mobile in his pocket. He scowled at its screen.

‘Sorry,’ he said to the person on the line. ‘Mine’s gone dead. Bloody iPhone batteries are rubbish.’

He listened and scowled harder. ‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

Patrick, now back on the sofa, caught Charlotte’s eye. ‘The only way he’ll get out of this is if he does cut off his arm.’

‘What’s the problem?’ said Charlotte.

Patrick reached for the whisky bottle. ‘No idea. But what I do know is that it’s his and not mine.’ He refilled his glass. ‘Which is the reason I hired him.’

His mobile landed on the sofa next to him, tossed by an irate Anselo.

‘Queen B is on site and needs some decisions made,’ he announced. ‘Right now.’

‘At least she consults you,’ said Patrick. ‘Most architects just spend your money and, when you complain, accuse you of degrading their artistic integrity. Like you’ve spray-painted two hairy bollocks on “And when did you last see your father?”’

‘Beatrix doesn’t have artistic integrity,’ said Anselo. ‘She has a profit margin.’

‘You two make a great team,’ said Patrick, grinning.

Anselo’s parting gesture was a popular one that made use of a single finger.

Charlotte heard the main door shut and realised this meant she and Patrick were alone. Property development did not require a large team of full-time staff. Patrick used numerous contractors, who came in and out of the office regularly. But none of them was here right now.

He’s been drinking was the next thought that went through Charlotte’s mind, followed by: but is he drunk enough to be susceptible if I made a move? Patrick could hold his drink quite well, Charlotte had observed. His exact level of inebriation was hard to gauge.

But any further speculation on the subject ended when he said to her, ‘Charlotte, what the fuck am I going to do?’

‘About?’ Charlotte said cautiously.

‘Everything!’ He threw wide his arms, and the whisky sloshed in his glass. ‘Every fucking thing in my entire fucking life!’

Then he slumped back and ran his free hand over his head. ‘Don’t answer that,’ he said. ‘I don’t pay you to solve my problems.’

‘Well, you pay me to solve some of your problems,’ said Charlotte.

Patrick stared. ‘Like telling pushy real estate agents to go fuck themselves with a pointy sign?’

‘I don’t recall using those precise words.’

He smiled at her with what looked very much like affection, and Charlotte only just managed not to launch herself at him and kiss him until they were both gasping for air.

Then she realised that his smile had faded, and that he was no longer looking at her, but staring off into the middle distance.

It wouldn’t do, she decided. I might get a kiss now. I might get more than that. But that would be it; there would be no encore. And I don’t want instant gratification. I want gratification that endures, like a classic chair design. One you actually want to sit on, she added mentally, which eliminated pretty much everything by Philippe Starck.

Charlotte realised with a slightly uncomfortable jolt of surprise that she had no strategies for making someone fall in love with her. She had strategies for inviting men into her bed, and for ensuring they left again in a timely manner. But that was sex, and while Charlotte knew that many people believed that sex and love should mingle harmoniously, like watercolour paints, she had always preferred a more Mondrian-like approach, with strict lines of demarcation between the physical and the emotional. Until now, Charlotte had been happy for the emotional to remain boxed into the tiny square of yellow in the bottom right-hand corner, while the physical occupied the red square that took up three-quarters of the canvas. She felt at home with the big red square; she felt in control. But now the yellow square was drawing her eye, demanding her attention, and to Charlotte, it looked as huge and foreign as the Gobi Desert.

How does one set about getting close to another person? Charlotte asked herself. All she’d gleaned from watching other people was that ‘being there’ for someone played a key part in forming an emotional bond. Charlotte had previously had no inclination to be anywhere for anyone, and was thus a little fuzzy about what it entailed. But, she reasoned, a) Patrick was a special case, and b) it was never too late to learn a new skill.

‘Perhaps if you separated your assortment of problems into component parts,’ she ventured, ‘then they might seem less daunting?’

‘You say “assortment of problems”. I say “fucking mess”,’ said Patrick. ‘But yeah, fair call. I should stop wasting time whining, and just knuckle down and sort myself out.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ said Charlotte, ‘but let’s not quibble. Pick a problem, any problem, and we’ll go from there.’

Patrick eyed her over his whisky glass. ‘You know this is above and beyond?’

‘Pick,’ said Charlotte firmly.

Patrick began to speak, and Charlotte began to listen as she’d never listened before. Charlotte’s cup of care was rather like one of those joke drinking glasses that only looks as if it has liquid in it, and in the past the point at which she stopped listening generally preceded by some minutes the point at which her friends stopped talking. Amazing, she thought, what love will make you do.

He started out expressing concern for Anselo and Darrell’s marriage. Patrick, it seemed, was more worried than he’d been letting on. He was worried that the couple didn’t seem to talk much anymore, and that Darrell was obsessively clingy about the baby. The pregnancy had been a surprise and, when Darrell had found out about it, she’d panicked to the point where she’d run away, back home to New Zealand, without telling Anselo where she’d gone. Anselo had tracked her down and flown across the world, all the while ‘shitting himself’, according to Patrick, that not only did Darrell intend to get rid of the baby, she may have already done so.

‘She hadn’t, of course,’ said Patrick, ‘and they made up, got married and had Cosmo. But my sense is the two of them were so traumatised by the whole incident that they swept it under the nearest big fucking rug and never dealt with it. And that can’t be good for any relationship, can it?’

Charlotte had no opinion, mainly because the subject was of about as much interest to her as the value of credit derivatives on the Hang Seng. She could not see what relevance it had to Patrick at all. All right, yes, they were family, but Anselo and Darrell were both grown-ups, surely, not lovelorn teens?

But Patrick’s next remark galvanised her.

‘If their marriage does turn to shit,’ he said, ‘Anselo won’t hang around. The humiliation will do him in; he’s always cared far too much about what everyone else thinks of him. And if he goes, I might as well shut this business up now. I haven’t got the energy to keep it going without him, so I might as well get out.’

Charlotte was appalled. If Patrick closed the business, then she would have no job. If she had no job, there would be no Patrick. That was a future simply not to be contemplated.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Charlotte, a little too sharply. ‘You ran this business single-handedly for years. Why do you suddenly need Anselo?’

‘Because when I started this business, I was young,’ said Patrick. He drained his glass. ‘And now I’m old.’

He cut Charlotte off mid-protest. ‘I’ve got responsibilities now I never had back then. A wife, and a child with … issues. And I probably shouldn’t be telling you this — if I start to complain of boils on my nuts, it’s because I’ve been hexed — but I’ve been shoulder-tapped to be the next head of the family. Jenico’s looking to retire.’ Patrick waved his glass around again. ‘How am I going to fucking manage everyone else’s lives when I can’t even sort out my own?’

Charlotte did not yet have a reply. Every cell in her brain was at the mental alert equivalent of DEFCON 1. The most immediate threat was Anselo and Darrell; her first task was to ensure they stayed married. As potential interventions raced through her mind, it occurred to her that there could be benefits beyond preserving the business and her connection with Patrick. If she could find a neat way to solve all his problems, she might very well become the most important person in his life.

‘Have you considered taking a holiday?’ she heard herself say.

Patrick blinked at her. ‘A holiday?’

‘Sometimes a break from routine is all you need. You can recharge, regroup. Come back with a new perspective on life.’

‘A holiday?’ said Patrick again.

‘A long one,’ said Charlotte firmly. ‘At least a month. And somewhere nice. So not Blackpool. Or the Costa del Sol.’

‘We can’t.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘Not with Tom. Clare’s freaked out enough as it is. The stress of travelling with a toddler would do her head in completely.’

‘What if she had childcare?’ said Charlotte. ‘Travelling with her?’

Patrick snorted. ‘She wouldn’t trust Tom with the Dalai fucking Lama! She barely trusts him with me!’

Charlotte folded her arms and sat back in the Spoon chair, swivelling to and fro with her toe as she pondered.

Then she said, ‘Leave it to me.’

When the idea about the holiday had leapt into Charlotte’s head it had run along the lines of: organise a trip to somewhere nice, preferably in Europe; offer her services as childminder so that she could go along; and find some way to sort out Darrell and Anselo’s marriage, while, more importantly, taking every opportunity to drive a wedge into Patrick’s own, separating him from his wife so that she, Charlotte, could then embed herself into his life and his heart. Simple.

Charlotte’s conscience generally didn’t trouble her. She was careful never to mislead any man into believing there might be more than just one night in bed, or any friend into thinking she was their bosom pal. She was always crystal clear about the limits of her involvement, and if people felt hurt or aggrieved, in Charlotte’s opinion, that was their own insecurity at work. She had nothing to reproach herself for.

But her conscience was nagging her now, like her mother after the third gin. After the fourth gin, Charlotte’s mother would switch from accusatory to maudlin and, after the fifth, she’d go back to bed, so Charlotte had learned to bear with the nagging phase, knowing it would soon be over. Unfortunately, her conscience seemed to be stone cold sober. How dare you even think about breaking up a marriage? it said. You are acting not only like a woman with a cold-blooded lack of morals, but also like a woman unhinged. In a movie, you’d be played by Glenn Close. You’re like a book character created by Minette Walters. Or Fay Weldon. What in God’s name, Charlotte Fforbes, (said her conscience) is compelling you to behave like a woman who would turn Flopsy into consommé?

Charlotte knew these were fair questions. And the only answer she had was: I’m in love. That might seem like a feeble justification to you, she told her conscience, but I am compelled. Love controls my thoughts, my sleep, my eating, even my breathing. I can’t fight it; its pull is the tune of the Pied Piper, and I am a child of Hamelin. When I’m with Patrick, it’s like the sun on my face after decades underground, warmth inside where there was frozen sea, a promise of life instead of a trail of coffee spoons marking the way to dusty death. I don’t expect you to understand this, conscience, thought Charlotte, because your job is to be — what is Patrick’s teenage cousin’s phrase? Oh yes, an utter buzz-kill. I respect you, conscience, and I acknowledge that you have a point. But you can sod off. I love Patrick and I will do anything to be with him.

Turning back to her simple plan, Charlotte began to realise that achieving it could prove to be not so simple. Patrick might be amenable, but Clare was more problematic. These days, Charlotte gathered, Patrick’s wife was practically housebound. Seems Clare could no longer cope with the looks other mothers exchanged behind her back when they realised that Tom could not talk. Charlotte had the impression that Clare, in earlier days, would have been quick to defend her son’s development, pointing out numerous famous, high-achieving people who also had speech issues when young. She would have rattled off a list of over forty such people, from Tiger Woods all the way back to Moses.

But the older Tom got, the less convinced Clare had become that his lack of speech was not connected to his intelligence. ‘She grilled me about our family,’ Charlotte had overheard Patrick say to Anselo. ‘Wanted to know how many retards and thickos were on the tree. I said I thought I was the only one. She didn’t find that amusing.’

Clare had stopped taking Tom to playgroup. She even resisted taking him to the park, leaving that to Patrick. Persuading her to take Tom first on a plane and then to a European country where women were genetically programmed to coo and cluck around small boys would be, Charlotte realised, quite a challenge.

And even if the holiday idea was accepted, there was the small matter of Charlotte’s own childminding experience. She had none. She had not grown up with younger siblings or cousins, and had no nieces or nephews. Her elder sister was childless. Charlotte’s school friends had been keen to make money babysitting, but Charlotte had always found small children both unappealing and pointless. To her, they were on a par with pet guinea pigs — you were never sure exactly how to hold them, they squealed and bit, and they rarely responded to your attempts to entertain them. While her former school friends had almost certainly grown up to have multiple children of their own, Charlotte did not even feel inclined to get a cat.

Despite these apparent barriers, Charlotte was still convinced she’d be able to form a plan. She was a firm believer in there being a way if there was a will, and Charlotte’s will was of a quality that the village smithy would find it useful if he ever misplaced his sounding anvil.

So when she received the phone call, it confirmed Charlotte’s view that there was no such thing as luck or coincidence, but that the forces of the universe had once again focused themselves through the prism of her self-determination.

The person on the phone, a woman, wanted to speak to Anselo.

‘He’s not in the office,’ said Charlotte. ‘May I give you his mobile number?’

‘Tried that,’ said the woman. ‘Went to voicemail. I can’t leave him a message because that’ll make it too easy for him to say no. I need to cajole him in person. Or threaten him. Whatever works.’

‘I see,’ said Charlotte.

‘Yes, you sound like you would,’ said the woman. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘Charlotte Fforbes. Patrick King’s personal assistant.’

‘You said Fforbes with two fs. I heard you. Are you any relation to the Fforbes in North Yorkshire?’

‘Do you actually know some Fforbes in North Yorkshire?’ said Charlotte.

‘I asked you first.’

Charlotte decided she liked this woman. Whoever she was. ‘What do you want with Anselo?’

‘I’ll tell you. If you get bored it’s your own fault. I’m Michelle, best friend of Anselo’s wife, Darrell. I used to live happily in the United States. But at the end of last year, my husband, Chad, decided to take leave of his senses, or as he insists on calling it, a sabbatical, and spend a year travelling the world with our two small children and, despite my best efforts to thwart him, me. We’ve been through South East Asia, where we had food poisoning; various Pacific islands, where we had tropical storms; Australia, where we had spiders the size of miniature pigs; and New Zealand, where we had my mother. We had a big fight because he wanted to go to Africa, but then some tourists in Uganda were conveniently beheaded, so we ended up in South America, where we reacquainted ourselves with food poisoning. We then had a huge fight because he wanted to go to Russia before it got too cold, and I said if he took us to Russia he would never have sex again, and for more serious reasons than because I’d refuse to have it with him. Then he suggested the Black Isle of Scotland, and that’s why we’re now touring northern France and why I’ve booked us into a villa in Lombardy for a month in four weeks’ time. And that is why I need to talk to Anselo.’

‘Is the villa in need of repair?’ said Charlotte.

‘Better not be,’ said Michelle. ‘For the amount of moolah I’ve forked out, I expect to be fed sweetmeats by vestal virgins and have my body oiled by eunuchs. No, I need Anselo to persuade Darrell to come over and keep me company. I had invited another friend, but the treacherous cow pulled out on me at the last minute. Shame, because I was planning to hit her up for half the cost. Won’t have any such luck with Darrell, as she’s of the cheese-paring type, but at least if she’s around, I have an excuse to escape from my family. After nearly eight months of enforced togetherness, I’m fantasising about them being abducted by black-market organ traders.’

‘How large is the villa?’ said Charlotte.

‘Huge! Vast! With luck, my husband and children will never find me.’

‘Large enough for — let’s say — five other adults and two children?’

‘I detect a whiff of machination in that seemingly innocuous question,’ said Michelle. ‘Should I take this to mean, Charlotte Fforbes with two fs, that for selfish reasons of your own, you intend to help effect my plan?’

Charlotte smiled. ‘Leave it to me.’

4

‘Any progress?’

Patrick handed a pint to Anselo, and sat down in the leather armchair opposite.

Anselo glanced around the pub. ‘I took Darrell for a drink here when I first met her,’ he said. ‘I wanted to ask her out, but I didn’t even get close. Epic fail, as our teenage cousins would say.’

‘So no progress then?’ said Patrick.

‘Not really. You?’

‘I have broached it with Clare,’ said Patrick. ‘Well, I sort of slid the idea into conversation.’

‘Did it slide right on out again?’

‘Like a bar of soap in a prison shower.’

The men drank beer in silence.

‘Is it actually a good idea, this holiday?’ said Patrick, when half his pint was gone. ‘Whenever Charlotte talks to me about it, I’m one hundred per cent convinced. But somehow, when she’s not in the room …’

‘Logistically speaking,’ said Anselo, ‘the timing’s perfect. The building project will be a gnat’s away from being finished. Beatrix can handle the last of it, and if she needs me I’m on the phone. That deal you’re working on will be at paperwork stage, so all you’ll need to do is pay the lawyers’ bills and let them wrangle. And you don’t have anything else on the boil, do you?’

Patrick had half an ear on the pub jukebox. Someone had programmed it to play The Who’s Who Are You? Patrick had the original 1977 album and the 1996 reissue with the additional verse, where Roger (or Pete, Patrick supposed) lamented that he must have lost his direction because he ended up a superstar. On the jukebox, Roger was singing the family-friendly version of the chorus. In his mind, Patrick filled in the two-word blank between ‘who’ and ‘are you’.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t have anything else to do.’

‘Do you want to spend a month in Italy?’ asked Anselo. ‘With us? And Michelle and her tribe? And Charlotte? And fifty million tourists?’

Patrick shrugged. ‘I suppose. A break from routine’s always good.’

Recharge, he thought. Regroup. Come back with a new perspective. Can miracles happen in a month, Charlotte?

‘What about you?’ he said to Anselo. ‘Do you want a break?’

‘I have an eight-week-old baby,’ said Anselo with a short laugh. ‘By all accounts I’m not due for a break until he turns twenty-one.’

Patrick had as yet only dipped a toe in the dark pool that was the topic of his younger cousin’s marriage. He’d persuaded himself that any couple with a new baby spent the first weeks with a fingernail-grip on the edge of sanity, so there’d be time for things to improve. But it did concern him that Darrell appeared to spend all her waking hours with Cosmo strapped to her, wearing the exact same expression as if he were a suicide bomber’s vest, and that Anselo seemed energised at work, but quiet, even circumspect, whenever Patrick now saw him with Darrell.

Patrick had known Anselo since he was born. He’d been a wary, quiet child, sandwiched uncomfortably between two boisterous older brothers and two hard-headed and outspoken younger sisters. And then, when Anselo was twelve, the Herne children’s much-loved father had died, suddenly, of a brain aneurysm. Jenico had stepped in to give them support, but the family had never really recovered emotionally. Due to all these factors, perhaps, Anselo had spent most of his teens and young adulthood nurturing an inferiority complex as dense and challenging as Hampton Court maze.

I didn’t help that, thought Patrick. When he asked me for a job more than a decade ago, just as I started making big money, I misread him completely. Pegged him as a cold-blooded, greedy little bastard who wanted a free ride on the King money-train, and gave him short shrift.

It wasn’t until Darrell came along that Patrick found out that Anselo had hero-worshipped him for years, and had seen the job as a chance to emulate his older cousin. Patrick had taken steps to repair the damage and close the distance between them, first by making Anselo godfather to Tom, then by offering him the job he’d wanted all those years ago. Anselo had proved excellent in the role, for which Patrick was grateful. He’d never had a business partner before, and the relief of being able to offload work and responsibility onto someone else was surprisingly immense. But despite this new, more equal dynamic between them, Anselo’s nature, and, Patrick had to admit, some residual guilt on his own part, meant that the gap had never been fully sealed. We’re friendly enough, thought Patrick, but we’re not true friends. That’s why I find it so hard to talk to him about his marriage. If I’m to be head of the family, however, he told himself, this’ll be my duty. I’ll have no choice but to grow a fucking spine.

‘A holiday would give you more time with Darrell,’ said Patrick.

Anselo shot him a sharp look. ‘You think I need to spend more time with Darrell?’

Fuck, thought Patrick. Oh, well, in for pound. ‘Don’t you think she’s … struggling a bit?’

‘And that’s my fault, is it?’ Anselo squared his shoulders.

‘I didn’t say that. You know I didn’t—’

But Anselo wasn’t listening. He sat forward and stabbed his finger at the tabletop. ‘She sees everything as a threat to the baby. Everything! It’s OTT! When I mentioned the holiday, she made flying easyJet to fucking Milan Linate sound like rafting up the greasy Limpopo to a leper colony!’

‘Look, I’m no shrink,’ said Patrick, ‘but losing her first husband like that must have been a shock. You don’t expect a bloke to suddenly drop dead in his early thirties, do you?’

‘No,’ said Anselo. ‘My dad at least waited until he was forty.’

Doing bloody brilliantly so far, King, thought Patrick. Dig more of a hole and you’ll pop out in a wonton stall in Guangzhou.

‘Sorry,’ said Patrick. ‘I liked your dad, even though he kicked my arse on regular occasions. He was hard but fair. A top bloke.’

Anselo stared at the jukebox. ‘So everyone says.’

Patrick waited, not trusting himself, and was relieved to see the younger man’s shoulders relax. When Anselo met his eye again, the look on his face was almost ashamed.

‘I probably do need to spend more time with Darrell,’ he said. ‘It’s just that she makes it so … hard.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll get Clare on board, and we’ll help you with Darrell.’

‘Thought Clare had already said no?’

‘She did,’ said Patrick, ‘but Charlotte’s tracked down a Cambridge University study that proves exposure to foreign languages at a young age vastly improves a child’s own facility for speech. I’m considering showing it to Clare.’

Anselo raised an eyebrow. ‘Only considering?’

Patrick stared into his now empty pint glass. ‘Believe it or not, the subject of Tom not talking hasn’t actually come up between us. We both know that we both know but — no need to point out the irony — we haven’t talked about it.’

Anselo looked at his own glass, which was still three-quarters full.

‘Oh, I believe it,’ said Anselo. ‘Some words have a habit of staying unsaid.’

Patrick managed to get his key in the front door on the third try. Anselo had gone home after only a couple of rounds, an example that Patrick had applauded but failed to follow. The pub had been Anselo’s choice. Patrick’s own local was closer to his Clerkenwell office, and wasn’t, he admitted, going to win awards for its menu or ambience any time soon. But as long as you didn’t mind that your feet didn’t always lift off the carpet first go, and knew, if anyone decided you were looking at them funny, how to stare back in a way that ensured any such claim withered in their mouths, the pub was a good place to drink.

Anselo’s pub had been a good pub in a different way. It had a jukebox, into which Patrick had programmed Pinball Wizard, Baba O’Riley and an encore of Who Are You?, followed by Ziggy Stardust and Heroes, which he’d sung along to, while exhorting the couple at whose table he’d somehow found himself sitting to join in. They were regulars here, they’d told him. Been coming here since they were married, thirty-five years ago. Overcome by this towering display of loyalty, Patrick had pulled out a handkerchief and loudly blown his nose. And then he’d bought them all another round.

Probably that hadn’t been the wisest decision, thought Patrick, as he attempted to close the front door quietly behind him. Neither had been ordering the pizza with extra hot sausage. Patrick could already feel it fomenting an armed insurrection in his gut.

The hallway was dark, and there was no light coming from the kitchen below, or the rooms above. Instinct suggested the best direction to head in right now was the opposite one to any person who might be sleeping — or, worse, might not be — so Patrick made his way very carefully down the stairs. It was amazing, he thought, how hard you could focus on putting one foot in front of the other and yet still fuck it up. No wonder babies were born not knowing how to walk. Learning to was good practice for getting rat-arsed in later life.

At the kitchen door, he swore, his shin having struck a hard object that seemed to be blocking his way. He ran his hand over the wall to find the light switch and, after a few moments of blinking and more swearing, could see that said object was an old fireguard that was propped against the doorway and kept firmly in place by a pile of bricks on one side, and a moss-covered garden statue on the other.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Patrick. Giving thanks that his height reduced the threat to his crotch, he stepped over the guard and into the kitchen.

The room looked the same as usual. Everything was clean and tidy. Patrick had no idea why there should be a fireguard blocking the door, and no inclination to think of one. He hung his suit jacket over a chair, and went to drink water from the tap — two activities frowned on by Clare. He splashed some water on his face, and wiped it with a tea towel, which he left screwed up on the bench, a move that not only risked a frown but also the distinct possibility that the tea towel would be served up to him in place of his morning toast.

Despite regular reminders of his recent pizza, which made him wary of standing too close to an open flame, Patrick opened the refrigerator. There was plenty of food, if you looked at it one way. If you looked at it another, there were vegetables, hummus, goat cheese, skim milk and rice bread. But fuck me, he rejoiced, there was also a beer. He knew he shouldn’t, but he took it. It was one beer. It could not make his condition materially worse.

He carried the beer to the squashy sofa and sank down with relief. He liked this sofa. It was too short for him to lie on full-length, but soft enough for that not to matter if he chose to sleep here. Which he had, possibly more often than a marriage guidance counsellor would approve. And he would again tonight, he decided, because, frankly, he could not be fucked moving.

Patrick laid his head against the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and breathed in the room. Ignoring his own beer-and-pizza-gas odours, he could smell orange-scented cleaning fluid, notes of vanilla, baked sugar and coffee, a hint of play-dough, and above all, in this, his son’s favourite place, Tom’s own scent, which Patrick did not have words to describe but which filled him with emotions that surged from aching, heart-ripping love to gasping terror.

Patrick’s father had walked out when he was two, and he knew that his mother had struggled with her only son from birth. They’d continued to battle right through until he’d left home at sixteen. We fought at first because I was little and didn’t know better, thought Patrick, but later on because I chose to be a shit.

Even now that he and she had been back on speaking terms for over twenty-five years, even now that he’d become everything she’d ever wished for — rich, settled down with a wife and son — Patrick’s mother still beat her hand against her heart. The pain, she’d tell him. Still, I hold here such pain!

Will Tom be causing us pain for that many years? Patrick wondered. Will he ever intend to, or will it always be out of his control?

He realised he could hear breathing. Was it his own? He held his breath and listened. He could still hear it. The breathing, he worked out, was coming from the floor in the corner, between the edge of the shelves and the wall, as if something were curled up there, asleep. For one horrible moment, Patrick thought it might be Tom — that, unbeknownst to Clare, he’d sneaked down there in the night. He got to his feet with more haste than was wise, lurched into the shelves and knocked Clare’s box set of Child of Our Time (The First Ten Years) onto the floor.

From the corner there came a whine and a panting noise, and suddenly Patrick found himself besieged by a licking, crooning, leaping Labrador puppy.

‘You’re fucking kidding me.’ Patrick sank back down onto the sofa and fended off the puppy as best he could.

‘What in the name of fuck almighty are you doing here?’ he said to it.

‘Aishe dropped him off.’

Clare, wearing one of Patrick’s T-shirts, which on her hung down to mid-thigh, was standing behind the fireguard. She stepped over it, with considerably more ease and grace than he had, Patrick noted, and came across to lean against the shelves. The puppy bounced over and quickly sniffed her feet, then bounced back to Patrick.

‘Aishe’s son’s band won the inter-school contest,’ said Clare. ‘And now they’ve been invited to perform in that well-known jazz capital, Düsseldorf.’

‘She’s got a fucking nerve,’ said Patrick. The puppy tried to gnaw on his hand, and he cuffed it lightly on its nose. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take this pest back to her tomorrow. And give her what for.’

‘No …’ Clare expelled a weary breath, and came and plumped herself onto the sofa next to him. ‘No, I offered. She rang to tell us they were all going away, and I offered.’

Patrick frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because I was pissed off at myself for not coping the last time.’ Clare reached down and fondled the puppy’s ears. ‘It’s only a baby. I should have had better strategies for handling it.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Clare,’ said Patrick. ‘Strategies are for Barack Obama figuring out how to keep the free world safe from armed lunatics. A puppy is a hairball of energy without a brain. No “strategy” is going to make it easier to handle.’

His wife did not look up, but continued to caress the dog, which had now flopped onto its side, and was lying at their feet, tongue lolling.

Patrick said, more gently, ‘I’ll find somewhere for him. You’ve got enough on your plate.’

And, wondering if he was doing the right thing, he laid a hand on her hair and lightly stroked it.

She did not respond, and Patrick was about to remove his hand, when she said, ‘How smashed are you?’

‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Were you at The Star?’

‘Uh, no. The Danbury. With Anselo.’

Clare sat up and gave him a look. ‘Anselo? I thought he was a paragon of a husband.’

Her move had dislodged Patrick’s hand. He now used it to scratch behind his ear, a reflex action whenever he was embarrassed.

‘He didn’t stay the whole time.’

‘Had to rush off home, did he? No surprise.’ Clare folded her arms. ‘He can hear one of Darrell’s snivels a mile away, like a faithful hound tuned to his master’s voice.’

Patrick’s instinct was to defend Anselo, until his mental logic pointed out that the actions of his younger cousin highlighted a conjugal dedication that was conspicuously absent from his own.

But, unusually, Clare seemed unconcerned that her husband had come home late and plastered. Patrick began to wonder what was distracting her. His mind circulated a number of possibilities, some of them frankly terrifying. He tried his best to remain optimistic.

‘Italy,’ said Clare.

Patrick felt that subject could go either way, so he kept quiet.

‘Remember that trip we took there?’ his wife went on.

‘Yes?’ seemed a safe answer.

Clare lay back on the sofa. ‘That little house on the clifftop. Mario and Vincente told us to go.’

Mario and Vincente were the Italian brothers who owned the café where Patrick and Clare had first met. Thrilled that their humble surroundings had ignited the flames of amore in two of their regulars, the brothers urged the pair to take two weeks on the Ligurian coast, in a house owned by another brother, or a cousin, or a cousin’s brother — Patrick had lost track in the voluble outpouring of generosity. Suspecting the guarantees of delight might be akin to those made by boys in the souk about their Uncle Abdul’s carpet shop, Patrick’s expectations had not been high. But it had been glorious. At least, he’d thought so, and he was pretty sure Clare had too.

‘All we did,’ she added, ‘was swim, eat, drink and fuck.’

Her sigh sounded contented, but Patrick felt compelled to make a final check.

‘That was good, wasn’t it?’ he said.

Clare raised an eyebrow at him. ‘I had eight orgasms in one day,’ she said. ‘I think you could safely say that was good.’

‘Eight?’ said Patrick. ‘Jesus, really? We did it eight times in one day?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

Patrick made an apologetic face. ‘Men’s brains shut down when they have sex. It’s a well-known fact.’

‘Hmm.’

Smiling, Clare pulled her feet out from under the once more soundly sleeping puppy, and hooked over one knee to sit straddled across Patrick’s lap, facing him.

‘How smashed did you say you were again?’ she said, placing her hands on his hips. ‘Because I can always go back up to bed …’

Patrick couldn’t entirely blame his feeling of disconnection on the drink. This was the first time Clare had willingly offered to have sex with him in more months than Patrick could remember. To test whether or not he was dreaming, he tentatively slipped his hand up under her — his — T-shirt. And found that it was all she had on.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Jesus.’

Clare began to unbuckle his belt. ‘He’s not with us right now,’ she said. ‘But give me a decent fifteen minutes, and you can call on him all you like.’

5

Darrell adjusted the shoulder straps on the front-facing baby-carrier and looked down on the dark fuzz of Cosmo’s hair as he slept, his head cradled by the padded support. The baby-carrier, Darrell remembered well, had been chosen because the marketing blurb promised that you could carry your baby high enough up to check their breathing. There was something else about ‘essential closeness’, but Darrell had latched onto the sentence about breathing, mainly because it had never occurred to her that her baby’s might need checking when he was sleeping against her chest. At night, yes — Darrell knew all about cot death, and was vigilant about changing the batteries in the baby monitor. But she’d assumed during the night was the only time a baby might stop breathing. Until she’d read the baby carrier brochure.

Ninety per cent of sudden deaths, Darrell knew, happened to babies under six months old. Cosmo was less than half that now, and Darrell found herself, much like a prisoner in solitary, chalking off the days to that magical six-month mark. Six months was also when Darrell intended to stop breastfeeding. Darrell found breastfeeding exhausting and claustrophobic, and she was frustratingly ineffective at expressing. But bottle-feeding, according to the authority on all things baby — Clare — posed manifold threats to Cosmo’s health, both physical and psychological. Darrell was not keen to risk it, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was more afraid of: compromising Cosmo’s immune system and emotional development, or facing the disapproval of Clare.

‘Do you want me to carry him?’

Anselo was at her side, baby bag on his shoulder. Darrell saw his eyes travel to her hands, which were still fiddling with the carrier’s shoulder straps.

‘He must be getting heavy now,’ he said. ‘Or we could get a pram? They don’t all cost as much as a house in Peckham.’

The mention of a pram filled Darrell with the usual ambivalence. Part of her longed for a pram, yearned to be free of the stifling feeling of still being umbilically connected to her baby. But if something went wrong because she wasn’t close enough to notice it, she would never forgive herself. Darrell battled with these counterpoints every day. She was secretly glad that the risk of smothering meant she and Anselo did not have to share their bed with Cosmo. But she agonised over the fact that, because their bedroom was simply too tiny to fit even a bassinet, Cosmo had to sleep in the other room. A little distance was a relief, thought Darrell. But too much felt like you were tempting fate.

‘No, I’m fine,’ Darrell said. ‘You can take him at the café, though. If you want.’

Anselo opened the front door and waited for her to go through. ‘Sure,’ he said.

‘Why do we do this every Saturday?’ Darrell said to him, as they walked up the road to the café. ‘I mean, Patrick’s fine. I adore Patrick. But … well, you know.’

‘We don’t have to,’ said Anselo. ‘I can explain to Patrick.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Darrell. ‘But how will he explain it to her? If he concocts some tale about us taking up Saturday morning water babies or infant t’ai chi classes, or anything like that, I’ll be grilled mercilessly about how we’re finding it. And if I try to fob her off with some blather along the lines of “Oh, it’s great,” I’ll then be subjected to a litany of research that confirms any benefit I may have observed has been a product of my own ignorant delusion.’

‘You shouldn’t let Clare intimidate you,’ said Anselo. ‘Doesn’t matter what she thinks.’

Darrell tried very hard not to hate her husband at that moment. But it was a bit rich, she felt, for him to accuse her of being at the mercy of other people’s opinions when he’d spent his whole life being acutely sensitive to what others thought of him. Patrick in particular, although the brew of admiration and resentment towards his older cousin that had been on full hubble-bubble when she’d met Anselo had reduced markedly since Patrick asked Anselo to join him in business.

Darrell had initially had misgivings about this, feeling it might be better for Anselo if he continued being self-employed. His building business had been growing, and Darrell had noted a corresponding increase in Anselo’s levels of confidence and ease with himself. She’d worried that taking up Patrick’s offer would put her husband in the shadow of the man he considered the epitome of success, and that Anselo would once more begin to fixate on the gap he imagined lay between them.

But so far, Darrell hadn’t seen that happen. If anything, it was Patrick who had seemed to step back and let Anselo take more of the lead. Darrell knew, as all the family did, that the situation with little Tom had become increasingly difficult, so she supposed that was the reason. To her annoyance, she found this was yet another situation about which she had mixed feelings. On the upside, Anselo had risen to the challenge and was looking and sounding more confident than he’d ever done. Which made him a great deal easier to be around, Darrell had to rather guiltily admit. On the downside, the opportunities to experience this benefit were increasingly limited due to the fact Anselo was spending a lot of time at work. More than Darrell had bargained on. More than Anselo had promised …

Darrell had been five months’ pregnant when Patrick had offered the job to Anselo.

‘I can’t take it,’ Anselo had said to Darrell. ‘It’ll put too much pressure on you.’

Darrell had agreed with him wholeheartedly. But a dead person could have sensed how much he wanted this, so she kept her thoughts to herself. ‘You must take it.’ She’d made sure she sounded convincing. ‘It’ll be a terrific opportunity, and probably great fun to boot.’

‘But how will you find time to write?’

His relief had been palpable when Darrell had replied, ‘With luck, the little blighter will be a good sleeper. And if he isn’t, I’m sure one of your younger cousins will be happy to earn a few extra quid taking him for long walks in the park.’

‘I’ll keep my hours down. Patrick will understand.’

And he had kept them down, at first. But in the last few weeks, Darrell had noticed a gradual but inexorable extension — leaving earlier in the morning and coming home later at night. Darrell knew that Patrick was not asking this of him; Anselo’s choice of hours was entirely his own. If his choice was being driven by a dedication to the job, it would be easier to cope with.

But it isn’t, is it? Darrell thought. Anselo’s spending more time at work because he’s less happy spending time with me. I know that’s my fault, she told herself. Since Cosmo was born, I’ve been so wrapped up with him that it’s no wonder Anselo feels on the outer. I don’t want to be so focused on the baby, but I can’t help it. Even when Cosmo’s asleep — and by golly, is he a champion sleeper — I can’t switch off completely. It’s like an incredibly important upcoming event you’re so terrified you’ll forget that it keeps leaping into your consciousness, creating a little electric jolt of fear every time. It makes it so difficult to be present for anyone else, including Anselo. So I suppose I have no one else to blame now he’s choosing to be not so present for me.

I wish I knew what to do about it, Darrell thought. I miss so much what we had BC: Before Cosmo. We’d barely been together a year before I got knocked up, and I loved feeling that it was just we two. I loved being able to phone Anselo whenever I was tired, bored or fed up, and have him chat to me, or even drop what he was doing and come back home. ‘I’ll say I’m out getting supplies,’ he’d say. ‘Do you want a custard tart from the café?’

I miss those custard tarts, thought Darrell. I even miss his old voicemail, with the gruff ‘Anselo Herne. Leave a message.’ Now, I get that message recorded for him by that posh bird from his office, Charlotte or Scarlett or whatever her name is, with the hint of dominatrix or dog trainer about her vowels.

It occurred to Darrell that Charlotte-or-Scarlett was exactly the type that the innocent but gutsy heroines in her romance novels had to do battle with to win their billionaire hero. Said billionaire always had a mistress ensconced in some Manhattan or Parisian apartment, with whom he was exchanging an accommodation of his sexual demands for, most usually, a large amount of emerald jewellery. The transactional nature of this relationship would become unsatisfactory to the mistress the instant the gutsy innocent entered the scene, and she’d begin a merciless campaign to reduce the heroine to dust with a swift grind of her Louboutin heels. It never worked. The scales invariably fell from the billionaire’s eyes, and the shards of ice melted within his heart. He’d declare that he no longer desired to protect himself emotionally with a shield of clinical perfection, and what he really wanted was a full-figured young girl with simple charms, who would tell him right out when he was being a prick. And then he’d marry her and take her off to his private beach in the Maldives.

It then occurred to Darrell that she’d spent the last five minutes in her head, and that they were now actually at the café, where Patrick and Clare, with Tom, were already waiting at an outside table, under a green sun umbrella. Darrell regretted the mental excursion because now she had no time to plan what her tactics might be if Clare launched into her about something to do with Cosmo. She also regretted not taking up Anselo’s offer to strap on the baby carrier. It was mid-July, already seventeen degrees at ten in the morning, and Cosmo felt like a hot-water bottle filled against safety advice with boiling water. A little pool of sweat was starting to gather in Darrell’s cleavage where Cosmo’s head lay, but as he was still asleep, she was reluctant to move him. She sank down into a spare chair, grateful for the umbrella’s shade, and glanced towards Anselo for reassurance and potential aid. But he’d already slung the baby bag down and gone inside to order. He didn’t have to ask what she wanted — he had it off by heart. Darrell knew she should be pleased that he had bothered to memorise her preferences. But she wasn’t. She was resentful. He’d gone off and left her unprotected, and now all she could do was sit and wait for Clare to begin her inevitable assault.

The realisation that she absolutely did not want to be here raced through Darrell. But where did she want to be, and with who? Right at this very moment, those were questions she wasn’t at all sure she could answer.

Clare opened her mouth to speak. Darrell braced herself.

‘So we’re all going to Italy,’ said Clare, ‘to share a villa with your friend Michelle. What’s she like?’

Darrell couldn’t help a glance at Patrick. Surely, thought Darrell, Patrick had given Clare his opinion on Michelle? He’d met her last year when he’d travelled to the States to look at buying a winery (although rumour around the Herne family was that he had needed to escape the pressure cooker that had become his home life before he became the one who exploded).

Clare caught the glance and smiled grimly. ‘Oh, yes. I asked Patrick. He called her a “card”. That’s why I want the truth from you. He always resorts to outmoded Cockneyisms when he’s hiding something.’

‘I do not!’ said Patrick.

‘You do, too. Whenever your mother phones, you sound like the chorus of “My Old Man’s a Dustman”.’

‘I grew up in Bethnal Green,’ said Patrick, expression mulish. ‘It’s a family trait.’

‘That is a bunch of Khyber Pass,’ said his wife. ‘Your mother sounds nothing like a Pearly Queen. More like Bloody Queen Mary sentencing Protestants to burn.’

Darrell covered the fact she was smiling by unfastening the baby carrier, so she could hold Cosmo in her arms, a less sweaty alternative to keeping him pressed against her chest. Patrick’s mother was generally regarded as the family’s most terrifying matriarch, which, considering the competition, was quite a feat. Darrell found her own mother-in-law, Adrienne, alarming enough, and was relieved that, because Anselo was only one of her five children and Cosmo her tenth grandchild, Grandma Adi’s visits were mercifully infrequent. There were no grandfathers. Anselo’s father was dead. Patrick’s father, as far as Darrell knew, had never been present at all.

Perhaps it’s a good thing Clare and I had boys, thought Darrell. The clan needs them. I just wish the gene pool was slightly more dependable.

Anselo was back. He placed an espresso and a custard tart in front of Darrell, who saw Clare give it a sideways look. If she tells me how many calories it contains, thought Darrell, I will shove it in her hand and squish her fingers shut until custard oozes out the gaps.

Fortunately, Anselo spoke first. ‘Is Tom OK with that dog over there?’

Both Patrick and Clare sat up, tense and on alert. Neither, Darrell realised, had noticed Tom walking away from the table. He was now sitting down, resting against a young dog that was tied up, lying asleep in the shady lee of a wall, next to a bowl of water.

Patrick sat back, his relief obvious.

‘Yeah, he’s fine,’ he said. ‘It’s only Flea. And he wouldn’t hurt a … well, fly.’

‘Flea?’ said Anselo. ‘Who calls their dog Flea?’

‘Your sister, as it happens,’ said Patrick. ‘Actually, her son. Gulliver named him after the bassist in the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Similar energy levels, apparently.’ He looked across at the comatose puppy. ‘When he’s awake.’

‘And why do you have Aishe’s dog?’ said Anselo.

Patrick and Clare exchanged a glance.

‘Gulliver’s own bass-playing abilities have scored him a trip to Düsseldorf with his school jazz band,’ said Patrick. ‘Clare — we — offered to look after Flea.’

‘I thought it was school holidays?’

‘Summer jazz festival circuit,’ said Patrick. ‘They could be off to Paris next.’

‘Leaving the dog with you again, I suppose.’ Anselo shook his head. ‘Give her a bloody inch.’

He leaned towards Patrick. ‘Aishe’s perfectly capable of organising a boarding kennel. Scratch that — she’s perfectly capable of getting Benedict to organise a boarding kennel.’ He stabbed his finger onto the tabletop for emphasis. ‘Don’t let her push you around.’

Darrell eyed her husband with a curiosity tinged with alarm. It was one thing for him to tell her not to be intimidated, but quite another to say the same to Patrick. Anselo’s usual attitude to Patrick was one of respect edging into deference. Which, to be fair, was most people’s attitude. Patrick drove through life like an ebullient Panzer, and people tended to react to him as smaller opposing rugby players would often react to France’s Sébastien Chabal. They’d get out of his way. Yet here was Anselo telling Patrick, in no uncertain terms, what to do. And in the presence of Clare, traditionally another inhibiting factor.

Part of Darrell was pleased that Anselo’s new-found confidence was expanding. But mostly, her heart thudded with anxiety. Confident Anselo was not the Anselo she’d thought she’d married, and it occurred to her that the time they’d had together before Cosmo had made his presence felt was not, in reality, enough to truly get to know each other. We’ve been together months rather than years, she thought, and for the last two of those months, I’ve been more intimately acquainted with anti-leak breast pads than my husband. And if I continue to put Cosmo between us, like some sort of powder-scented deflector shield, then the gap between us can only widen.

I don’t want that, Darrell thought. But lessening the gap between Anselo and me means widening the one between Cosmo and me. And that, right now, is unthinkable.

6

Charlotte carried a large glass of wine from the kitchen to the living room, and sank down into the most comfortable chair she possessed. But once she was nestled in its soft, healing depths, she found she had no strength to lift the glass to her mouth. So she slid it carefully onto the side table, and focused instead on closing her eyes and easing the weekend’s tensions and strain out of her body.

If only someone had told me, Charlotte thought, how hard it would be looking after small children, I would never have even toyed with the idea.

On reflection, Charlotte had to admit that her friends with children probably had told her. She had simply tuned them out. This response, Charlotte realised now, had not escaped their notice.

That’s why they stopped calling me so often, she thought. I’d put it down to the fact that they were embarrassed that I was still single — and possibly barren — which meant we no longer had anything in common. But they stopped calling because they knew I cared nothing about what they had to say.

Which would explain her friends’ confusion and, let’s face it, downright suspicion, when Charlotte had called and offered to mind their children for a whole day during the weekend.

‘You’re not hooked up with a white slave trader, are you?’ one had said.

The other had asked if she was in the thrall of a paedophile ring.

Once Charlotte had allayed their fears, they’d both said, ‘Are you sure you know what you’re in for?’

The truthful answer to that, Charlotte thought, which was not the answer I gave them, was no.

Charlotte had chosen these two friends because, between them, they had children the same ages as the ones it appeared she’d now be minding in Italy. Michelle and Chad had Harry, four, and Rosie, who was eighteen months. Darrell and Anselo had Cosmo, who was barely three months, and Clare and Patrick had Tom, who had just turned two. Tom’s birthday party had been a low-key affair, family only, held at Jenico’s house in Hackney. Patrick told Charlotte that Tom had been fascinated by the candles on his cake, and sat staring at them for five full minutes before Clare could coax him to try to blow them out. In the end, everyone blew on them, Patrick said. Tom immediately lost interest, and had gone back to stacking blocks in the corner and then knocking them down.

Patrick had never explained how he’d finally managed to persuade Clare to come to Italy. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned it at all; it had been Anselo who’d told Charlotte that they’d all be going, and asked her to book the flights and the rental cars.

All Patrick had said was, ‘Are you sure you’re up for this babysitting gig? I’m sure Italy’s full of women who’d be willing. We probably wouldn’t even need to pay them.’

‘I will be perfectly fine.’ Charlotte had smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

That evening, she’d rung her friends.

On Saturday, she’d minded the four-year-old and the two-year-old. They were both girls, unlike Harry and Tom, but that couldn’t be helped. Much of the day was now, in Charlotte’s mind, a pastel-coloured, glittery blur with a soundtrack of trapped cats and a faint residual smell of strawberry-scented plastic, chocolate milk and … oh, yes. That.

Possibly that was the worst moment. Possibly not. Charlotte mentally ticked off the potential contenders:

The two-year-old shrieking blue murder on the bus when Charlotte refused to take them upstairs, until Charlotte had no choice but to take them upstairs.

Missing their stop because the four-year-old had opened a packet of lollies that had been put in her Clarice Bean lunchbox by her mother (with malicious intent, Charlotte suspected), and immediately spilled the lollies on the floor of the bus. The shrieking that followed Charlotte’s refusal to scavenge for the lollies was a mere shadow of the shrieking that then followed Charlotte’s refusal to let them eat the lollies until she’d found somewhere sanitary to wash them.

Dragging two complaining girls an extra three blocks having also missed the next stop because the two-year-old was rather slow down the bus stairs, but shrieked if Charlotte so much as hinted she would carry her.

Enduring more complaints at the zoo gates because the girls were somehow under the impression (Charlotte intended to have strong words with their mother) that they were going to a fairy playground. Charlotte was not aware London had a fairy playground, but the girls were adamant.

Calming the resulting shrieks with promises of chocolate milk (forbidden at home, apparently) and anything they wanted from the gift shop.

Failing to prevent the girls from running past the vultures and other birds of prey and straight into the gift shop. Extracting the girls from the gift shop with a giant stuffed emperor penguin, a packet of glittery bouncy balls and a strawberry-scented eraser.

Carrying around the giant stuffed emperor penguin for an entire hour in twenty-five degree heat.

Handing the packet of bouncy balls (with strict instructions not to open it) to the two-year-old, who did open it and promptly lost one of the balls in the dim light of the reptile house. Charlotte, to the tune of shrieks magnified by the enclosed space, found the ball under the Gaboon viper. Its venom, she read, was not particularly toxic as venom went, but it produced it in record-breaking quantities. Charlotte fantasised about releasing the Gaboon viper.

Getting all the way to the café and then having to retrace their steps back to the reptile house because the four-year-old had dropped the strawberry-scented eraser.

Discovering why chocolate milk was forbidden at home when the four-year-old threw it back up all over the café table.

Enduring the disapproving looks and remarks from café staff and patrons as she attempted to mop up the milk vomit with a handful of paper napkins that instantly disintegrated in her hand.

Tucking the giant stuffed emperor penguin under one arm and dragging (literally, prompting more disapproving looks and remarks) the two wailing girls into the café toilets, where she ordered them to wash their hands and faces. If they didn’t know how, Charlotte reasoned, it was bloody well time they learned.

Stalking out of the café toilets with as much dignity as she could muster, only to have to return five minutes later because the four-year-old needed to go. Charlotte insisted that the two-year-old should go as well and was met with intractable refusal.

Getting to the entrance of the butterfly house, where the two-year-old announced that she wanted to go now, and before Charlotte could act, pulling down her pants and defecating on the path. All Charlotte had to deal with it was her own cardigan, which she’d brought in case the day clouded over. She wrapped the offering in fine Italian merino, and shoved it into her Orla Kiely tote. And then she told the girls that the butterfly house was closed and that they’d be going home by taxi.

Her friend opening the door to a giant stuffed emperor penguin and two perfectly chipper daughters, who jumped about and clapped their hands and said they’d had a brilliant time and could Charlotte take them somewhere again, please, please, please!

Refusing the offer of a glass of wine — her friend must have known, Charlotte decided.

Paying a second taxi fare from Hampstead to her flat in Battersea.

Dumping her cardigan in next-door’s skip.

Sniffing her Orla Kiely tote, extracting her wallet and keys and dumping the tote in the skip, too.

Oddly, today’s wrangling, feeding and nappy-changing of the six-month-old baby and sixteen-month-old toddler (her friend had bought into the old wives’ tale that you can’t get pregnant while breastfeeding) seemed like small beer.

Perhaps it was because I was in their home, and did not have to leave, thought Charlotte. I did a lot of trekking between rooms, and my calves are aching from having climbed what feels like two thousand stairs. And I sang The Wiggles’ ‘Hot Potato’ song so many times it felt as though I’d been lobotomised. But really, she decided, when you’ve wrapped human faeces in your best pink merino wool cardigan, what could ever daunt you again?

Those who witnessed the first meeting of Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan probably held their breath, too, thought Darrell. Either the pair was going to bond like Damon and Pythias, or everyone in the free world would need to start digging bunkers in their back gardens. On the upside, Michelle and Clare probably didn’t have access to nuclear weaponry. Even so, that was no guarantee of safety.

Darrell was at her kitchen table, with Clare and a laptop. Cosmo was asleep in his cot upstairs and Darrell had one ear tuned to the baby monitor on the bench, which was emitting the quiet hiss that suggested all was well. Tom was on the playmat in the corner, banging blocks into the board with the holes. Clare had brought the toy with her only because, Darrell suspected, she’d tried and failed to prise it from him back home.

It was strange having Clare in her house, Darrell found. Partly because her house was, in fact, Clare’s. When Darrell had first come to London, she’d rented the house from Clare for a pittance because it was, at the time, undergoing renovations. That was how Darrell had met Anselo. He’d been the builder tearing the house apart. The new kitchen they were now in was his creation. He did a good job, Darrell thought. It’s a lovely room to spend time in.

But the main reason Darrell found Clare’s presence strange was that Clare never visited, and certainly not with Tom. She only took Tom to the café on Saturday mornings because Patrick insisted. Clare’s proviso was that Patrick did all the work of looking after his son when they were there. Not that this meant Clare ever relaxed. Even now she has one eye on him, Darrell observed, just as I have one ear on the baby monitor.

Clare’s attention was ostensibly on the laptop screen, where a black square should have revealed Michelle’s face five minutes earlier. This was the reason for Clare’s visit — to meet the woman she’d be sharing a villa with for four weeks.

Or no weeks, thought Darrell, depending on how this meeting went. Provoked by the slightly disturbing thought of Reagan and Thatcher, she remembered a line from a Patrick Campbell story — something about two people who would either get on like a house on fire … or an ammunition dump exploding. As they waited for the black square to come to life, Darrell found her insides already ducking for cover.

From the laptop speakers came a tinny, faint, impatient voice. ‘Hello? Where are you?’ Then to someone else: ‘Non, non, je suis fine! Bugger off!’

‘Press the video button,’ said Darrell.

‘Hang on, hang on! This computer c’est freaking stupide …’

The square was suddenly and hugely filled with face.

‘Jesus!’ said Michelle, quickly sitting back. ‘For a second there, I thought I’d turned into Minnie Driver!’

Darrell smiled. She’d always thought Michelle’s black straight-cut bob made her look more like a silent movie star. The bob was a little uneven around the edges, Darrell noted. Michelle had limited tolerance for waiting, so if the French salons were booked up, it was more than likely she’d grab the nearest pair of scissors and do it herself.

‘Can you see us?’ Darrell adjusted the screen so both she and Clare were visible.

‘Yes, yes!’ said Michelle. ‘No thanks to this stupid internet café. C’est full of beardy French-muttering Gen Y buffoons.’

‘Are you in Paris?’

‘Ha!’ said Michelle. ‘Now that I’ve insisted we haemorrhage moolah on this Italian jaunt, a decent stay in Paris is pas possible. We went there for one day. Spent it eating overpriced croques monsieur, and staring at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower, as the queues to go up were incroyable. No, the Lawrence family is now sharing one room in a pensione in Reims.’

‘Reims is very pretty,’ said Darrell. ‘Anselo and I went there on our big trip.’

‘Not this bit of it,’ said Michelle. ‘C’est une dump grande. But let’s not dwell. Hello, you must be Clare.’

‘Hello,’ said Clare with a frown. ‘Where are your children?’

‘Out scarfing pain-au-chocolat with their father, I imagine,’ said Michelle. ‘They’re supposed to be going to the local marché to buy food, but Chad’s French is even worse than mine, so he’ll be putting it off till the last minute. Numbers are his main problem. After deux, he’s stumped, which is un peu limiting when there are four of us.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Poor Chad. He’s spent this whole French excursion feeling like un retard massif.’

‘I’d hoped to see them,’ said Clare, the reproof evident in her voice.

Darrell cringed, but Michelle’s smile only widened.

‘Worried they’ll gang up on Tom?’ she said. ‘That he’ll be like the doomed fat kid in Lord of the Flies?’

‘Well …’

Darrell had never seen Clare truly discomfited before. She realised she was enjoying it, and instantly felt a twinge of guilt.

‘Don’t fret,’ said Michelle. ‘Harry is a mild-mannered sweetie like his father. Rosie, on the other hand, is from one of the seven circles of hell. But I can always tie her up and gag her if she starts creating.’

Clare did not look entirely convinced that Michelle was joking. ‘Your husband was a banker, I hear?’ she said.

Pursuing a different line of interrogation, Darrell noted. She wondered if the British government had ever thought of enlisting Clare in the war on terror. It’d be over in half a day if they did, she decided.

‘Chad was indeed a banker!’ said Michelle cheerfully. ‘Until he had the brain fart that brought on this trip. But at the end of this year, we’ll go back to the family home, which we’ve remortgaged to the hilt, and I’ll fend off the bailiffs with a shotgun while he goes on the job hunt again. Unless he decides he’d prefer to live in Cuba and write short stories. In which case, I will aim the shotgun at his feet and make that sucker dance.’

‘Or you could go back to work,’ said Clare, folding her arms.

‘You’re right!’ said Michelle. ‘I could earn crap-loads if I went back to being a corporate lawyer. I should think about that … OK, I did. Nope! Mommying’s the only job for me. How about yourself? What did you do before you lost all sense of an individual identity?’

Clare hesitated briefly. ‘I was in PR.’

‘Yowzer!’ said Michelle. ‘The only life form lower than my own past career! Oh no, wait. I forgot about people in advertising.’

Then before Clare could respond, Michelle said, ‘Tell me, what does Charlotte Fforbes with two fs look like? I have a picture in my head of Samantha Bond in one of her typical roles. You know — cool, elegant, utter bitch.’

Darrell laughed. ‘I’ve never met her. Anselo likes her, though, so she can’t be that bad. Mind you, you’ve pretty much described his last girlfriend. Except for the bitch thing, I suppose …’

‘Exes are always bitches,’ said Michelle. ‘Or bastards, depending on what side of the fence you’re on. I begrudge every bit of time that some other bint who wasn’t me spent with Chad. I even begrudge his mother.’

‘That is Freudian and creepy,’ said Darrell. ‘You should be ashamed.’

‘We both know how unlikely that is, don’t we?’ said Michelle.

‘Fascinating as this is, shouldn’t we be more concerned about Ms Fforbes’ childminding qualifications?’ said Clare. ‘I have only Patrick’s vague assurances that she has any, which makes me suspect it may be a big con on her part to score a free trip to Italy.’

‘She’s about to take on one infant, two small boys and a foul fiend,’ said Michelle. ‘Rosie alone will be an object lesson in how unwise it is to tell big, fat fibs. It’ll be like the darkest Victorian morality tale come to grisly life.’

A noise came from Clare, but it was a few seconds before Darrell realised it was a chuckle. Clare did have a sense of humour, Darrell conceded. But it was generally expressed in a sarcasm that could wither fruit on the branch. Darrell couldn’t remember for the life of her the last time she’d heard Clare laugh.

On the screen, Michelle was laughing, too, and Darrell felt another twinge. This time, it wasn’t guilt. As she watched Clare, her landlady and wife of her husband’s boss, in whose company she’d never felt entirely equal or at ease, bond with Michelle, her best friend since forever, Darrell felt the sharp finger-poke of jealousy in her ribs.

Michelle’s mine, she thought. But even as she did, another thought rode over it. Clare wants everything her way, Darrell’s mind said, and Michelle has always done exactly as she wants. If the two of them decide to become tight, I’ll be three’s-a-crowd on the outer, and I doubt I’ll have the energy or confidence to change that.

Darrell looked over at the baby monitor, which was still silent. Well, Cosmo, she thought, on this holiday, it might be just you and me, so I’d better get used to it.

7

Anselo decided that if hell existed, it would feel like this — crushed on all sides by sweating, lurching, muttering bodies. Except that in hell the bus ride would never end, whereas, God willing, the trip across the tarmac from plane to airport would take only five minutes.

Darrell, with Cosmo, had a seat, as did Clare and Tom, just behind. Patrick was stooped in the door well, having been too polite in letting others on first. Anselo was strap-hanging in the middle, acutely conscious of the dark sweat stain in the armpit of his T-shirt, which was exactly at the eye level of an attractive young woman called (Anselo was so close, he could read the boarding pass in her hand) Tabitha Appleby.

He glanced towards Darrell. She was staring out the window, Cosmo asleep against her chest. Anselo did not think she was looking forward to this trip, even though Michelle’s emailed photos of the villa had made both him and Darrell gasp. It was right on the lakefront, its square stone exterior picked out in yellow ochre. Inside, it was decorated in a comfortable traditional style: white wood, pale grey-blue walls, and soft gold and cream furnishings. Every one of its eight bedrooms had a modern ensuite, and the kitchen looked spanking new, with gleaming appliances and granite benchtops. Outside were tiled terraces, a lawn and garden, and a vine-covered loggia. There was even a private boat dock.

‘I’d say it’s a blessing that Patrick’s offered to pay for us,’ Darrell had said, ‘or we’d be living on bread and gruel for the rest of the year. I feel a bit guilty, but seeing you’ll be “on call” for work while we’re there, I suppose it’s only fair.’

Anselo had nodded slowly. ‘There’s always some price to be paid, isn’t there?’

But Darrell hadn’t heard him. She was scrolling through the photos again, frowning. ‘Is the place fenced all around? Looks like it’s right between the lake and a busy road.’

‘Cosmo can’t even crawl yet. How much trouble can a stationary baby get into? Besides, I hardly think Michelle would have chosen a place that wasn’t safe for children: Rosie and Harry are still only small.’

‘She dragged those very same children through South America,’ Darrell had said. ‘They took a boat ride up a river filled with piranhas. Which they discovered only when Rosie stuck her hand over the side.’

Anselo had taken a mental deep breath and put his arm round his wife’s shoulder. ‘Do you not think your friend might be winding you up?’

‘Because I’m easily wound?’

Darrell still hadn’t been entirely happy, and Anselo recalled the irritation he’d felt, but not shown. The knowledge that such irritation was rising ever more quickly, and often, sparked a momentary pang of guilt. But seriously, he thought, it was getting ridiculous. She’d been less firmly attached to Cosmo when he was in the womb.

Last time we came to Europe together, we didn’t have Cosmo, thought Anselo. And we didn’t have to suffer the evils of air travel, with check-in cut-offs and rabid security and line upon line of antsy people. We took my old van on the ferry, and drove it wherever looked interesting, taking as long as we liked to get there. A couple of nights we even slept in the van. It had been hot and sweaty in there, too, Anselo recalled. And that’d had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

In six weeks, they’d meandered through France and Italy, with quick side-hops to Switzerland and Belgium. Anselo remembered the look on Darrell’s face, of permanent wonder. She had been disappointed by nothing — even foreign petrol stations had excited her.

Anselo thought about how she’d always wanted to do a proper big overseas holiday, about how she and her first husband, the late Mr Tom Kincaid, had been planning and saving for one for years. But then Tom had died, and their plans for the holiday, and for their life together, were no more.

That, thought Anselo ruefully, was the only blot on the whole trip. I tried not to let it bother me, but it did. I tried not to think: would she be enjoying this more if she were with him instead of me? But it was always on my mind. Always.

Anselo could see Patrick trying to shift position and get some head room. He wondered, not for the first time, about the coincidence that Patrick’s son shared a first name with Darrell’s dead husband. It was a coincidence, he reminded himself. Clare named him, and she’d had no idea who Darrell had been married to. Even if she had, knowing Clare, she wouldn’t have cared. Darrell had always insisted that she didn’t mind. She said it was good to hear the name Tom without feeling unhappy. Anselo wished he could say the same.

I might have been fine by now, Anselo thought, if she hadn’t taken that trip back home when she got pregnant. She never explained why she’d shot off without telling me a word of it, but I know: she went to sit on his grave, and ask the spirit of the late Tom Kincaid if she should keep our child. If I hadn’t got on a plane to find her, who knows what his ghost might have said? And I know his influence would have overridden mine.

That’s the guts of my problem right there, thought Anselo. Feeling I come second — to a dead husband, and now to a living baby.

Or perhaps his problem was how he reacted to it? He did not really want to blame Darrell, knew that Patrick was right; she was struggling. But his resentment continued to hum, low and ever present, like an electric fence.

I’m doing all I can, thought Anselo, to be a good husband, a good provider for my family, and right now I’m getting precious little in return. It’s no wonder I … well …

The quick shot of shame made Anselo blink, and he yearned to rub his eyes but his free hand was trapped down beside a matronly woman with that expression of fierce suspicion that the English adopt when surrounded by foreigners. She had her purse firmly clutched to a bust that could have doubled as an airline tray-table, and Anselo feared she might accuse him of groping if he moved his hand even an inch.

Goddamnit, he thought, that’s my real problem. No fucking balls. And you know what? I’m tired of it. I don’t want to feel like this any more.

A shudder of brakes and multi-language murmurs of relief signalled that the bus had stopped. Anselo saw Darrell give him a look of slight alarm, which he interpreted to mean: don’t let anyone steal our luggage. Anselo nodded at her, and shouldered through to hoist their carry-on bags from the rack. Then he held the space until Darrell made her way to him, and guided his wife and his bundled infant safely through the door.

‘Shouldn’t we wait for Patrick and Clare?’ said Darrell.

‘Inside,’ Anselo replied. ‘I can feel the soles of my shoes melting.’

Milan Linate airport was smaller than Anselo had expected, and a lot calmer. His previous experience of Italy was that anything to do with officialdom was about as organised as a volcanic eruption, with an equivalent amount of shoving and shouting. But their passports were stamped with the minimum of questioning, and within ten minutes, they had their baggage off the carousel and were out into the terminal.

‘That was suspiciously easy,’ said Darrell. ‘I feel we will somehow pay for it later on, when we least expect it.’

‘I need water,’ said Anselo. ‘And coffee.’ He checked his phone for service. ‘I’ll text Patrick. They can meet us at that café over there.’

‘The joy has begun,’ said Darrell under her breath.

Anselo stared at her. ‘We don’t have to hang out with them,’ he said. ‘We can do our own thing.’

Darrell did not meet his eye, but glanced down instead at the top of Cosmo’s head.

‘He’s slept for three hours,’ she said. ‘I suspect we may pay for that later, too.’

‘You are going to let Charlotte look after him, aren’t you?’ said Anselo.

‘The invisible Charlotte Fforbes?’ said Darrell. ‘I’m not sure I believe she actually exists. I think you and Patrick made her up to trick us into this holiday.’

‘You’ve spoken to her on the phone.’

‘I’ve spoken to the talking clock, too.’

Anselo began to push the trolley towards the orange seats that marked out the café.

‘Charlotte has friends in Milan,’ he said. ‘She’ll meet us at the villa tomorrow.’

‘She’s really the brains behind your whole operation, isn’t she?’ said Darrell. ‘She’s like Charlie from Charlie’s Angels.’

‘And which Angel am I?’ said Anselo with a half smile.

‘Definitely Kate Jackson,’ said Darrell. ‘She was always the practical one.’

Anselo parked the trolley beside a free table. ‘Practical. Yeah. Want an espresso?’

‘Grazie mille,’ said Darrell, pulling out a seat. ‘Which apparently means “thanks heaps” and not “a mile of grass” as I’d always believed.’

Anselo counted the euro notes in his wallet. ‘Good thing I’m doing the ordering then.’

‘A very good thing,’ Anselo heard her say to the sleeping Cosmo. ‘Foreign languages are not my strong point.’

Whereas I find it difficult to communicate in any language, thought Anselo as he waited at the counter. But what’s holding me back isn’t ignorance.

‘Whatever you’re having, make mine a double.’

Patrick was behind him, looking sweaty and frazzled. Clare, Tom slung on her hip, was stalking towards Darrell, radiating a level of annoyance that in cartoons would be illustrated by red-hot mercury rocketing to the top of a thermometer, to a soundtrack of a shrieking siren.

‘Did you get grilled?’ said Anselo.

‘Like a chop in a greasy spoon.’

‘Why? What’d you say?’

‘I didn’t say anything!’ said Patrick. ‘I was a model of fucking politeness! I dunno. I probably reminded him of the bloke who knocked up his sister, or some such.’

‘Did you get the … What’s “rubber glove” in Italian?’

Patrick gave him a look. ‘You think this is hilarious, don’t you?’

‘Grazie.’ Anselo accepted his change from the large woman behind the counter, and picked up the tray. ‘It would have been funnier if you’d got the glove.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve found the rental car office?’ said Clare, as the men joined them at the table.

‘It’s just behind us,’ said Anselo.

‘Excellent,’ said Clare. ‘I wonder if Patrick can start an argument with them, too?’

‘I didn’t start anything!’ said Patrick. ‘They picked on me!’

‘He called the official “me old China”,’ Clare said to Anselo and Darrell. ‘Which led to a lengthy to and fro about whether he had, in fact, been to China and if he hadn’t, then why had he brought it up? Did that mean he had communist affiliations? And Patrick said no, but he certainly had a few good fruit gums who were tiddlys, and from there, things went rapidly downhill.’

‘Tiddlys?’ said Darrell. ‘Oh wait, I’ve got it. Tiddly-Winks. Rhymes with—’ She shook her head reprovingly. ‘That’s not good form. Not even in slang.’

‘He never used to do this.’ Clare shifted Tom on her lap and glared at her husband. ‘It’s as if he hit forty-six and some default programming kicked in. Like when your television decides for no reason to reset itself to wide screen and suddenly everyone has strange body proportions, like Simon Cowell.’

‘Forty-six.’ Anselo nodded slowly. ‘So I’ve got ten years before I need to book a room in a clinic in Switzerland?’

‘I’m storing that in my memory along with the glove crack,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m half-Irish, don’t forget. My people are content to spend fucking centuries plotting our revenge.’

A small cough, followed by a mewling cry, came from Darrell’s baby carrier.

‘Oh, bugger,’ she said. ‘He’s awake.’ She threw Anselo an apologetic look. ‘I’ll have to feed him. Do you want to go organise the car?’

‘Sure.’ He rose and caught Patrick’s eye. ‘Coming?’

‘Not without me,’ said Clare. She shot to her feet, planting Tom firmly on her hip. ‘I don’t know what Cockney rhyming slang is for “car” but I don’t intend to risk it.’

‘It’s Kareem, isn’t it?’ said Anselo with a grin. ‘As in Kareem Abdul-Jabbar?’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Clare held a warning finger up to Patrick’s face. ‘You — shut it.’

Anselo saw that Darrell was also getting up. ‘Are you not going to feed him here?’

Darrell made a face. ‘I’m not sure how Italians feel about boobs. I mean, I know they’re all right on television game shows that feature naked housewives. But here, I might get taken out by a hit squad of elite nuns.’

She slung the baby bag over her shoulder. ‘The loos are over there. We’ll manage.’

‘OK.’ Anselo reached out to touch her arm, but she was already moving away.

‘I’ll meet you by the rental car office,’ she said over her shoulder.

OK, fine, thought Anselo. He glanced over to Clare and Patrick, who were having a debate about who should carry Tom. Patrick was offering, Clare refusing. Tom himself, Anselo saw, was bumping the head of a small stuffed monkey, which had once been white but was now a grubby grey, against his chin.

Anselo wheeled the trolley up to them. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go find out how much the cars they propose to give us differ from the ones we booked.’

‘That’s right, I forgot,’ said Clare. ‘We’re in Italy. Land of the apologetic shrug.’

‘I’ll make sure both cars have sat-nav.’ Anselo pushed the trolley past Patrick and Clare. ‘Or the only way we’ll find the lake is if we happen to drive into it.’

8

Patrick jogged along the lakefront, trying to ignore the pains in his chest and calves, and to listen instead to the music on the player that Gulliver, his teenage cousin, had given him for his birthday in April. The thing was barely the size of a postage stamp, but somehow managed to hold over two hundred songs, all pre-loaded by Gulliver.

Despite his misgivings about what horrors a fifteen-year-old might consider listenable, Patrick had plugged in the earphones and switched it on. With each track, his respect for Gulliver had grown. As well as the obligatory rock anthems by The Who, the selection covered blues, funk, soul, dance and pop, and, to Patrick’s surprise, he liked pretty much all of it. The inclusion of Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’ was a bit iffy, but that may well have been Gulliver’s idea of a joke. Or a not-so-subtle reminder that his nephew considered him ‘old-tacular’, or possibly even ‘old-mageddon’.

Right now, he was listening to what might well be another reminder, a pop-punk track by a band called Blink 182. It was all about not acting your age, the age in question being twenty-three. Twenty-fucking-three, thought Patrick. Exactly half my life ago.

At twenty-three, Patrick had been working for the small commercial cleaning firm that, unbeknownst to him at the time, would be his leg-up in life, the start of his successful career in property development. Bill Moult was the name of the old man who owned it. Patrick had helped him make it twice as profitable, and when Bill had died two years later, having no family, he’d left the business to Patrick in his will. Patrick made it ten times more profitable again, sold it, and with the proceeds bought his first commercial property.

Bill had taken on Patrick when no one else would touch him, for which Patrick would be ever grateful. At sixteen, Patrick had left school and home to live on the streets, to be a brawler, a burglar and a vandal — in his own words, an arrogant, bone-headed thug — and, after three years of it, the authorities had lost patience and slung him in jail.

Patrick had spent four months in prison, and it had been three months, thirty days and twenty-three hours more than enough. He used to tell people that he’d been more than scared straight, he’d been scared into a foetal position: ‘Curled up so tight a fucking flea couldn’t have crawled in there.’ He’d spent every day and night convinced he was going to die. And not quickly, but lengthily, nastily, at the hands of one or more of the truly terrifying men who were locked up there, probably for too short a time for society’s comfort. Patrick had been nineteen, fit, big and strong, but he’d been no match for them. They were dead inside and, as a result, they had no limits, no qualms, only a curiosity to see what would happen if they took a biro pen and—

Patrick shivered, prompting an old lady coming out of the newsagent to cross herself. She probably thinks I have the plague, thought Patrick. She looks ancient enough to have been in Genoa herself when they had the bright idea to catapult infected corpses over the ramparts.

The villages around the lake were packed with old people, Patrick had observed in the two days he’d been here. They hung out in clusters. Single-sex clusters: old men here, old women there. The old women were always bustling, always busy, but the old men didn’t appear to do anything except yak, fish, drink aperitivo in the bar and drive Fiat Pandas everywhere at snail’s pace, causing younger Italian drivers to go insane.

How fucking wonderful, Patrick decided. Maybe I could retire here, too? I’m not sure I’d fit in a Panda, though. That bloody Renault rental is small enough.

Then he remembered that when he first realised he was about to make serious money he’d set the age of his retirement at fifty. It seemed a long way away from twenty-nine, thought Patrick. Even forty had seemed ancient to me then.

Patrick felt his cheerfulness evaporating along with his energy. Sweat was dripping from him onto the road, and even though he’d run for only ten minutes he knew it was time to turn back.

David Bowie’s version of ‘It Ain’t Easy’ was coming from the earphones. All the places that a young man could be, Patrick thought. Yeah, well. If I listen to what my shins and lungs are telling me, those places are now just ten feet too fucking far.

Back at the villa, Patrick took a shower. Due to the layout of the ensuite bathroom, he was forced to dry himself in front of the tall, ornate-framed mirror propped on a stand, which revealed to him more of his naked body than he truthfully wished to see. He’d always known he wasn’t handsome but had never much cared. Confidence, a sense of humour and physical presence had been enough to attract women. In the early days of his property business, Patrick had to admit, more than a few had also been attracted by the fact he’d flashed a bit of cash. But he’d quickly learned that the kind of woman he really wanted to attract found flashiness deeply vulgar. He’d traded his bright yellow Porsche for a silver Mercedes, and his diamond Rolex for a plainer Omega. He started wearing shoes with laces, and had his suits made by a Savile Row tailor, instead of buying them off the rack at Armani.

I started drinking real coffee, he thought, instead of stewed tea at the local caff. I started reading the Guardian instead of the Sun. I started going to Mario and Vincente’s café in the morning. And that’s where I met Clare.

Patrick stared at himself in the mirror as he reached around to dry his back. That was nine years ago, he recalled. He had been thirty-seven, and Clare only in her mid-twenties. Because of that he forced himself to ignore her, not wanting to be one of those sad bastards who delude themselves that a dolly bird on their arm and a rug on their head will erase the years. Not that thirty-seven seemed all that old now, he thought. He hadn’t had any of this — he eyed the spare inch of flesh around his waist. And he could run for more than twenty minutes without requiring fucking CPR. But back then, the age gap seemed prohibitive, even borderline obscene, so he’d done his best to pretend she didn’t exist. In retrospect, Patrick decided, he couldn’t have picked a better tactic for drawing her attention to him. Beautiful young women expect to be noticed. When a man who isn’t obviously gay fails to ogle them, they feel compelled to find out what’s wrong with him.

She hadn’t been subtle about it, either. Patrick smiled at the memory. After a week of him apparently showing more interest in his paper than in her, she sat down at his table. Didn’t bother to ask if it was OK — just sat down and said, ‘Good morning’ in her typically combative tone that makes people immediately think of everything they’ve ever done wrong since they were a tot. In five minutes, she’d found out Patrick’s name, where he lived, what he did for money, and what he was doing on Friday night, which, as it turned out, was going to dinner with her. Patrick didn’t recall that she ever asked him whether he had a girlfriend. He supposed that in her mind it was immaterial; Clare had decided that they were to be an item, and so they became one. She wasn’t about to let a minor thing like an existing attachment put a kink in her plan.

Patrick brought the towel around and slowly rubbed his chest. I wasn’t seeing anyone, he thought, but if I had been, I suspect I would have dumped them without the faintest flicker of remorse. So I’m grateful to fate or circumstance, or whatever, that I could avoid adding another piece of shitty behaviour to my already sizeable list of regrets.

Ironically, he had suspected that Clare saw him as the trophy catch. He was a tiny bit famous, for being the latest up-and comer making free with the readies and for having that Vinnie Jones rough-round-the-edges geezer-chic that was still in fashion. Clare was a smart middle-class girl from Hampstead, the protégée of one of London’s top spin doctors, with a work ethic and ambition that made Margaret Thatcher look like a three-toed sloth. She’d wanted to be noticed, and pairing up with Patrick had gained her a few snaps in the gossip columns. It certainly got her colleagues talking.

It didn’t bother Patrick that she might have had an ulterior motive for seeing him. He’d always felt their relationship wouldn’t last — he was too old, not the right class, not clever enough for her — so he’d intended to make the most of it while it did. But then they’d fallen in love …

They had been outside the Italian café, Patrick remembered, going their separate ways to work. Did he say it first, or did she? In any case, the words were said — and replied to in kind — and it took a few seconds for them to sink in. And then all the pair of them could do was stare at each other, open-mouthed.

Why had he been so surprised? Patrick wondered. Perhaps because he had long since decided that love was not something life would bring him. He felt he had squandered too many chances, with his mother and his family, and with previous girlfriends, too many of whom he had used for sex when it suited him and left as soon as he’d got bored. When he was young, he’d never bothered to be choosy when it came to women. Partly because, Patrick conceded, he’d been a thoughtless, selfish shit, but mostly because the women he’d associated with expected to be married by eighteen, and if they hadn’t been, with every year passing they’d hated themselves more and more. By the time they’d hit thirty, they were bitter and terrified and willing to do anything with any bloke who’d give them a second look. It made them easy to leave and Patrick knew he’d taken advantage of that. Later on, when he realised he could attract — and he felt even more of an arsehole as he thought it — a better class of woman, he took advantage of that, too. But he never expected anything more than a few shags. All he felt he’d achieved was to graduate from knee-tremblers in an alley round the back of the pub to blowjobs in the heated seat of a brand-new AMG Mercedes. He’d been chuffed enough with that, felt he’d got the maximum he was entitled to. Love was way up in the clouds somewhere, Patrick had felt, unreachable unless you had the right to get there, the magic beans of worthiness. Love was the grail, and he’d been a grubby churl not fit even to touch the hem of the knights who sought it.

He might have given in to all those doubts, thought Patrick, and run a mile rather than feel like a pretender, a fake. Except that he didn’t have a chance. Clare had said, ‘Right, then. We’d better get married.’ A month later they were Mr and Mrs King.

Patrick reckoned it took them at least another five years to work out what love really was. They worked out how to turn lust and selfish expectations into affection and respect. They became a unit instead of two component parts that ran up against each other with the same sound a learner driver makes changing gear. Which meant they’d had a couple of pretty good years — until Tom came along.

I love my son, thought Patrick. I love my wife. But we’re not a unit anymore …

He opened the ensuite door and walked naked into the bedroom.

‘Jesus fuck!’

‘Oh God!’

Charlotte had in her arms a bundle of Tom’s clothes, which she dropped, so she could slap her hands over her eyes. Patrick reached back into the ensuite, snatched the towel from the rail and hastily wrapped it around himself.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m decent.’

Charlotte lowered her hands and gave him an accusing stare.

‘I didn’t hear you in there!’ she said. ‘You were so quiet!’

‘Men like quiet time in bathrooms,’ said Patrick. ‘I thought every woman knew that!’

‘You can usually hear the rustling of newspaper,’ said Charlotte. ‘God knows why — I couldn’t think of a worse spot to read. You might as well be undergoing gas warfare training.’

‘After fifteen minutes, you get used to it,’ said Patrick.

‘After fifteen minutes, I’d be heading straight to Boots for some syrup of prunes.’

Patrick grinned at her and, to his surprise, thought he saw her cheeks flush pink. He couldn’t be sure, because Charlotte bent to pick up the dropped clothing, and when she straightened up, her cheeks were their usual flawless pale peach. Patrick had known that complexions were described as ‘peaches and cream’, but before Charlotte he’d never seen anyone he could more accurately apply it to. She looked, both Patrick and Anselo had agreed, as if she’d never had a pimple in her life.

Charlotte gestured with the clothes. ‘There was a small incident concerning your son and a Nutella sandwich,’ she said. ‘And before you say a word, I had nothing to do with it; the sandwich was provided by our host, Mrs Lawrence. Your wife has made her views on the matter quite clear.’

Patrick found it safest just to nod. The mention of Clare made him acutely aware that his young and attractive personal assistant had not five minutes ago seen him in the altogether — an event that, no matter how jovially you recounted it, would pollute any atmosphere with the rank fumes of suspicion. Fumes that would take a great deal more than fifteen minutes to get used to.

As if she’d read his mind, Charlotte said, ‘Well, I’ll be leaving now, and I’m sure we can both forget this ever happened.’

‘Nothing you haven’t seen before, I’ll wager?’

His faux hearty tone made Patrick cringe, but not as much as the fact he’d tried to stop himself saying it and failed. I suppose embarrassment pretty much guarantees you’ll make a tit of yourself, he thought. And, lo and behold, once again, I have.

Charlotte’s coolly appraising look didn’t help matters.

‘Strictly speaking, that was an all-new visual treat,’ she said. ‘But I have had similar experiences, yes. One was my father, who I surprised in his kitchen when I came around to call without phoning first. He wasn’t entirely naked, to be fair. On his feet was a pair of maroon argyle socks …’

Don’t say it, Patrick ordered himself. Don’t fucking—

‘Hope I’m in better shape than your old man.’

Charlotte’s expression did not flicker. ‘My father looks like Robert Morley gone to seed,’ she said. ‘A dead elephant is in better shape than my father.’

She patted the bundle of clothing. ‘Must dash. Chocolate-covered child awaits.’

And she strode briskly out of the room.

Patrick sank down on the edge of the bed and expelled a slow breath. He remembered how, in the early days of his relationship with Clare, he’d been concerned that his lack of schooling would show her up in front of her friends.

I didn’t want them to see me as an ignorant lout, he thought, even though that’s exactly what I was. So I grabbed some books out of the library — poetry, Shakespeare, a few literary classics — and did my best to plough through them.

On the whole, he recalled, I didn’t struggle as much as I’d feared. I gave up on The Waste Land, and didn’t get past page three of Ulysses. I enjoyed Auden and Forster, but formed the strong opinion that Yeats and Lawrence were annoying prats.

But there was this one Yeats poem that I liked, he thought. It had a bit of fucking gumption to it. Can’t remember its title, but it was about how everything falls apart when the centre, like gravity, loses its hold. Sort of a poetic way of describing what happens when the shit hits the fan.

That’s what’s happening to me, Patrick decided. My centre’s losing its hold, and I’m letting fly forty flavours of crap in every direction. The last time I felt I had no power, no control over my life was when I was in prison. All I could do then was pray that some force in the universe felt I was worth saving. Apparently I was, and I hope I repaid that debt by getting off my arse and making something of myself.

But that’s done now, isn’t it, he said to himself. I’ve made it. And now, all that energy I had inside myself, all that hunger to strive and achieve and validate my right to be here on this Earth, it’s slowly leaching out of me like sap from a pine tree.

Patrick propped his elbows on his knees, and rubbed both hands over his face. It felt damp. Either shower mist, he thought, or, more likely, the cold sweat of humiliation.

I don’t imagine that sap-leak is fatal to pine trees. I don’t imagine it’ll be fatal for me. But I’d better find a way of salvaging that centre of mine, or who knows what havoc the moron that apparently lurks within me will unleash?

9

‘Well,’ said Clare. ‘What do we think?’

Darrell was grateful for the word ‘we’. Expression of individual opinion around Clare held more hazards than a disused mineshaft. Whereas the use of ‘we’ meant Darrell could safely wait for Michelle to answer first. Which she did.

‘Chad thinks she’s very pretty. Of course,’ Michelle added, ‘he didn’t actually say that. I said, “Charlotte’s very pretty, isn’t she?” and he said, “Mm?” which means he agrees completely but is too petrified to admit it.’

She took a sip of her wine. ‘Chad should know better by now than to show fear around me. It only encourages me to do mean things, such as pretending that his mother will be dropping by any minute and staying for at least two weeks.’

‘Harry and Rosie seem to like Charlotte,’ said Darrell. She took a risk. ‘So does Tom.’

‘Harry loves bossy women,’ said Michelle. ‘They make him feel secure. Rosie loves them because she intends to be one, and wants to suck every piece of know-how into her evil sponge of a brain.’

‘Rosie took Tom’s hammer yesterday,’ said Clare. ‘Tom grabbed it back and hit her on the head with it.’

Was that an accusation or an apology? wondered Darrell. With Clare, it was hard to tell.

Michelle seemed to take it only as fact. ‘Do her good,’ she said. ‘The little minx needs a regular thwarting. I’ll tell Charlotte to keep an eye on her, though. Who knows what manner of vengeance will be brewing in my daughter’s mini-Macbethian mind?’

Darrell glanced down to where Cosmo was lying on a padded mat in the shade of the sun umbrella, staring up at the sky and gurgling happily. Anselo, Chad and Patrick had taken the largest rental car, a diesel Peugeot wagon, on a day trip to the Monza racetrack. Charlotte had taken Rosie, Harry and Tom in the Renault compact to the playground in the next town for the afternoon. Left alone, the women had settled, with white wine and a plate of peaches and prosciutto, at the table on the terrace that directly overlooked the lake.

The terrace was covered in diamond-shaped tiles, terracotta and white, a surface that would be unforgiving if Cosmo rolled off the mat and onto it. The villa had three terraces, and Darrell had wanted to sit on the one that was closest to the lawn, so she could put Cosmo’s mat on the grass. But Michelle and Clare had vetoed this, saying they wanted an unobstructed view of the lake, just in case George Clooney motored past in his Riva. They didn’t actually know that George had a Riva; it just made sense that he would have the classiest craft available. They also posited that he would be steering it one-handed, wearing cream linen trousers and a white shirt with the top two buttons undone, and that the instant he spotted them on the terrace, he’d set a course right for their mooring and seduce them one by one, like a non-repulsive version of Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick.

‘And don’t tell me we’re being ridiculous,’ Michelle had said to Darrell. ‘You write this stuff all the time.’

‘That doesn’t mean it happens!’ Darrell had protested. ‘If it happened, I wouldn’t have to make it up! And besides, he isn’t here. He’s filming in New York. I read it on one of those George-stalker websites.’

‘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, while 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 thought set her off again, leading Charlotte to speculate that if the Victorians were, in fact, correct, then she was either going to go blind or be forever cured of female hysteria.

Avoiding another night of sleepless urges was the reason Charlotte was now sitting on the bar stool. After six straight days and much of the nights minding small children, Charlotte had asked if she could have the evening off. She’d asked Darrell, who, of course, had said yes. If Michelle and Clare did not like this, Charlotte reasoned, they could feel free to let her know the following day, when it would be too late.

Charlotte had considered taking a cab all the way into Milan, to see her friends. But it was fifty kilometres away and Patrick wasn’t paying her quite that much, even if she did expect not to pay for a drink all evening. So she’d settled for Como, and was now in the piano bar of a five-star hotel on the lakefront.

She was sipping on a tall vodka and tonic, chosen because it lasted and because it did not emit the same obvious signals as a cocktail, or even a glass of champagne. This was a defensive tactic brought on by the, now regretted, choice of venue. Hotels, even in Italy, drew a higher than average percentage of randy, ageing businessmen who invariably had a) paunches, b) moustaches, and c) a remarkable lack of awareness of how repellent they were. Whereas Charlotte had hoped to be surrounded by young, attractive men her age, whose third finger did not sport a white mark where the wedding ring had, until ten minutes ago, been digging into the fat around the joint.

A quick scan of the room, however, proved that any other kind of man besides fat-knuckled moustachioed lechers was currently absent. Charlotte was cross with herself. She should have looked up the Italian for singles bar. And been very specific about the type of single she meant.

Oh, well, Charlotte sighed, I suppose I can use the time to catch up on my plotting.

She’d read enough John Le Carré to know that all good plots are based on sound intelligence, usually obtained by morally ambiguous means. So as well as eavesdropping, Charlotte had been covertly studying the dynamics between the adults in the villa, to ensure she was reading the various domestic situations correctly.

Michelle and Chad had proved the easiest. Michelle gave Chad a hard time, but clearly adored him. He accepted her ribbing and demands placidly and good naturedly, but Charlotte could tell that, if it came to the crunch, Chad’s will would be the winner on the day. Charlotte envied a little Michelle’s luck in catching such a husband; Chad was not only sweet and courteous, he was possibly the handsomest man Charlotte had ever seen. He looked the way she’d always imagined Siegfried did from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. When the light was at the right angle, she fancied she could see his gleaming Nothung.

Darrell and Anselo’s dynamic was more opaque. Though their conversation, at least in public, seemed cordial enough, Charlotte sensed tension between them. Given what Patrick had told her, she put this down to Darrell’s staying attached, as if surgically, to Cosmo. Why Darrell felt compelled to do this, Charlotte couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as though Cosmo was a fractious baby. In fact, he was so easy, Charlotte thought, you could mistake him for one of those replica dolls that psychiatrists give grieving mothers whose infants have died at birth. Both Michelle and Clare regularly pointed out how lucky Darrell was. Darrell always reacted to this as if she were being asked by a known practical joker to smell the flower in his buttonhole. Darrell was likeable enough, but did she really need to be so flaccid when it came to Cosmo?

Charlotte could see why Anselo might be feeling aggrieved, but there was something about his personality that prevented her shifting from understanding to sympathy. Anselo certainly had his good points: he was handsome, intelligent and, when he chose to speak, articulate. Charlotte knew Patrick saw him as a boon. But there was a guardedness about Anselo that Charlotte found off-putting. The irony of this didn’t escape her — overt displays of emotion usually made her run like a hare. Perhaps it was Patrick who had reset her thinking? Patrick didn’t gush, but every word that came out of him rang clear with emotional honesty. For Charlotte, it had been like the first taste of a properly ripe, juicy, fresh peach when one’s experience up until then had been the supermarket offerings that tasted like wood shavings stuffed in a woollen sock. Anselo was too wary and cautious to give openly of himself, and because of that, Charlotte could regard him with respect, but she could never really like him.

Mind you, if Charlotte were to be honest, there was only one person she cared an iota about. And while Anselo and Darrell appeared to be if not entirely immersed in connubial bliss then at least not throwing paperweights at each other’s heads, Charlotte felt it was safe enough to place most of her focus on Patrick — specifically on his relationship with his wife. Charlotte already knew that Patrick was unhappy; why else would he have sought comfort in the arms of another? But she also knew that he was a man of enormous integrity, who valued family connections above all, and would put up with any amount of marital discord rather than walk out on his wife and child.

Watching him at the villa these past few days had confirmed this for Charlotte, but it had also brought to light an intriguing shift in her perception of the type of discord up with which Patrick was prepared to put. (Charlotte replayed that last sentence in her mind and decided it was essentially correct, if somewhat cumbersome.) Before now, Charlotte had been under the impression that when it came to parenting Tom, Clare was — not to put too fine a point on it — a control freak. Patrick never complained outright, but Charlotte had gleaned from passing comments that everything Tom did, watched and consumed was regulated and monitored by Clare with as much efficiency as if the child were hooked up to medical equipment. Charlotte had concluded that Patrick felt his role as father was being minimised to the point of irrelevance. Nothing he did would ever be up to his wife’s exacting standards, and he could no more prise her hands from the parenting reins than, as he would put it, fucking fly.

In the past six days, however, Charlotte had seen none of this. If anything, Clare had not only taken her hands off the reins but had also thrown herself sideways and barrel-rolled out of the cart. True, she had protested to Michelle about the Nutella sandwich, but that had seemed to Charlotte to be more about Clare than about Tom. Clare had firm opinions about what constituted lazy behaviour, and buying pre-made sandwich spread was right up there. You can’t take a step in Italy without tripping over a wholesome, natural, seasonal ingredient, Clare had pointed out. Why settle for what may as well be a regurgitated Toblerone scraped up and crammed in a jar?

Michelle hadn’t taken the least offence at this, Charlotte had noted. In fact, she and Clare seemed to have bonded rather well. The two were now spending more time together than they did with their husbands — time that was almost entirely spent lounging in the sun, eating and drinking.

From day one, Michelle had practically hurled her children at Charlotte. Not, Charlotte knew, because Michelle was a lax, slatternly mother of the kind that left babies outside pubs, but because she had categorically decided that she’d earned a break. It was no secret that the Lawrence family world trip had been Chad’s idea, and that the Italian villa stop was Michelle’s pound of flesh. At the end of it, Michelle would go back to being primary caregiver. But for these four weeks, she was looking after numero uno, a phrase that, Michelle had pointed out, was for good reason already in Italian.

Clare, Charlotte decided, had not initially been of one mind with Michelle. She’d been reluctant to hand Tom over to Charlotte, and had done so only after reciting a series of instructions in a tone that resembled General Patton addressing his troops, with the same unequivocal promise that any transgression would result in being lined up against the wall and shot. But once Tom had spent a day with Charlotte, and gone to bed happily and with all body parts intact, Clare had relaxed. So much so that she now barely enquired about how he was getting on. It was Patrick who asked, Charlotte noted. He kept one eye on his wife and one on his son, Charlotte had observed, his gaze swivelling constantly back and forth like one of those robot villains in the original Battlestar Galactica. And nothing of what he saw in either case was making him happy. That’s why he asks all the time, Charlotte thought. He’s becoming more and more desperate for reassurance.

Part of Charlotte wondered if this was the opportunity she’d been hoping for. A vulnerable, needy Patrick could potentially be played upon, wooed, and turned. But Charlotte had slept with enough men who had revealed (regretfully too late for Charlotte to bail) that they were in the midst of relationship issues. She knew that such men were rarely ready for a new commitment. Moaning about their wives or girlfriends to a fresh ear only meant they were hoping to get a new perspective on the problem, and, with luck, a solution. It was like free counselling, with the extra benefit of the physical release of sex. Men who’d genuinely decided to leave their other half didn’t waste time talking about it. They hopped it, and moved on.

Was that why Patrick had slept with the mystery woman? Had he been hoping she could offer him the answer, some magic potion that would bridge all marital gaps, heal all wounds? Had he slept with her just the once, or was she a regular safety valve for him? Charlotte suspected it had been just the once. Patrick’s sense of duty would make him feel too guilty to try a repeat.

And who was she? Charlotte had tried hard not to ask this question, because she believed it would only complicate matters to make this woman real. Clare was a daunting-enough obstacle to negotiate in the pursuit of Patrick’s heart. Charlotte had no desire to breathe life into another.

Even if she had been keen, Charlotte knew she’d have trouble tracking the woman down. There simply weren’t that many contenders. The vast majority of women Patrick had contact with were family, and though many of his cousins were seconds and thirds, Charlotte felt certain he’d draw a very firm line when it came to relations. So once you eliminated them, you were left with Beatrix the architect, the pushy blonde real estate agent whose name Charlotte deliberately refused to remember, and Ludmila, the Polish cleaner. Charlotte felt she could safely eliminate Ludmila, owing to her being sixty-one and possessed of a face that looked like a vacuum cleaner bag turned inside out. That left the pushy blonde and Beatrix the architect, neither of whom was either foreign or Welsh. Charlotte was still convinced that the woman Patrick had been with had expressed her sexual satisfaction with an accent. If I’m right, she concluded, then she was a stranger. Someone Patrick picked up in a bar or club.

Charlotte could hardly censure him for that, but she felt a distinct stab of resentment that the pick-up-ee had been someone other than her. Considering the countless hours I have spent in bars and clubs, thought Charlotte, it seems supremely unjust that I have failed to be in the one that contained Patrick on the pull.

She indulged in a brief fantasy of him walking in the door right at that moment. But when she looked up from her drink, the doorway was depressingly empty, and the room correspondingly full of men she didn’t want to meet.

On top of that, her vodka and tonic was finished. Charlotte poked her straw down into the ice chips but decided that she still, if only just, had more self-esteem than to start sucking up the watery dregs. But if she ordered another, she’d run the risk of a) becoming inebriated, and b) letting any man who’d been wondering if she was waiting for a boyfriend know that she wasn’t. She could almost hear the stroke of fat fingers on moustaches, smoothing them down in preparation for making a move in her direction.

‘Hello.’

Charlotte had positioned her body on the stool a little to the right, so she could keep most of the room in her peripheral vision. This man’s voice came from her left, which meant he’d snuck around without her seeing. On the plus side, he sounded young and English. On the downside, Charlotte knew that this did not mean he was free of plump digits and facial hair. She set her expression to its most glacial before turning, ready to freeze him out.

Dear God, she thought, when her brain unlocked itself from its shocked stupor. Where on Earth did you come from? Two minutes ago, this bar was full of men hoping they’d remembered to slip Viagra into the pocket of their shiny, ill-fitting navy blazers. Now she was staring at a man who appeared to be a whole different species.

He wasn’t astonishingly handsome, certainly not in the league of Michelle’s husband. Nice-looking would be accurate enough. He was, she guessed, in his late thirties, with dark eyes, mid-brown hair worn slightly long, and a good tan. He had broad shoulders, long legs and lounged with an easy grace on the bar stool next to her. His cream shirt and pale brown trousers fitted him superbly; he was a man who knew how to dress. He had money, Charlotte decided, or at least access to someone else’s.

Thing was, Charlotte realised, none of that mattered one whit. This man could have been wearing a sequinned jumpsuit and a sombrero. He could have dirty fingernails and greasy hair and Charlotte would still be boggling at him, trying frantically to rein in her hormones, which were popping like corn kernels in a hot pan. That’s because he exuded a sexual energy that, by Charlotte’s conservative estimate, could make nipples five miles away become pert. It was not a macho appeal, dragged down by testosterone and arrogance. It was the kind that left you in no doubt that this man would be what her friend liked to call (as if she were reciting Burns) ‘a hoot in the sack’. Here was a man who loved sex, and wanted you to love it too. With him. As soon as possible.

He held out his hand. ‘Marcus Reynolds.’ His accent was unmistakably a product of one of England’s better public schools.

Charlotte managed to engage the part of her brain that was linked to her own hand. His warm, firm touch nearly derailed the part of her brain linked to her mouth, but with an effort of will, she recovered.

‘Charlotte Fforbes.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Any relation to the Fforbes in North Yorkshire?’

Charlotte frowned. ‘I don’t believe they exist at all. You’re making it up.’

‘No, I went to school with one. Or was that a Ffoulkes?’

‘Where did you spring from?’ Charlotte almost demanded.

He blinked, taken aback. ‘Originally? Or five minutes ago?’

‘Both.’

His look became amused, appraising.

‘Have you eaten?’ he said. ‘Actually, to be brutally honest, I don’t care if you have. All I’ve had today are five of those miniature toasts Italians insist on serving you for breakfast, and I’m eyeing that cornucopia of plastic fruit over there with less disgust than I otherwise ought.’

He swivelled on the stool to briefly survey the room. ‘However, I don’t think I’m desperate enough to resort to the gluey pasta carbonara and vulcanised squid that will almost certainly be the speciale del giorno of this benighted establishment. What would you say to a pizza downtown?’

And after that, then what? Charlotte did not say it out loud, because she was ninety-nine per cent sure of the answer. But part of her wanted very much to be a hundred per cent sure, because she suspected that, unlike with so many others, the disappointment she’d feel if it didn’t work out would be keen indeed. Charlotte’s recent night fevers had left her with the strongest urge for what another friend liked to call ‘a bloody good rogering’. And she’d never met anyone more likely to provide one than this man.

Charlotte may not have said any of that out loud, but he must have understood it all the same, because he gave Charlotte a smile that lifted her toenails and curled them back on themselves.

‘Do you have a curfew?’ he said.

Charlotte shook her head. It wasn’t entirely true, in that she did need to be back in time for the children’s breakfast. But as long as she remembered to set the alarm on her phone, it shouldn’t be an issue.

‘Excellent,’ he said, and placed a hand on her arm. ‘Now, let’s get some decent food into us before my blood sugar plummets to the point where I’m no use to man nor beast.’

11

Patrick was about to tighten his fingers in his wife’s hair, in readiness for the final moment, when she lifted her head and said, ‘Are you going to tell me about Ned?’

‘Jesus …’ Patrick’s brain cells were scrambling like a bomber crew. ‘Yeah, all right, all right!’

Clare lowered her head again just in time.

When Patrick opened his eyes, she was propped up on one elbow, staring down at him.

‘Tactics like that get you on the shit-list of Amnesty International,’ he said.

The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘All’s fair,’ she said. ‘So. Ned the grumpy gardener. What’s the deal?’

‘Fuck.’ Patrick breathed out the word, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

‘That bad?’ said Clare.

‘Not really,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s just that when I remember what happened with Ned, I have to remember what I was like at the time. And, personally, if I had a chance to meet the younger me, I’d do the world a favour and shoot myself in the head. Though I’d probably fucking fail. My teenage skull was thick enough to deflect an inter-continental ballistic missile.’

‘We all do idiotic things when we’re teenagers,’ said Clare. ‘You’re grown up now. Move on.’

Patrick looked at her. ‘What did you do?’

‘I considered Gloria Estefan a fashion icon,’ she said briskly. ‘But this isn’t about me. This is about you and Ned. What did you do? Steal his girlfriend?’

‘Worse,’ said Patrick. ‘His little sister.’

‘How very Mr Wickham-ish of you.’ Clare ran her fingers along the edge of the sheet. ‘Was she pretty?’

Patrick hesitated. ‘Don’t hate me for this … but I can’t remember. Her name was Julie, I do remember that. But what she looked like? Blonde hair, good figure?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t even say for certain what colour her eyes were.’

‘Mr Grouchy’s are blue.’

‘Are they? Yeah, well … maybe …’

‘What happened?’ said Clare. ‘Did you knock her up?’

‘No!’ Patrick jerked his head off the pillow. Seeing that his wife’s expression appeared tolerant, he felt it was safe enough to sink back down.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Though if I had, things might have been better.’

He crooked his arms behind him and settled his head on his hands. ‘Ned and Julie’s dad had been a Yorkshire miner. Their mum had died when they were little, and, when all the pits started to close, Dad brought the two kids to London and tried to find work. He found the King’s Arms instead. Ned was sixteen, so he decided it was up to him to support them. But there was nothing going in London for an unqualified Northern lad. There were quite a few opportunities for thieving, though, and that’s how he eventually, a couple of years later, came to meet me.’

‘Bethnal Green’s bad boy.’

‘The Artful Dickhead.’ Patrick pursed his mouth ruefully. ‘Fuck, I thought I was the man. Ned did, too. More’s the pity.’

‘So you two went out robbing?’ said Clare. ‘Did you have hoodies and bikes, like the kids from our local estate?’

‘I was a burglar, not a purse snatcher,’ said Patrick. ‘I had a crowbar, a motorbike and, if I was venturing further afield, a car.’

‘The famous getaway car, according to Ned. What was it? A Ford Grenada, like in The Sweeney?’

‘It was whatever I could steal,’ said Patrick. ‘Worst one ever was a Vauxhall Viva. I hadn’t forked out a penny for it, and I still felt ripped off.’

‘Did the police ever chase you?’

Patrick gave a derisive snort. ‘We were hardly the Brink’s-MAT gang. Be lucky most times to get away with a crappy TV and the milk money. Sometimes, we pretended the Old Bill was on our tail just so we could give it a lash.’ He sighed. ‘What almighty plonkers we were.’

Clare bent her head and dropped a kiss onto his chest. She slipped her hand under the sheet and ran it up the length of his thigh, causing Patrick to gaze at her in surprise, and mild alarm.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said smiling. ‘Sounds like fun to me.’

‘Not that I’m objecting,’ he said, ‘but I hope you haven’t secretly been hanging on to some romantic “leader of the pack” notion about boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Let me remind you of what you know perfectly well. I wasn’t cool. Ned wasn’t cool. Our life was shitty and grubby and poor, and so were we.’

Clare was still smiling. ‘Gulliver showed me a photo of you at eighteen, wearing a leather jacket,’ she said. ‘You did look rather cool in that.’

‘Gawd help me,’ muttered Patrick. He glared at his wife. ‘Do you want to hear this story or not?’

‘Back to the forgettable Julie.’ Clare removed her hand from his thigh with an impatient tut. ‘Very well. Fire away.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep it brief. It’s all it deserves,’ said Patrick. ‘Ned introduced me to Julie. She was a year younger than him, so sixteen, seventeen by then. Not sure.’

‘Did you not think to check?’ said his wife. ‘There is such a thing as statutory rape, you know.’

‘Yes, I know!’ Patrick scowled. ‘She was old enough. Ned wouldn’t have let me near her otherwise. Looking back, I think he built me up to be some kind of hero, because she threw herself at me right away. Don’t think that’s what Ned intended, but who knows? Maybe he thought I’d look after her.’

‘You didn’t, though, did you?’

‘Course not,’ said Patrick, subdued. ‘I went out with her a few times, took her virginity, and then dumped her and forgot about her.’

‘Where was Ned during all this?’ said Clare.

‘Ned had found a girl of his own,’ said Patrick. ‘She lived in bloody Willesden, so he was spending most of his time there. Came back after he caught her sleeping with another bloke. By then, I’d done what I’d done.’

‘No need to ask if he was happy.’

Patrick adjusted his hands under his head. ‘To be honest, if she’d been OK, I think he would have forgiven me. But what I didn’t know is that after I’d dumped her, she’d cut up very rough indeed, gone down the local and drunk herself into a stupor. The young men who told the pub keeper they’d take her home took her into the nearest alley instead. I don’t think I need to paint you a picture of what they did to her.’

His wife frowned. ‘That was hardly your fault.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ Patrick turned to look at her. ‘I dumped a teenage girl, the sister of my best friend, without so much as a backward glance. I never checked on her, never even gave her a moment’s thought. She had no one to look after her but a drunken father. Don’t you think I could have been less of a selfish, heartless arsehole?’

‘What happened to her?’ said Clare.

Patrick took a deep breath before answering. ‘Nothing good. Got pregnant from the rape. Had an abortion, which gave her some kind of an infection, but because of shame or guilt or fear or whatever, she didn’t go to the doctor in time and almost died. Then she decided to finish the job slowly by taking up smack. I’m assuming she is dead by now, and I’m fucking ashamed that I don’t actually know for sure.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Clare said again. ‘She made her own decisions.’

‘Actions have consequences,’ Patrick said to her. ‘I should have been more mindful of mine.’ He made a wry face. ‘Though I suppose I’m paying for it now. Stuck for three more weeks with a still-angry Ned Marsh. If my privates end up skewered on a tomato stake, don’t be surprised.’

‘As I said before,’ said Clare, ‘you’ve grown up now. Both of you. Time to move on.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Patrick. ‘Feel free to share that with him.’

He reached out to the bedside table and turned the alarm clock to face him.

‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘it’s after eight! What about Tom? Don’t you normally get him breakfast at seven-thirty?’

His wife gave him a look. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Normally, I do. But Tom and I both know that’s Charlotte’s job now, even if the fact’s somehow escaped you. He will have toddled off to her room ages ago.’

She shifted closer to him, and this time placed his hand on her own thigh. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Quid pro quo.’

Patrick watched his wife’s head tip back and her eyes close as his fingers found their mark. I should be cheering, he thought. I wanted her to go on this holiday so she could have a break from Tom. I wanted her to relax and, I can’t deny it, I wanted her to be up for more sex. Now here I am, mission accomplished, and in the words of the late Tommy Cooper — just like that.

But actions have consequences, he told himself, as he moved down the bed. Have I, and not for the first time, been less than mindful? Or have I committed that age-old fucking mistake of not taking due care over what I wished for?

Darrell felt Anselo’s erection as he spooned against her, and tried not to tense up. I should be letting him, she thought. I should have let him way before now — twelve weeks is far too long. I mean, he hasn’t gone entirely without, even if Bill Clinton thinks that doesn’t count, but we haven’t done it properly. I’m just so tired all the time, and my boobs are so sore. And they’re huge. And they leak. And my stomach looks like a small waterbed filled with badly set custard. And my hips have spread. And I don’t even want to think about the carnage down there …

She heard Anselo give a resigned sigh, and felt him roll away from her. I guess I tensed up, she thought. For a moment, she couldn’t tell which was strongest — guilt or relief. Guilt, she decided, and wincing at the tender weight of her milk-swollen breasts, rolled over to face him.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I would like to. It’s just—’ She gestured hopelessly. ‘I feel like a cow. A giant, fat Alderney.’

Anselo turned his head towards her. ‘Then stop breastfeeding. What’s the point if you don’t enjoy it?’

Darrell’s main reason for continuing — a fear that if she opened the door even an inch to Signor Doom, he’d waltz right in and make a beeline for Cosmo — seemed less than reasonable when it was about to be spoken out loud. So she stuck to the one that felt like firmer ground.

‘He’s too young for formula all the time,’ she said.

‘Plenty of babies are on formula from birth,’ said Anselo. ‘It’s not going to poison him.’

‘Those Chinese babies were poisoned by formula.’

‘Those Chinese babies were poisoned by poison,’ said Anselo. ‘The formula itself was perfectly fine.’

‘It’s better to breastfeed, though,’ said Darrell. ‘The health department says it is.’

‘Better,’ said Anselo to the ceiling. ‘Right.’

‘I can stop completely at six months,’ she said, sounding to her own ears like an alcoholic in denial. ‘That’s not so long to go, is it?’

Anselo gave her a brief glance, his expression hard to read.

But then, isn’t it always, thought Darrell. These days, I’m never, ever sure what he’s thinking.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not long.’ And he looked away, out the window.

Darrell studied her husband — took in the handsome planes of his face, the strong shoulders, the muscled torso that had given her a little moment when she’d first seen him stripped to the waist — and realised she no longer knew how he felt about her.

When we met, she thought, I had none of these qualms. I never doubted his feelings, because he fell in love with me first. He wanted me before I knew I wanted him, and being the pursued, the yearned for, always makes you feel more secure. I did not feel jealous of his previous girlfriend, even though she was leagues above me in beauty and elegance, because I’d just come out of a relationship with an equally amazing man. Of whom I knew Anselo was jealous, because he told me. Again, the balance of who most needed whom seemed to be in my favour.

And I took advantage of that when I unexpectedly got pregnant. I treated him abysmally by not telling him, by running away, and by somehow never letting him get angry with me. I never properly apologised, either, and for all of that, for everything I did, I am now ashamed, regretful and deeply, hugely anxious.

I should have talked to him about it, she thought. But now, after all these months, I’m afraid that it’s too late. I’m afraid that, back then, a line was crossed. It was invisible, like a trip wire, but we crossed it nonetheless.

No, it wasn’t a trip wire, she decided. It was nothing that dramatic. More like a stray piece of wool from a jumper that had got caught on a nail. And we walked on, unaware that the jumper had begun to unravel. Row by row, it’s coming apart … we’re coming apart.

Darrell felt her gut clench. It’s my fault, she thought. I started all this because I was afraid, and now, fear has paralysed me, made me incapable of doing anything to stop it. Every choice seems to come with a flashing neon ‘No’ sign. Danger, Will Robinson. Achtung minen. Here be dragons.

Anselo was sitting up, ready to pull back the sheet and get out of bed. Hastily, she reached out and slipped her hand downwards over his stomach.

‘I could—?’ She tried her best to sound convincing.

She saw him pause for a moment, and felt a surge of hope.

‘I can’t.’ He gently removed her hand. ‘I’ve got a phone call to make for work.’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s the only time they’re available.’

He pulled on his underwear and then jeans and a T-shirt in the swift, graceful way that Darrell used to find sexy. She’d always enjoyed watching Anselo dress. Now, the clothes looked to her like a barrier, as impenetrable and final as a slammed door.

Anselo was doing up his laces now. In two minutes, he’d be out of the room.

‘Shall we go into Como later today?’ she said, desperate to delay his exit, if only by a few seconds. ‘Maybe take the ferry?’

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Depends on what I have to do for work.’

He stood up. ‘I’ll text you,’ he said. ‘When I know.’

Darrell watched him leave, and wondered if she’d remembered to charge her phone. Deep down, she knew it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t text. Not that long ago, he would have done, she thought, but not now. Unravelling. Strand by strand.

I want to cry, she acknowledged to herself, but I’m too afraid to do even that. If I cry, it will be real, she told herself. So I won’t. I’ll box on until I’m forced to do otherwise.

From the adjoining room came a sound as familiar as her own heartbeat. Cosmo was awake.

Looks like it’s just you and me, kid, she wanted to say. But the phrase refused to form. It splintered and fractured in her head until all she could do was pretend she had never heard it, that it had never existed.

Darrell got out of bed and pulled on her own T-shirt. Dark, damp patches quickly obliterated the old milk stains, as her breasts, hard and full, seeped in a primitive, instinctive reaction beyond her control.

She scooped her infant out of his cot, sat in the nearby chair and plugged him to her breast. Such an amazing thing, she thought. A miracle, really. Certainly a privilege.

At least, that’s what I should feel, Darrell thought. But I don’t. I feel that if I had never got pregnant, everything would still be OK. I’d feel happy and safe and unafraid; I’d feel like my old self. Anselo and I would still be enjoying each other, still having sex. Still in love …

Darrell bent her head and breathed in the smell of her baby. Every atom of her being responded with a power that never failed to astonish her. I love you so much I physically ache, she thought, and I really would kill to protect you.

But sometimes, she thought, sometimes I wish to God that you never existed.

12

Something nudged Charlotte’s foot, triggering the nauseating, panicky lurch that occurs when you realise you’ve accidentally fallen asleep. Her eyes flew open and she sat up so fast that her head swam. She was sitting — had been lying — on the lawn near the vine-covered loggia. Above her loomed an odd-shaped figure, thrown into silhouette by the sun at its back. Shielding her eyes with one hand, Charlotte squinted up at it.

‘This yours?’ said a man’s voice.

English, thought Charlotte, with a hint of Yorkshire. Not Patrick, Anselo or Chad, then. A stranger.

A stranger who, as her eyes adjusted, was revealed to be beefy and blond, and, more notably, to have in his arms a small child. Rosie. Charlotte felt an even more nauseating lurch, and leapt to her feet.

‘God!’ she said. ‘Where did you find her?’

Her head swivelled frantically, as the full import of the situation came clear in her sleep-fuddled mind. ‘And where the hell are Harry and Tom?’

‘T’ lads?’ The stranger nodded towards the loggia. ‘In there. Playing wi’ sticks.’

Charlotte laid a hand over her thudding heart. ‘Oh, thank Christ.’

‘This un,’ the stranger smiled at Rosie, ‘were halfway up gate t’ boat dock.’

‘Oh, God.’ Charlotte cupped her face in her hands, and felt it burning with adrenaline and mortification. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say. ‘Thank you so much.’

The stranger stared at her. ‘Nay problem.’

He slipped a hand under Rosie’s armpit, in order to lift her to the ground. Rosie screeched and clung on, bunching the sleeve of his overalls in her small fists, her face puce in protest.

‘Now, them’s a set o’ lungs,’ the stranger said to her, with a half-smile. ‘Fit for centre stage at La Scala.’

‘That was nothing,’ said Charlotte. ‘In full voice, it’s like a scene from Scanners. Your head dissolves from the inside out and then explodes.’

‘Scanners?’ The stranger frowned, bemused. ‘Aren’t tha ower young for eighties horrors?’

‘I often find late-night movies the perfect segue between coming home and deciding you’re ready for bed.’

The man’s gaze travelled to the patch of lawn on which, if he hadn’t kicked her foot, Charlotte would still be sleeping.

‘Last night were a late one then,’ he said.

Charlotte blushed, and then cursed herself for it. For all this man knew, she could be an insomniac. It was unlikely that he could see inside her head, even though the images that swirled in there were so vivid Charlotte suspected they’d show up on one of those thermal detectors. Her whole body, in fact, would probably register as a pulsing mass of bright red, with heat waves firing from her like solar flares. Especially when she recalled what he’d done with the amaretti biscuit, how he’d bitten it and taken her nipple in his mouth, how the rough crumbs had brought her to the point of orgasm, and then how he’d taken another bite, and moved south to stimulate her in a way Charlotte had dared invoke only in her filthiest, most febrile dreams …

The stranger was waiting. His expression was neutral enough, but Charlotte still felt judged.

‘Indeed,’ she said with as much frosty dignity as she could muster. ‘Last night was late.’

Then she recalled that she owed quite a debt of gratitude to this man, and softened.

‘Here. Let me rescue you.’ She reached out for Rosie, who arched away with squeal of protest. Undaunted, Charlotte took a firm hold.

‘Just mind your hair,’ she warned the stranger. ‘If she gets a handful of it, you’ll end up looking like a dog with mange.’

The man watched Rosie struggle in Charlotte’s grip. ‘Fierce little thing,’ he said. ‘Grow up t’ give some man hell, I imagine.’

‘I’d say the kind of man that will let her deserves everything he gets.’ Charlotte gave up and dropped Rosie to the ground, where she ran immediately to fasten herself to the stranger’s legs.

‘I’m Charlotte.’ She gave Rosie a baleful look. ‘My apologies for the limpet.’

‘Ned.’

He scooped Rosie back up into his arms, whereupon her expression, Charlotte noted, became insufferably smug.

‘Come on, flower,’ he said to Rosie. ‘Time for cold drink in t’ shade.’

As it transpired, all Ned had was a half-drunk bottle of water and, God knows why in this heat, thought Charlotte, a Thermos of tea. So, after making sure that Harry and Tom were indeed alive, she left all three children with Ned and took herself off to the kitchen.

It occurred to her, while she mixed a jug of lemon cordial and cut up some bread and cheese, that this was possibly not the wisest move. She was the only adult in the house. Clare and Patrick had taken the ferry to Bellagio, Chad and Michelle were shopping in Como, Darrell had gone for a drive with Cosmo, and Anselo was … out somewhere. Ned was a large man in anonymous overalls, who’d emerged from nowhere, and who could right now be bundling the children into the back of an unmarked van, ready to transport them to Albania, or wherever the nearest child-slave ring was headquartered.

Instinct reassured her that this was nonsense. Ned had not looked at all shifty. Slightly rustic about the edges, yes. Shifty, no. Still, thought Charlotte, it would pay to dig a little deeper as to his identity.

‘I’m t’ gardener,’ he told her, while, incomprehensibly to Charlotte, drinking hot tea from the Thermos. ‘Here, and at couple other villas.’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘And you’re t’ nanny?’

‘Well,’ said Charlotte, ‘temporarily.’

‘Pity.’ Ned stared into his Thermos cup as he swirled the last dregs of tea. ‘We could have ’ad a right Upstairs Downstairs thing going on.’

That did not sound like flirtation, thought Charlotte. But then he’s not exactly Mr Effervescent. Whatever it is, she decided, I will discourage it. He is not unattractive, despite those overalls, but I have absolutely no intention of recreating a modern-day Lady Chatterley’s Lover. No, wait — he was a gamekeeper. All right then, The Go-Between. No, he was a farmer …

Charlotte shook herself. Focus, she told her herself. It’s discouragement time.

‘Except that I’m a bit posh,’ she said briskly. ‘Not properly posh. But certainly a lot posher than you.’

Ned’s response was a long, steady look during which Charlotte became very aware of a certain toughness about him. There was a tension in his posture, like that found in a boxer waiting to be called into a ring, and a steely hardness about his physique that Charlotte felt was due to something other than hours forking manure and tilling soil.

I would be unwise to underestimate him, she thought. Unwise also, perhaps, to take liberties.

‘So what are you, when tha’s not mindin’ this lot?’ he said.

‘I’m a personal assistant,’ she said. And because she liked to say his name, added, ‘To a man called Patrick King.’

‘Are thee now?’ he said.

There was a definite pause before he spoke, Charlotte noted with slightly wary interest. What’s that about?

Ned glanced over to where Tom and Harry were still playing together. While Charlotte had been asleep, the pair had foraged for sticks, and Harry had formed them into a pretty good semblance of a race track. Tom now had a piece of broken tile, and was pushing it round and round the track with a quiet determination. Harry was sitting on the grass watching, stuffing bread — and quite a lot of dirt, Charlotte saw — into his mouth.

Harry was not one of the world’s great multi-taskers, she thought. One thing at a time, and quite a lot of time for each thing — that was Harry. God knows how he’ll cope with the demands of adult life. Then again, if you looked closely at Chad, you could see that they were cut from exactly the same cloth, and Chad had managed to become a successful banker. Rosie, on the other hand, was pure Michelle. And if Michelle were here right now, she’d probably be sitting on Ned’s lap, too, and making it even more difficult for him to drink his bloody tea.

Ned lifted a finger and stroked Rosie’s cheek. The little minx was practically purring, Charlotte saw with outrage.

‘Is she his?’ said Ned.

‘Is she whose?’

That hesitation again. ‘Patrick King’s.’

Charlotte felt the sudden bodily freeze that acts as a warning to proceed with extreme caution.

‘Why do you ask?’ she said.

Ned tilted his head. ‘Just askin’.’

Charlotte made an executive decision. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This is Patrick’s son.’ She indicated Tom.

‘Does he look like ’is mother?’ Ned said after a moment.

‘Not really,’ said Charlotte. ‘As far as I can tell there’s a rogue set of genes in Patrick’s family that randomly produces copper-haired males. They pop up at least once a generation. So far, I’ve counted two cousins, an uncle and Tom.’

‘Jenico Herne,’ said Ned. ‘That t’ uncle?’

Anger, both defensive and protective, swept through Charlotte. She felt that he’d somehow made a fool of her, taken advantage — and she was now very nervous about his intentions towards her and the children.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘Us?’ said Ned quietly. ‘Oh, I’m no one. No one at all.’

‘What a load of rot!’ Charlotte shot to her feet and glared down at him. ‘Tell me at once, or I’ll—’

For the first time, he smiled properly. He had excellent teeth, Charlotte observed with some annoyance, white and even, with not a filling in sight.

‘Or tha’ll what?’ he said.

Charlotte sat back down. ‘I’m not sure yet,’ she said crossly. ‘But you won’t like it!’

Ned offered Rosie the last piece of bread, which she snatched as if he’d been deliberately trying to conceal it from her.

‘I’ll watch my back,’ he said.

Charlotte was irritated to see he was still smiling.

‘Is he a good boss?’ Ned said after a while.

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte, then felt it wasn’t enough. ‘He’s kind and he’s funny and he’s generous, and he’s pulled himself up by his bootstraps and achieved considerable success!’

‘Success.’ Ned nodded slowly. ‘Which, o’ course, he deserves.’

Charlotte disliked the way her heart had begun to pound again. It was as though she’d just learned that a vital piece of information had been kept from her, information that would have made all the difference to the course of her life.

However, she told herself sternly, Ned may have known Patrick once — that much is obvious — but he just as obviously does not know him now. And I do — which makes all the difference to me.

‘What is your problem?’ she said. ‘Or do we not have enough time to list them all?’

Well, that wasn’t terribly sensible, thought Charlotte. Ned had sat up and squared his shoulders, the kind of movement most commonly followed by an invitation for another man to proceed in a forward direction if he considered himself hard enough. Eyeing the breadth of Ned’s shoulders, Charlotte could safely say it was an invitation she would be happy to decline.

‘I believe in character,’ he said. ‘I believe we are judged by what we do, not what we have. I believe that we mun atone for all t’ misdeeds in our life afore we’re free to move on. If we don’t—’

Swiftly, gently, before she could protest, he lifted Rosie off his lap, and stood up.

‘If we don’t,’ he stared down at Charlotte, ‘then I believe we deserve all we get.’

He lifted the Thermos from the table, and in a gesture that could only be ironic, Charlotte decided, touched his free forefinger to his temple.

‘Tarra, Charlotte t’ temporary nanny,’ he said. ‘Happen I’ll see thee round.’

When she was certain he’d gone, Charlotte checked her watch. Today, she decided, three-thirty was not too early for wine.

At six-fifteen, Charlotte was feeding the children tea, and counting down the minutes until their bedtime. Darrell was in the adjoining living room, feeding Cosmo. None of the other adults had come home.

Darrell’s demeanour was making Charlotte’s mental radar ping. She’d made polite, token enquiries as to Darrell’s day, and received equally polite, token answers. Charlotte had the distinct impression that Darrell had either driven for miles, or sat for hours by the side of the lake somewhere — alone, if you didn’t count Cosmo, which, as he was rarely conscious, Charlotte generally did not. Charlotte wanted to ask why Anselo appeared to be missing in action, but had decided the direct approach was unlikely to be productive. She vaguely recalled that he’d said something about work when he’d left the house in the morning.

If I’d paid more attention, Charlotte thought, I might have been able to tell if his excuse was plausible or not, which would have told me if I needed to be concerned or not. But my mind was elsewhere this morning. It was still in bed with Marcus Reynolds.

He had taken her, as promised, to a pizzeria, of which Charlotte had no firm memory whatsoever, and then to an apartment that apparently belonged to his sister. Charlotte’s recall of the apartment was slightly less fuzzy — it was a good size, almost scarily stylish, and one wall was almost entirely taken up by a large black and white photograph of a vagina.

‘Gus — Augusta — my sister,’ said Marcus, ‘is a lesbian. She’s in New York right now.’

‘Oh, so’s mine!’ said Charlotte. ‘I mean, my sister’s a lesbian. She’s in the Orkneys, though, not New York.’

‘Does she get a lot of Sapphic action there?’ said Marcus.

‘I don’t think she wants any,’ said Charlotte. ‘She’s an archaeologist and, as far I know, quite happy that it’s just her and her trowel.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you a trowel,’ said Marcus, drawing her to him. ‘Will this do instead?’

The following hours were burned into Charlotte’s mind like a brand on a steer from the Ponderosa.

He woke when she slipped out of bed at five in the morning to call a taxi. He did not promise to call her, which Charlotte was glad about; she loathed insincerity. But he gave her a parting kiss that made her wish very strongly that he might.

No. Charlotte shook herself mentally. It was tremendous, she thought, but I can’t afford to be distracted.

She heard a bustle at the front door and then familiar footsteps that made her heart beat faster. Into the kitchen walked Patrick. Charlotte found that she was studying him intently, trying to read how his day with Clare had gone. He looked happy enough, if somewhat sweat stained.

He stooped and kissed Tom on the top of his head. ‘How are you, tiger?’ he said.

Tom looked up and regarded him in his usual serious manner, before he bent his head back to his plate and resumed eating.

‘Tom and Harry made a race track,’ said Charlotte.

‘A train track,’ said Harry, with the sigh of one surrounded by the terminally stupid.

‘Out of sticks,’ Charlotte continued firmly.

‘Well, I saw a mountain of tourist tat.’ Patrick opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. ‘And way too many Englishmen in shorts.’

He collapsed into a chair. ‘That’s how the fuck we won two world wars. They saw us in shorts and died laughing.’

‘Where’s Clare?’ Charlotte tried to sound casual.

‘Taking a shower.’ He lifted one arm and sniffed. ‘I should, too, but I can’t be—’ He caught Charlotte’s warning nod towards the children. ‘—bothered.’

Darrell came into the room, Cosmo asleep in her arms.

‘Hey, you,’ said Patrick. ‘Beer?’

‘You know what?’ said Darrell, taking a chair. ‘I will.’

‘Where’s your other half?’ said Patrick as he placed one in front of her.

‘Working,’ said Darrell.

Patrick stared. ‘Really?’ He lifted his beer. ‘Diligent sod.’

The front door crashed open again, and a jangle of voices increased in volume as the group neared. Michelle appeared in the doorway first, her face bright with the excitement of news to tell.

‘Guess what?’ she said to Darrell. ‘Guess! Guess! No, don’t bother! You’ll never get it!’

‘What?’ Darrell’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, my God! Don’t tell me you saw George?’

‘Almost! Very nearly as good!’ she said. ‘No offence,’ she added over her shoulder.

Bursting with glee, Michelle reached behind her and dragged someone into the room.

‘Look! Look who we found!’ she said. ‘It’s him!’

The short pause that followed was broken by the splat of a ball of lemon gelato as it left the scoop in Charlotte’s hand and plummeted wetly to the tiled kitchen floor.

13

Anselo had revised his vision of hell. It was not an endless, crammed, sweltering bus ride but this: sitting at the kitchen table of the Italian villa in which you are supposedly spending a relaxing holiday, watching your wife’s ex-lover, whom you loathe, tell stories that make everyone else laugh like drains and ask for more. Everyone. Including your wife.

I suppose I have to believe in God now, Anselo thought, or at least the kind of deity that relishes seeing the punishment fit the crime. An eye for an eye, and a right prick for—. Yeah, well played, you karmic bastard. Well played.

Look at the smug, shallow sod. Telling tales of being right-hand man to some famous producer in Hollywood. It was the kind of stale cliché job, Anselo felt, that only a man with as little substance as Marcus Reynolds could possibly do without his soul shrivelling to dust. Hollywood was the natural place for him in Anselo’s eyes. He was the type of man that you could turn side-on and see that he was nothing but a painted façade propped up by a piece of untreated four by two.

As the litany of the man’s shortcomings sped along its track, Anselo was dismayed to feel righteousness jostling for a window-seat position with envy. Marcus Reynolds has not a care in the fucking world, thought Anselo. He has money and privilege and the freedom to come and go where he pleases, as he pleases. He has no responsibilities, no ties. No doubts about his place in life. No guilt. And perhaps that, more than anything, is why I hate him.

Anselo had guilt that he did not want. It was there because he had come home very late, and he couldn’t justify any of the time he’d spent away. He’d made the phone call, which had led to three more phone calls to track down missing tradesmen. But that had taken him all of an hour, not the whole day. And he could have sat in a quiet room at the villa and made the calls — he had not needed to catch the bus to the nearest town and sit in a café. He had not needed to catch the ferry from there into Como, and start walking around. He had not needed to duck back around the corner when he spied Chad and Michelle up the street, peering in shop windows. He had not needed to retreat into the bar of a side-street hotel in the hopes that it was the last place Chad and Michelle would go. He certainly had not needed to say yes when the attractive Italian woman with the Gucci sunglasses and the short white dress that showed off her exceptional legs asked if she could join him.

Not that I actually did anything except buy her a grappa, thought Anselo. Then I sat by the ferry terminal for a good hour afterwards to clear my head. And, you know, I almost felt like I had it straight in my mind. But then I came home to this …

To be fair, Darrell’s expression when he’d finally come through the kitchen door was exactly what Anselo had been hoping for — a mix of entreaty and relief. She had been worried by his absence, he decided. She thought it was her fault, after this morning.

Which, Anselo admitted a little reluctantly, is exactly what I wanted her to think. I wanted to make a point. And why shouldn’t I? he thought, guilt vying with defensiveness. A relationship has two people in it, doesn’t it? Two people giving and taking equally. If there’s an imbalance it should be up to the person most responsible to right it. I tried this morning to get close to her, and she rejected me once again. I know I’ve not been perfect, he thought, but I can say with all honesty that I’ve been doing my bit for bloody ages, and now it’s Darrell’s turn. It’s time she started giving to me.

Anselo saw Darrell smile at something her loathsome ex had said, and an idea flashed into his head, swift and lethal as a ninja shuriken. If Darrell had an affair with him, he thought, it would make at least one big chunk of my personal shit-heap go away.

Like a Glasgow bouncer, Anselo’s mind threw the thought back out on its arse.

There is no way I will lose my wife to this smarmy, arrogant fucker, he vowed. Listen to him. He has the morals of a liver fluke. And yet everyone else is lapping it up. Am I the only one who can see he has all the fucking charm of a flatworm?

Marcus was now relating a story about having to find someone prepared to administer cocaine to an ageing film star in the style of her choosing, namely to blow it up her backside through a straw.

‘You’d be amazed,’ he said, ‘at how many willing contenders there were. I suppose it is a little more interesting than pumping gas. Though in many ways not dissimilar.’

Everyone laughed again. Anselo picked at the cold pasta on his plate. Michelle had brought home a giant lasagne from a deli in Como, and she and Clare had made a salad. Michelle, Anselo had gleaned, had also brought home Marcus Reynolds. Clare, who had been in the shower when Marcus had made his entrance, asked Michelle to describe again how they’d met.

Clare looks as if she can’t quite believe it either, thought Anselo. But for her, it’s only a credulity-stretching coincidence. For me, it’s a living fucking nightmare.

‘It was at the deli counter,’ said Michelle. ‘I wanted cheese, so I pointed at one, and said formaggio, and the deli man decided I knew Italian and began to tell me all about it. Fortunately, after cinque minutes of cheese rave, he realised he’d just wasted his breath, because he stopped and glared at me and said “Non capito”, and I had to confess that he was one hundred per cent correct. At least, I think he was.’ Michelle turned to Marcus. ‘Non capito means “useless foreigner”, doesn’t it?’

‘He was hurt,’ said Marcus. ‘He was serenading you with cheese, and you spurned him.’

‘And then, in surly tones,’ Michelle went on, ‘he asked me how much I wanted, and I forgot the Italian for ten and had to ask Chad, who, of course, gets as far as uno and is flummoxed. So I held up all my fingers and the cheese man pretended he had not a clue what I was on about. Prickio. But then I was saved by Mr Polyglot here.’

She smiled at Marcus, who said, ‘Good thing, too. The queue behind me was turning ugly.’

‘I thought you were Italian,’ said Michelle, ‘until you spoke to me in English and I realised you were a posh freak.’

Anselo saw Marcus catch Darrell’s eye, and grin. ‘Your friend has made her views on the merits of the English upper class quite clear,’ he said.

Darrell said, ‘Not without reason. I still remember your mother’s garden party, meeting Major Blunderbuss and the woman who was Horse and Hound magazine’s Debutante of the Year. Your mother wasn’t sure to which species she was meant to most appeal.’

‘Major … Blunderbuss?’ said Marcus.

‘Something very similar,’ said Darrell. ‘I’ll swear by it.’

Anselo did not like the smile they exchanged. Too intimate, too collusive. He picked up a lettuce leaf and began to shred it.

‘You still haven’t told me how you figured out who he was,’ said Clare to Michelle.

‘I grilled him,’ said Michelle. ‘I insisted on knowing exactly what flavour of posh freak he was, and when he broke under my questioning and confessed that his father had been a duke, I said, “Blow me down, a friend of mine once shagged the son of duke”, and things slotted into place from there, so to speak.’

Clare gave Marcus the kind of look a wife might give her husband after pulling a red G-string out of his car’s glove compartment. Ready to hear his rationale; already disbelieving it.

‘A duke?’ she said.

‘As in — of Wellington,’ said Patrick, who, by Anselo’s empty-bottle count, was onto his sixth beer.

Marcus, Anselo noted, was also drinking beer. For some reason, Anselo found this the most annoying quality in a list that was now so long it could possibly be the girdle Puck intended for around the Earth. Shakespeare had some excellent lines. I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways. Therefore tremble and depart. If only, thought Anselo. If only.

‘Yes, thank you, Simon Schama,’ Clare was saying to Patrick. ‘I’ve grasped the duke concept. It’s the “son of” concept I’m struggling with.’

‘It’s true,’ said Darrell. ‘Marcus’ father was a duke, but he wanted to stand for Parliament, and back then they wouldn’t let dukes be MPs, so he gave up the title.’

‘You remembered that?’ said Marcus.

Anselo saw Darrell blush. ‘It’s not a story you hear every day,’ she said.

‘And you two were dating?’ Clare glanced between Marcus and Darrell.

Darrell’s annoyed, and for good reason, Anselo thought. Clare was making no attempt to hide her incredulity that a man like Marcus Reynolds would want to go out with a girl from New Zealand, pretty enough but not beautiful, who wrote B-grade romance novels, and had no connections or pedigree at all.

That kind of shit annoys me, too, he thought. Being looked down on as second-rate, no matter what you do or what you achieve. Being judged by standards that have nothing to do with anything but who gave birth to you. That pisses me off no end.

He had a brief burst of compassion for his wife. It ended when Clare said, ‘Is he the one you went to The Anderson hotel with? When you borrowed my Matthew Williamson dress?’

Darrell blushed again, and nodded.

‘Very nice dress, too,’ said Marcus, taking a swig of beer. ‘When you stood with the light behind you, it was transparent.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Patrick. ‘I know the one you mean.’

‘I’ve worn that dress quite often,’ said his wife. ‘You might have mentioned this earlier.’

Patrick looked puzzled. ‘Why?’

Charlotte appeared in the doorway that linked the kitchen to the living room.

She seemed reluctant to come any closer, Anselo thought. I don’t blame her. If I had my wits about me, I would have come up with an excuse to scarper by now.

‘The children are in bed,’ she announced.

‘Great.’ Patrick stood up, and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Come and find out if Tom Cruise really is gay.’

‘No, thank you.’ Charlotte’s tone was coolly formal. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must catch up on some reading.’

Patrick blinked at the empty doorway, one hand still on the chair back. ‘Maybe I should have had that shower after all?’

‘My, she’s being Miss Priss tonight,’ said Michelle. ‘She reminds me of the school librarian in that porn movie, who removes her glasses and pull the hairpins out of her bun, then makes the beast with due backs with the captain of the football team.’

Marcus made a choking sound.

‘Beer go down the wrong way?’ Michelle patted him on the back.

‘Mitch?’ said Chad. ‘When have you watched a porn movie about a librarian?’

‘Never, now that I think about it,’ said Michelle. ‘Maybe it was a Van Halen video.’

Smiling, Chad got to his feet, and dropped a kiss on top of his wife’s head. ‘I’m going to read Harry and Rosie a story,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen them all day.’

‘Choose wisely!’ Michelle called after him. ‘Rosie adores Where the Wild Things Are,’ she explained to the others, ‘but Harry has to cover his eyes when the monsters turn up, and while Harry loves the ending of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Rosie is of the strong opinion that the caterpillar should explode from eating all that food. With suitably grisly sound effects.’

‘Hard to tell what Tom likes.’ Patrick popped the top off another beer bottle. ‘I thought I got a laugh out of him with Dr Seuss once. But it was probably wind.’

Anselo waited for Clare’s rebuke, but apart from a brief, pointed glance at her husband’s seventh beer, she did nothing. Anselo had no time to wonder why. Marcus was smiling across the table at Darrell again.

‘And you have a baby boy, I gather?’ he said to her.

‘Yes.’ Darrell’s cheeks were pink again, but whether with pleasure or embarrassment, Anselo could not tell. ‘He’s just over three months old.’

‘I’d love to see him,’ said Marcus.

An involuntary sound of protest escaped Anselo. Everyone at the table turned to look at him.

‘He’s asleep,’ he found himself saying. ‘We shouldn’t disturb him.’

‘Oh, come on!’ said Darrell. ‘Cosmo could sleep through a nuclear warning and a full symphony orchestra playing the ‘1812 Overture’. With cannon.’

‘It’s all right.’

Marcus’ reassuring tone was all for Darrell, Anselo noted. I may as well not exist.

‘There’ll be another time,’ Marcus added.

Not if I have anything to do with it, thought Anselo immediately. But then he saw Michelle beaming, and knew that his influence, as usual, would be none.

‘Marcus is minding his sister’s flat in Como for another three weeks!’ she said. ‘While she’s off on some homo-erotic pilgrimage to Lesbos.’

‘She’s at an art convention in New York!’ said Marcus with a laugh.

‘How dull.’ Michelle poured another glass of wine. ‘My version’s much more interesting.’

‘Your sister’s a lesbian?’ said Patrick. ‘Charlotte’s sister’s a lesbian, too.’

‘Yes, I—’ Marcus paused. ‘Yes, that’s right. About my sister.’

‘The lipstick kind, though?’ said Michelle. ‘No wo-stache?’

‘Wo-stache?’ Marcus frowned. ‘Ah, I get it. No, Gus is very attractive. A minimum of facial hair.’

‘I could never be a full lesbian,’ said Michelle. ‘Half a lesbian, no problem — I appreciate a pretty face, a nice pair of boobs. But the whole tongue-and-groove thing? Dining at the Y? No way, Fanny-Mae.’

Patrick’s expression was struggling to decide if it should be appalled or amused. Finally, he said, ‘I bet you expect it, though!’

‘Patrick?’ said Clare in a sing-song of warning. ‘Was that really necessary?’

‘Men are different,’ said Michelle. ‘Men are like Labradors. They’ll eat anything that smells like old fish.’

‘O-K.’ Clare held up her hand. ‘Let’s move on. Let’s talk about what we plan to do tomorrow. Pretty as it is, I, for one, am a little laked-out. Shall we all catch the train into Milan?’

‘Oo, yes! Milan!’ Michelle clapped her hands. ‘I can practise my Italian. Listen. Prada. Dolce. Gabbana. What’s the Italian for “and”?’ she asked Marcus.

‘E.’

‘Dolce e Gabbana,’ she said. ‘I’m getting better already!’

‘It’s a bit of a trek for the kids, isn’t it?’ said Patrick.

‘The children can stay here,’ said Clare.

‘Again?’ said Patrick. ‘That’ll be two whole days in a row we’ve left them with Charlotte.’

Clare gave him an even look. ‘That is what we pay her for.’

‘Yeah, but …’ Patrick stopped.

‘Come on,’ said Michelle. ‘You want to see the duomo, don’t you? And spin on the bull’s testicles? It’s not a real bull,’ she added. ‘Their testicles are almost impossible to spin on.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ said Patrick.

But he did not, Anselo observed, look happy. He had a moment of empathy for his older cousin. We both need to feel more in charge of our lives, he thought. We both need to find a way to reclaim our man cards.

‘Why don’t you come with us?’ said Michelle to Marcus. ‘You can be our guide and translator! You have a Latin name — you’re perfectly qualified!’

‘That’s a tremendous offer,’ he said, smiling, ‘but I will have to decline.’

‘You have plans?’ said Michelle. ‘Plans, schmans! Ditch them!’

‘Can’t be done, I’m afraid,’ said Marcus. He got to his feet. ‘Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed meeting you all.’ He caught Darrell’s eye. ‘And renewing old acquaintances.’

He bent and kissed Michelle on both cheeks. ‘Good bye.’

‘That double-kissy thing!’ she said. ‘So freakishly English!’

Marcus moved around to do the same with Clare. She did not bat an eyelid, Anselo noted. Marcus shook Patrick’s hand. Next around the table was Darrell.

If he kisses her, I will kill him, thought Anselo. I will plunge my hand into his chest and rip out his heart. And then I will make him eat it. Raw.

All Marcus did was smile. ‘Goodbye, angel,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that son of yours is a delight.’

‘He’s a bit little to be anything at the moment,’ said Darrell. But she was smiling, too.

Now it’s my turn, thought Anselo. What have you got for me, you bastard?

What Marcus had for him was a brief nod. And then he was gone. Anselo breathed out for what felt like the first time in hours.

‘I cannot believe it!’ said Michelle to Darrell. ‘You got to shag that! You lucky bitchio!’

I’ll kill him a thousand and fifty ways, thought Anselo. And even then, it won’t feel like enough.

14

‘You can’t carry both of them!’ Darrell said to Patrick. ‘You’ll die of heat stroke!’

Patrick looked at Rosie, crooked in his right arm. ‘If I try to put her down, she screams like Ian Gillan on “Child in Time”.’

Darrell laughed. ‘My Tom loved Deep Purple. He loved pretty much every crap hard-rock band.’

‘Oi,’ said Patrick. ‘Show some respect. Ritchie Blackmore is a guitar god.’

He shifted his hands under the bottoms of the two children in his arms, and hitched them up to a more comfortable position on his hips. Darrell could see the sweat beading on his forehead.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s sit here for a bit before we go home.’

‘Are we allowed?’ Patrick looked around. ‘Seems like everything around this lake is owned by some filthy-rich bastard who doesn’t want you near it. There are probably dungeons in these villas, filled with people who couldn’t read the Italian for “Oi you, you peasant! Fuck off!”.’

‘Fug off!’ said Rosie, beaming up at Patrick with her gappy grin.

‘Oops,’ said Patrick. ‘Oh well. It’s good for them to develop a wide vocabulary.’

He offered his son a wry smile. ‘Isn’t it, tiger?’

Darrell perched on the low stone wall lining the edge of the old wharf that jutted out in an L-shape into the lake. Small wooden dinghies, tied up alongside, clunked gently in time with the waves against its wall. The larger boats, mainly speedboats, with the odd single-masted sailing yacht — Darrell had not yet seen any gin palaces — were moored farther offshore. Their owners must row out to them, thought Darrell. The other day, she’d seen two men row past in a boat that looked like a trug, the kind of basket genteel Edwardian women used to gather flowers. It was low and wooden on the bottom, and on top, instead of masts, it had a light wooden frame, like handles, over which was tied a white cloth. The men were standing up, pulling on two long oars each. It did not look a particularly speedy way to travel, Darrell thought. But then, she decided, the people here seemed to be quite relaxed about the amount of time they had left on Earth. The old men who fish, I get the feeling they’ve been doing the same thing at the same time all their lives.

And why not? Darrell thought. Why does life have to be push-push, rush-rush? If I lived here, I could survive on next to nothing — pasta and tomatoes and bread — and I could sit and write and look out over the water. All right, yes, she admitted, perhaps not from the window of one of these villas, which must be twenty million euros at a starting price. But there are apartments. Or those little stone medieval houses on the paths that twist up into the hills …

‘Working out how you could stay here?’

Darrell wrenched herself back into the present to see Patrick smiling at her. He’d also seated himself on the wall — to his relief, Darrell saw from his posture. Not full relief; he’d only managed to shed one child. Tom was now sitting on the wharf, picking up stone chips, and placing them in a pile. Rosie was on Patrick’s lap, leaning back against his chest, and did not seem inclined to move an inch.

Darrell blushed, and dropped her eyes to where Cosmo lay sleeping, as usual, in the baby carrier. It was too hot, really, to carry him that way, but what was the alternative? Rosie refused to sit in a pushchair, so Michelle hadn’t bothered to bring one. Tom, too, disliked his intensely, and Clare had offered it to Darrell. But it wasn’t suitable for Cosmo, who, even if Darrell set the seat all the way back, ended up in a position that made him look like Stephen Hawking. No, sighed Darrell, it was carry him or nothing.

‘I miss the water,’ she said to Patrick. ‘When Tom and I bought our house, back in New Zealand, it was close to the sea.’

‘Islington has the canals,’ said Patrick. ‘And you can hardly miss the fucking Thames.’

‘That’s—’ Darrell tried to think ‘—busy water. Built-up and industrious. Here, even with boats zipping all over, it’s calm, peaceful.’

Patrick turned his head to take in the panorama. The day was clear and hot, and the water so diamond sparkling, it was hard to look at it for any length of time.

‘Is that why you didn’t want to go to Milan?’ he asked. ‘Too big and busy?’

Darrell wondered if Patrick was being kind, offering her an excuse that would help preserve her dignity. She suspected he hadn’t the subtlety for such a ploy, but was grateful to him, nonetheless.

‘I’d love to see Milan,’ she said. ‘But I’m not keen to tote a baby around in this heat.’

‘Me neither,’ said Patrick. ‘Bad enough carrying these two all of fifty yards. I’m only thankful Michelle took Harry. If I’d had to piggy-back him as well, my knees would have given out before we made it to the door.’

‘Michelle didn’t want to take him,’ said Darrell. ‘Chad insisted.’

‘Did he?’ said Patrick. ‘You know, for a quiet bloke, he doesn’t half have some balls.’

He turned to stare once more out over the water. Darrell wondered if Patrick and Clare’s conversation that morning had been amicable. Anselo’s and mine wasn’t angry, exactly, she thought, but it wasn’t friendly. He said, ‘I’m going to Milan’, and I said, ‘OK’, and that was it. Five words.

On the plus side, it was a longer conversation than last night’s, which consisted of no words at all. And that wasn’t for lack of things to say — I seriously wanted to know where he’d been all yesterday, and I can guarantee he had opinions on the sudden appearance of Marcus. But we didn’t say anything, did we? We lay on the far edges of the bed and stayed awake for hours. I know Anselo was awake, too, she thought, because asleep, he makes a little popping noise when he exhales. I always found that sound more reassuring than annoying. Perhaps because it made it really bloody obvious that he was still breathing.

I knew Marcus was alive when he slept, thought Darrell, because he lay pressed right up against me. He told me he found it comforting to know someone else was in the bed with him.

‘How come we never got a gander at your ex before now?’ said Patrick. ‘Michelle said you two met each other at Mario and Vincente’s café. Otherwise known as my second home.’

Patrick might not have subtlety, thought Darrell, but he seems to have an uncanny ability to read my thoughts.

‘We were never there at the same time you were,’ she said. ‘You were an early morning regular. I used to go mid-morning, with Marcus’ brother, Claude, and Ruth. Who you did meet, remember?’

‘The uptight posh bloke and that crazy blonde American bird?’ Patrick grinned. ‘What happened to those two? Last time I saw them was at Tom’s birth.’

Tom had been born, suddenly and unexpectedly, in the courtyard of the café. About twenty minutes, thought Darrell, after the first time Anselo told me he loved me.

‘Claude and Ruth got married and went to America,’ she said. ‘They’re living in a log cabin in Montana. Or so I hear.’

‘Posh Claude?’ said Patrick in disbelief. ‘You could eat off that man’s shoes and slice your bread with his cuffs. Don’t tell me he’s gone feral — it’s not natural. I’d be more inclined to believe that Katie Price is really a man.’

Darrell shrugged. ‘Claude was always a loner.’

‘Unlike his brother,’ said Patrick. ‘A notorious stick man if ever I saw one. Handy with his Hampton.’

‘Hampton?’ said Darrell.

‘Hampton Wick.’

‘Right,’ said Darrell. ‘Rhyming slang’s useful with kids around, isn’t it?’

Rosie reached up and placed her small palm on Patrick’s face — an unmistakably proprietary gesture, Darrell felt.

‘Fugg off!’ said Rosie loudly and cheerfully.

‘I’ll let you explain that one to Michelle,’ smiled Darrell.

‘She’s eighteen months old,’ said Patrick. ‘Pretty soon, she’ll be swearing in full sentences.’

He meant it to be a joke, Darrell thought, but I can see that he doesn’t really find it funny. Should I offer some words of consolation? she wondered. I’m not sure if I can think of any.

Tom stood up and planted his hands on Patrick’s knee. Rosie smiled benevolently — like the Queen Mother after her morning gin, thought Darrell — bent forward and patted Tom on the head.

‘Liddle boy,’ she said in tones of deepest indulgence.

‘Yeah.’ Patrick ruffled his hand through Tom’s copper curls. ‘Only little still, aren’t you, tiger?’

‘Drink!’ Rosie yelled up at Patrick.

‘Good call,’ said Patrick. ‘Make mine a pint.’

He pulled Tom up into his arms, and got to his feet, settling the two children on his hips like saddlebags.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I’ll be done for after this. Old man’s afternoon nap for me.’

‘Chrise!’ yelled Rosie happily.

‘Oi, you,’ said Patrick. ‘Shut it. Your mother will have my guts for garters.’

Darrell checked her watch. Only ten-thirty, she thought. What will I do for the rest of the day? I could write, she thought, as they strolled back to the villa. But I don’t have a deadline pressing, and I am on holiday. I guess I’ll just lie around as usual. Feed and change Cosmo and put him down to sleep. As usual.

Closing the front door to the villa behind her, Darrell could hear the clink of crockery in the kitchen. Charlotte’s doing dishes, or making a morning snack for the children. You know, she thought, as she followed Patrick through the kitchen door, for all the suspicions Clare, Michelle and I had about her abilities, she has turned out to be surprisingly competent.

It wasn’t Charlotte.

‘Ah,’ said Marcus. ‘Hope you don’t mind. Your, er, nanny let me in.’

He had a plate in his hand, piled high with herb-flecked scrambled eggs. Darrell gave it a pointed look.

‘No breakfast,’ he explained. ‘And I did bring the eggs with me; I’m not a complete freeloader.’ He held out the plate. ‘May I offer you some?’

‘No, thanks.’ Patrick filled a glass of water at the sink and chugged it down. Then he filled the children’s plastic sipper cups and handed one to Rosie first — wise move, thought Darrell — and then to Tom. Both children toddled off into the living room.

‘But you can bring me another plate exactly that size,’ Patrick said as he headed after them. ‘No green stuff, though. I don’t want anything taking the edge off that cholesterol.’

Darrell saw Marcus smiling at her. She met his eye, and found it impossible not to smile back.

‘I came to see you. And the boy.’ He nodded at the swaddled Cosmo. ‘But I’ll bugger off again if you tell me to.’

If I tell you to, thought Darrell. Now there’s a concept. When was the last time I told anyone anything?

She unclipped the straps on the baby carrier. The sense of release when she lifted Cosmo from her chest, the ability to take a deep breath and properly fill her lungs, made her light-headed.

‘Eat your eggs,’ she said. ‘I’ll put Cosmo down, and then I’ll make us all a pot of coffee.’

‘Has tha worked out what tha plan t’ do t’ me?’

The voice was quiet, but it still made Charlotte leap and clutch the trunk of the olive tree she’d been leaning against.

Ned was behind her, a pair of secateurs in one hand. Secateurs were an oddly feminine gardening tool, thought Charlotte, even more so when contrasted against a man who, in her opinion, would not look out of place clad in a bearskin and painted in woad. If Chad was a Nordic hero, decided Charlotte, Ned the gardener was in the frontline of the Iceni as Boudicca spurred them on to stick one up a Roman wedge.

‘Of course not!’ said Charlotte crossly. ‘I have better things to do with my time.’

‘Such as spying?’

Ned’s gaze travelled over Charlotte’s shoulder, through the copse of olive trees, to the table where Darrell and Marcus were sitting, talking. If you listened hard, you could just make out what they were saying.

Charlotte let the accusation slide. Ned was one hundred per cent correct, but she would never give him that satisfaction. She would certainly not tell him why spying had suddenly become necessary.

When the doorbell had rung at ten that morning, Charlotte had been in the villa alone. The Milan contingent had piled into two cars and vamoosed after breakfast. Patrick and Darrell had taken the remaining children for a stroll. Charlotte, who had been looking forward to a rare hour of peace, opened the upstairs window to see who was at the door, in the hopes that it was someone she could ignore. She saw the top of a head that she knew instantly as Marcus’, having seen him from that angle quite a lot during their one night together.

Charlotte had glanced down at the yellow sundress she was wearing and decided it would not do. Wholesome and virginal was an ideal look if you wished to forestall the advances of a sleazy uncle, but not if you wanted a repeat offer of extraordinarily hot sex from a man who did, with small sugary biscuits, things that should by rights be banned by food authorities the world over. After a hasty rifle through her wardrobe, Charlotte had grabbed a pink linen mini-dress, effected the quick change, and run downstairs to open the door.

‘Hello!’ Marcus had looked her up and down, and given her a smile that had made Charlotte glad she’d changed her dress but regret she had not also thought to forgo her knickers. She was already imagining him taking her in the kitchen, lifting her up so she could wrap her legs around him, like Jack Nicholson with Sally Struthers in Five Easy Pieces, another late-night movie that, in this case, hadn’t helped Charlotte feel at all ready to go to bed alone.

‘I was beginning to think no one was home,’ Marcus had said.

‘No one is,’ Charlotte had said. ‘Except me.’

She’d been on the verge of reaching out and making the potential of the situation crystal clear, when she’d noticed his face had fallen somewhat.

‘I’d hoped to catch Darrell,’ he’d said. ‘Is she … will she be back today?’

Of course Darrell will be back today, Charlotte had thought. She has no life. Charlotte still had considerable trouble believing that Darrell and Marcus had ever been an item. Darrell must know some ancient Chinese method of prolonging the male orgasm, Charlotte had decided. It was the only possible reason.

‘Darrell will be back within the hour,’ she’d said to Marcus. ‘You’re welcome to come in and wait for her.’

He’d smiled at her again, in a way that had rekindled a tiny spark of hope that kitchen sex was not out of the question. But then he’d stepped inside, brushed a distracted kiss across her cheek, and said, ‘Thank you. Do you mind if I scramble some eggs?’

He’d walked straight on without waiting for a reply, and Charlotte knew she’d already been forgotten. She’d stood in the doorway for some minutes as the implications had sunk in. First and most pressing, if Marcus had designs on Darrell, then he needed to be stopped. His interest raised the state of Darrell and Anselo’s marriage from ‘satisfactory’ to ‘critical’, and Charlotte was not about to let matters slide further. Killing him, although attractive given his rejection was smarting like lemon juice on a paper cut, was not practical. Besides, there was also the possibility that she was overestimating the threat. Charlotte had decided that the most sensible strategy was to gather intelligence, which was why she was now lurking among the olives.

As she watched the pair talk, Charlotte found she was struggling to reconcile the fact that Marcus Reynolds preferred Darrell to her.

Charlotte knew that what she and Marcus had shared was purely physical, and that her heart belonged solely and completely to Patrick. But still, there were certain generally accepted truths when it came to men and women, and one was that if a woman was flaccid and baby-bound, she was nowhere near as attractive as one who was prettier, livelier and unencumbered. Except apparently in this case, Charlotte noted, watching Marcus watch Darrell.

My conjecture must be true, Charlotte decided. Darrell must have mastered the ancient Eastern concubine art of so-far-and-no-farther that has grown men sobbing for release. But somehow I doubt it, as I gather it requires a significant degree of muscle control. And if what my friends tell me about childbirth is correct, you could now drive the Orient Express up there and do a U-turn.

God, I’m obsessing, she thought. I’m becoming that tired romance novel cliché: the frustrated jealous woman driven to fruitless stalking and petty spiteful muttering. How astonishingly irritating. Then she realised Ned was still waiting for her to confirm or deny his accusation of spying, which irritated her even more.

‘I lost a bracelet around here,’ she said briskly, gesturing at the ground around the olive trees. ‘I was looking for it.’

Ned did not believe her. Too bad, thought Charlotte. She had no intention of telling him anything. For one thing, she did not know yet whether he was friend or foe. His confrontational demeanour suggested the latter, but Charlotte suspected that Ned wore that much as he wore his brown overalls — whether it suited the conditions or not.

Ned stared again at the couple at the table.

‘Who’s he?’ he said. ‘Ex-boyfriend?’

‘Definitely not,’ said Charlotte. ‘I don’t do boyfriends.’

‘Girlfriends, then?’

‘Those neither.’

One corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Charlotte t’ nanny,’ he said, ‘if tha’ve nivver been fucked, then I am a monkey’s maiden aunt.’

‘Did I say that?’ said Charlotte. ‘I don’t believe I did.’

She held his gaze, but when he looked away she knew that he’d done so out of choice.

‘Where are t’ children?’ he said. ‘Or have tha lost them for good?’

‘Harry is in Milan with his parents.’ Charlotte felt a need to defend herself. ‘Rosie and Tom are watching a DVD with Patrick.’

Ned touched a fingertip to the sharp end of the secateurs, a gesture Charlotte found disquieting. But then everything about Ned was disquieting, which Charlotte found trying to both her nerves and her patience. Really, Charlotte decided, if he insisted on talking to her, he would need to undergo a comprehensive change in attitude.

It did occur to her that she could instruct him never to talk to her again. But one thing prevented her — his connection with Patrick. He was another link, another potential way into Patrick’s life. A life that, Charlotte felt right now, she had never been less a part of. Even sleeping in the same house, and looking after his child for hours every day, she thought, I feel less connected to him than I did when I was answering his phone and bringing him truly terrible cups of sweet, milky coffee.

Why this was, she couldn’t say. Too many other people around, perhaps? Or was it simply because she was very busy? If Clare and Michelle were more diligent mothers, she might have more time without the children. But that wouldn’t mean more time with Patrick, she knew, unless she found a good reason to make time. Ned, Charlotte thought, might well provide her with that reason.

She was loathe to admit that he might also help her regain a sense of desirability, which had been more than a little dented by Marcus Reynolds’ unaccountable preference for drooping Darrell.

‘What do you do when you’re not gardening, Ned—? I’m sorry, what is your last name?’

‘Marsh. And what d’you mean, what do I do?’

He was taken aback, flustered. For the first time, Charlotte felt at an advantage.

‘How do you occupy your time? Nude bathhouses? Internet porn? Table tennis? What?’

Ned hesitated. ‘I keep myself t’ myself, mostly,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I go t’ bars …’

‘Bars,’ said Charlotte. ‘Excellent. Come to a bar with me tonight.’

His expression of suspicion was almost comic, thought Charlotte.

‘Bar? Why?’

Charlotte pointed through the trees. ‘See that man over there? I met him in a bar. I had hoped to go to more bars with him, but now he seems to have taken up with a married woman. And as I dislike going to bars on my own … well,’ she amended, ‘staying in bars on my own, I’m now inviting you to join me.’

‘If tha’s hoping t’ be wined an’ dined,’ said Ned, ‘you might remember that I earn four-fifths o’ a poor man’s fart.’

‘My, you have an earthy turn of phrase,’ said Charlotte. ‘Is that a yes?’

Ned inclined his head. ‘What’s t’ catch?’

‘No catch. I tell you what I know and you tell me what you know. If you know what I mean.’

Ned gave a single, slow nod. ‘Fair enough. Bar ’tis. I don’t own car, so ’twill need t’ be bar near here.’

‘Bar near here suits me fine,’ said Charlotte. ‘I will meet you outside the front door of this villa at eight o’clock.’

And without waiting for a reply — her sense of ascendancy over him was fading fast, and she wanted to exit before there was any risk he might launch another assault on her dignity — she walked off and left him.

15

I shouldn’t be drinking, Patrick thought. It’s not even mid-afternoon, and I’m on my fourth beer.

I shouldn’t be drinking around the kids, either. Not that they’d know beer from Dr Winklethwaite’s Colonic Tonic. But still, not ideal to be caught drunk in charge of minors.

Four beers aren’t enough to make me drunk, he decided. But beer four followed beer three without me thinking too hard about it, and I imagine beer five will appear in my hand with minimal input from my grey matter, too. Beer five will take me close to drunk. Beers six and seven will push me over. There are eight beers in the fridge. I counted them.

If I do take that old man’s nap, Patrick thought, I could almost be sober by the time Clare comes home. If she comes home. Michelle was talking to her with some enthusiasm about the Milan nightlife, which means Chad and young Harry might be the only ones back here for dinner. And Anselo. Maybe …

Fuck it, he thought, and drained the bottle. Time for beer five.

Rosie saw him get up off the couch. She’d demanded to sit on his lap, but Patrick had told her he wouldn’t stay in the room unless she sat on the floor with Tom. Her eyes had flashed — storm-warning blue like her mother’s — but she’d obeyed him. She and Tom were watching The Powerpuff Girls, a DVD supplied by Michelle. Patrick knew Clare would not approve, but he, personally, was enjoying it. Buttercup, he decided, was Rosie — short, black hair in a bob, and an arse-kicker of the highest order. Buttercup was even dressed in Rosie’s favourite colour, green. No pink for Rosie, thought Patrick. Unless you counted the colour of her latest scalp.

‘Drink!’ yelled Rosie as Patrick stood up. ‘Bikkit!’

On his feet, Patrick suddenly felt the effect of four beers in quick succession, and had to stand still for a moment, hand on the back of the couch.

‘Say please,’ he said to Rosie, ‘or there’ll be no bloody bikkit for you.’

‘BIKKIT!’ yelled Rosie.

‘Please,’ said Patrick.

Rosie glared at him, and clamped her lips together. Great, he thought. I’m having an argument with an eighteen-month-old, and losing. Just think what would happen if I tried to put my foot down with my wife.

‘Everything all right in here?’

Charlotte was at his side. She looked a little flushed, Patrick thought, as if she’d been walking fast. It suited her, a bit of colour. Gave her a peachy glow all over, like one of Renoir’s naked bathers.

Shit, that’s a four-beer thought, he warned himself. I have to stop drinking.

‘Rosie wants a biscuit,’ he said. ‘But she needs to say please. Don’t you, Rosie?’

‘Rosie?’ Charlotte’s tone was firm.

‘Bikkit!’ Rosie pouted. ‘Bloody bikkit! Plee!’

‘I’ll be in the fucking dog box,’ said Patrick to Charlotte, when they were out of earshot in the kitchen. ‘That’s the third swear word I’ve taught her in as many hours.’

‘I wouldn’t worry.’ Charlotte lifted the packet of biscotti from the cupboard. Since the night with Marcus, she had been unable to buy amaretti, which she personally preferred. But the children had neither noticed nor cared, so biscotti it was.

‘Rosie yelled the word “cun” yesterday,’ Charlotte continued. ‘And as I heard her mother and your wife using it just the other day, I can safely put you in the clear.’

Patrick had one hand on the fridge door. In his other hand, there was a beer bottle.

‘I told myself I shouldn’t have this,’ he said. ‘Yet, somehow, here it fucking is.’

Charlotte said, ‘Are you drinking for a reason?’

Patrick stared at her. More accurately, he stared at her profile, as she kept to her task of arranging biscotti on a plastic plate. She’s my PA, he thought. And for a few weeks more, my child’s nanny. I employ her. I have a duty to her to be professional. To keep my distance. And she’s only being polite, he told himself. She doesn’t really want to know.

But who else is there? I suppose I could have talked to Darrell this morning, but I get the feeling she has problems of her own. Which she’s keeping to herself. Keeping it all private. Like I should.

‘I’m having a mid-life crisis, Charlotte,’ said Patrick. ‘I used to think the whole concept was a gimmick, invented by the makers of Porsche convertibles and hair plugs. But turns out I was wrong. No idea why I’m surprised about that. I’ve been wrong about so many fucking things in my life, I’ve lost count.’

Charlotte filled a second plastic sipper cup with milk. She propped both cups on the plate next to the biscotti so she could carry them all together, and faced Patrick.

‘I’m going to give these to the children,’ she said, ‘and put another DVD on, which will keep Rosie happy. Tom will probably fall asleep on the cushions. In either case, by my estimate, we’ll have half an hour to ourselves.’

‘What about Darrell?’ Patrick said.

He thought Charlotte’s expression flickered for an instant, but decided it was probably beer vision, because when she spoke, it was in her usual measured way.

‘Darrell won’t bother us,’ said Charlotte. ‘She is otherwise occupied.’

Her gaze travelled to the doorway and back to Patrick. ‘I think we’ll go to the study on the top floor. It has a very fine view of the lake.’

Patrick looked down at the beer bottle in his hand. ‘I don’t need this,’ he said. ‘I really don’t.’

‘That’s entirely up to you,’ said Charlotte. ‘As far as I’m concerned, when you’re with me, you can do what you like.’

If any other woman had said that to me, thought Patrick, as he followed Charlotte up the stairs away from the temporarily contented Rosie and Tom, I might have taken it as a come-on. But this was Charlotte, he reminded himself. Cool, efficient, unflappable Charlotte. Beautiful Charlotte, who could have any man she wanted. Who could have no interest in her ageing, butt ugly, beer-breathed employer, and had probably offered to listen to him moan out of some misplaced sense of employee obligation.

He paused to take a swig from beer five, which he had somehow failed to leave behind, and watched Charlotte ascend the steep stairs that led to the top floor of the villa. Her skirt was really quite short, he realised. Patrick could have sworn that she’d been wearing a different dress in the morning, a fifties-style full-skirted yellow sundress that he rather liked. Now, she was wearing a short sleeveless pink linen number. I must have been mistaken, he thought. And I must stop staring right now, because if she gets any further above me, I’ll know if she’s wearing Alans or not. Alan Whickers, he mentally translated. I haven’t used that phrase in years. Not since I was young. When I was Charlotte’s age.

I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought. Spilling my guts to my young PA. I’m going to bore her out of her fucking mind, poor bird, and I won’t be able to stop myself.

He took another swig of beer and found the bottle was now empty. I said five beers would only put me close to drunk, he thought, putting a steadying hand on the wall before attempting the rest of the stairs. Seems I was wrong about that as well.

‘You can put him down on the blanket,’ Darrell said to Marcus. ‘Babies are like hot-water bottles. Great on a cold night. Which this isn’t.’

‘I’m quite comfortable.’ Marcus smiled at the sleeping baby, whose downy dark head lay in the crook of his left arm. ‘He’s a beautiful boy. Takes after you.’

‘Flattery,’ said Darrell. ‘Otherwise known as lies.’

‘No,’ said Marcus. ‘You should know I only ever say what I mean. Not always at the appropriate time, but that’s by the by.’

Darrell had to concede that this was, in her experience, true. As far as she knew, Marcus had no shame and no fear of being judged, which gave him no reason to lie.

I’m not sure that means he puts everything out in the open, she thought. But as I never asked him what else he had going on in his life besides me, I never knew if he was holding anything back. I suspect that if I had asked him who else he’d slept with in between the few times he slept with me, he would have told me. Undoubtedly the reason I never asked.

And we only did sleep together a few times, she thought. Three, as I recall. Vividly. He saw me when it fitted in with his schedule. He wasn’t being callous, because we were never in a relationship, as such. We were never in love.

Well, I might have been a little in love, Darrell admitted. I certainly idolised him. He brought such energy and joy into my life, when I did not know who I was, or where I should be. He pulled me back from the abyss that grief had opened up in me after Tom’s death, and into which I was in danger of falling forever. I ended it with him when I realised that Marcus could have piled in his whole store of humour and warmth and affection and sex, and I would have consumed it all, like Rosie and Harry’s favourite caterpillar, like the sea creature in Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories that eats all of Suleiman bin Daoud’s food, which he intended for the whole world. And the gap inside me would have stayed as wide as ever. I ended it with Marcus and made a vow to fill the gap myself, Darrell thought, to make myself whole and strong again under my own steam. And straight after that I fell in love with Anselo.

Perhaps I have an amazing capacity for self-delusion, thought Darrell. I say I ended it with Marcus, but he was only in Europe for a few weeks anyway. After that, he would have gone back to Los Angeles, and what are the odds I would ever have seen him again?

Darrell suddenly felt a strong urge to inject some lightness into the conversation. ‘How are the palm trees and busty blondes?’ she said to Marcus.

It had been his joke, the appeal of Hollywood to one who was, as he put it, ‘both sybaritic and shallow’.

He looked at her for a moment before answering. ‘Done and gone.’

‘You mean — you’ve quit Hollywood?’

‘It would be more accurate to say that Hollywood has quit me.’

He was half-smiling, but Darrell could see how much it bothered him. I can imagine why, she thought. I always saw Marcus as one of the lucky ones who breeze through life as they please, falling into success, whether they plan it or not. I think that’s how he always saw himself, too.

‘Is that why you’re here? In Italy?’

‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘It’s why I am sponging off my sister, living in one of her flats and spending all the money she’s kindly lent me.’

Darrell did not like Marcus’ sister. Gus, in her opinion, was a rude, spoilt cow. She was also extremely beautiful, and Marcus thought the sun shone out her rear. So many reasons to hate her, thought Darrell, and now I can add to them the fact that she’s rich.

‘Is there that much money in art?’ she said.

‘No money in art whatsoever,’ said Marcus, ‘unless you are Damien Hirst, or a black-market dealer in Old Masters looted by the Nazis.’

He gave Darrell a brief, appraising glance. ‘You remembered why my father gave up his title. Did you forget that I was the only one of my siblings not favoured by his will?’

‘I didn’t forget,’ said Darrell. ‘You don’t get anything until you’re sixty.’

‘Sixty-five,’ said Marcus. ‘My father considered me an indolent, self-indulgent spendthrift. So far I’ve managed to prove him one hundred per cent correct.’

He bent his head over Cosmo again.

‘Whereas you,’ he said, lightly stroking the baby’s cheek, ‘will be like your father — a strapping earnest toiler.’

‘Hey,’ said Darrell softly, ‘none of that.’

Marcus made a face. ‘I can’t believe you married him,’ he said. ‘He has as much personality as a telegraph pole!’

‘He’s a good man,’ said Darrell.

I say that as if I’m certain, she thought, but I’m not sure I know him well enough to be certain at all. When Anselo said he loved me, I believed my short time with Marcus had shown me what was right — who was right for me. But perhaps I leapt into a relationship with Anselo for exactly the same reason I leapt into one with Marcus? To fill a gap in my life that I was afraid I could not fill on my own. Perhaps I only thought I looked beforehand?

‘Heart of oak, head of teak,’ muttered Marcus. ‘Let’s change the subject. Are you still writing those erotic little fripperies?’

‘I’m not sure that subject is any more suitable,’ said Darrell with a smile. ‘But, yes, I am. My latest, coming out next month, is called Taken by the Tycoon.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Marcus grinning. ‘Where does he take her? And in how many different positions?’

‘Buy it and read it,’ said Darrell. ‘It will set you back all of a quid.’

‘A quid that technically isn’t mine,’ said Marcus, subdued again. ‘Christ. I suppose I’ll have to get a real job.’

‘How long is Gus funding you for?’

‘I daren’t ask,’ he said. ‘I suspect I’m good for another month or two.’

‘And Claude won’t give you anything?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Marcus. ‘He has to spend everything on stockpiling grain and ammo.’

‘Are they happy?’ said Darrell. ‘He and Ruth? In their cabin?’

‘Cosy as two rats honeymooning in a woollen sock. I learned that from a Texan friend of mine,’ Marcus added. ‘He was a stunt rider. Kicked in the head once too often, but I’m not sure that you could tell the difference when he spoke.’

Cosmo, Darrell noticed, was stirring in Marcus’ lap. Soon, he’d be awake.

‘Do Claude and Ruth think they’ll have children?’ said Darrell.

‘Definitely not,’ said Marcus. ‘Ruth doesn’t believe in them.’

Darrell laughed. ‘What do you mean she doesn’t believe in them? They’re not fairies!’

‘The world is already grossly overpopulated, according to Ruth,’ said Marcus. ‘I suspect it’s a good thing. If he were ever confronted by a full nappy, Claude’s heart might stop from the shock.’

He bent and sniffed. ‘Speaking of which, I think this might be an opportune time to hand little Cosmo back to his mother.’

‘Terrific.’ Darrell reached out to take her child, who blinked, still not fully awake, but submitted to being passed across without protest. ‘Oh, yes. Ripe. Excellent.’

But I don’t mind, she thought. I really don’t. For the first time in forever, I feel happy to take my child. I feel happy, full stop. It’s almost alarming.

Marcus turned in his chair as Darrell laid Cosmo on the changing mat on the lawn.

‘You don’t have to watch,’ she said to him.

‘Oh, I do,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel like the world’s a better place. That simple joys, such as shitting in your pants, are still possible. And I like to watch you,’ he added. ‘I always did.’

‘I was cute then,’ said Darrell, glad he couldn’t see her face. ‘I’m a bovine monstrosity now.’

‘Say that again and I’ll slap you,’ he said. ‘I’m sure your heroines have sense slapped into them with monotonous regularity.’

‘The world has moved on since the century before last,’ said Darrell. ‘Slapping is not good form. On the face, anyway.’

She risked a glance over her shoulder. Marcus’s brown eyes were alight with amusement and affection. Darrell felt her stomach lurch, as if she had skidded to a halt right before the edge of a very tall cliff.

‘Last night, you told Michelle you had plans for today,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

‘My plan happened. My plan was to see you,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I make the same plan for tomorrow?’

It was a question Darrell wasn’t at all sure how to answer.

16

Charlotte considered changing out of the pink mini-dress. Ned had already seen her wearing it today, so its impact on him would be reduced. Not that she really wanted to encourage Ned; Charlotte suspected that he would be a tad rustic in bed, like one of Hardy’s more earnest and plodding farmer types, going at it as if he were seeding wurzels.

But she did want to feel sexy again, after the debacle with Marcus in the morning. She wanted to feel powerful again, too; on top of things, like she had, ever so briefly, when she’d asked Ned out in the olive grove. Charlotte was used to feeling in control of most aspects of her life, but, ever since she’d fallen for Patrick, it felt as if her life had quietly but determinedly begun to break out of its well-constructed confines, like RAF pilots from Stalag Luft 3, and she was not enjoying the sense of panic and helplessness that engendered. Her momentary ascendancy over Ned had made her almost heady with relief, and it would be nice to feel that way again. So perhaps she should swap the dress for one that would drop him to his knees?

No, Charlotte decided. He’s undoubtedly taking me to a bar that will be filled with old men who look like crushed walnuts in knitted vests, club-footed labourers and squalling infants. Italians, thought Charlotte, seem to have no idea of what constitutes a reasonable hour to put children to bed. If I walked into a bar like that in a serious dress, I would almost certainly be stoned to death.

And besides, she thought, with a sigh, he’ll probably be wearing those bloody awful overalls. How he can stand them in this heat, I have no idea. How he can stand them full stop, I have no idea, either. I’ve seen more attractive overalls on men who’ve just escaped from prison via the sewer system.

Charlotte checked her watch. It was five to eight. Ned, she sensed, would not tolerate lateness. If she were not there on the dot, he would head back from whence he came. A corrugatediron shed, no doubt, or a shabby basement apartment up some dubious back alley.

Time to go. Charlotte picked up her bag and wondered if she should check again with Patrick if it was all right for her to leave. He had spent the afternoon in his room, sleeping off the beers, Charlotte assumed, but had reappeared before dinner, which consisted of pizza that Marcus had fetched from the village. Patrick had seemed cheerful enough until Chad had arrived back with Harry, but without Michelle, Clare or Anselo, who, according to Chad, had decided to make a night of it in Milan. Chad seemed unfazed, but his news had prompted Patrick to instruct Marcus to come back with beer as well as pizza. How Darrell had taken the same news, Charlotte knew she should have paid more attention to. But she’d only had eyes for Patrick.

He opened up to me today, Charlotte thought. Just as I’d hoped he would. And I could have oh so easily pressed my advantage. I could have had him on the study divan without question. All it would have taken was one touch, one kiss. But I did nothing, because this is just the start. At the risk of sounding like a line from one of the more glutinous Hallmark movies, I will not settle for one mildly drunken fumble when the real prize is to win the whole man: body and heart.

Charlotte decided she would now slip away without a word.

Clare isn’t here tonight, she thought. If I see Patrick now, I might be tempted to spend the evening with him. And if I do that, it might be too easy to do something I’d regret.

Outside the villa, in the narrow road, Charlotte could see no sign of Ned. Black thoughts had begun to occupy her mind when a hand touched her arm, causing her to leap yet again.

‘Must you?’ said Charlotte. ‘Why can’t you wait properly instead of skulking?’

‘Thought tha’d not be on time,’ said Ned. ‘Went down t’ look at lake.’

Now that her heart had stopped clanging, Charlotte was able to take him in. She was surprised. He wasn’t going to win the George Clooney award for sartorial elegance, but he was vastly more presentable than she’d expected. Instead of overalls, Ned had on a pair of tidy ochre-coloured chinos and a dark blue slim-cut shirt that had either been very well ironed or recently bought. His hair was still surfer-messy, but it suited him, Charlotte thought, and it suited the look. He was, she reluctantly had to admit, very handsome, and in extremely good shape for a man his age.

‘Those trousers are quite a daring colour,’ she said. ‘Taking fashion tips from the Italian men? Next stop, lilac?’

‘Italian clothes are ower small,’ he said. ‘These were mail order. From Sweden or somewhere.’

‘They fit far too well for mail order,’ said Charlotte with a frown.

‘There’s a village woman does a bit o’ tailoring for us,’ he said.

‘A woman who does,’ said Charlotte. ‘How terribly handy.’

To Charlotte’s discomfort, Ned gave her a slow look up and down. ‘Tha didn’t change,’ he said. ‘Tha were wearing that dress earlier.’

‘It’s a perfectly good dress!’ Charlotte resisted the urge to clutch her bag to her chest. ‘What are you complaining about?’

‘No complaints.’ Ned offered her a half-smile, and his arm. ‘Shall we go, milady?’

‘I’d end that sort of nonsense right now,’ Charlotte warned. ‘If our evening degenerates into something out of DH Lawrence, I shall be forced to stab you.’

The bar Ned took her to was small and local, but a great deal more sophisticated than Charlotte had expected. Surprise number two, she thought. Whatever next?

Whatever next was the fact that Ned drank red wine.

‘No stout?’ said Charlotte. ‘No pint of Old Peculiar?’

‘Not much call for that round here,’ said Ned.

Then he said, ‘So tell us about you an’ Mr King.’

I suppose he has a right to launch into it, thought Charlotte. It’s what I promised him we’d talk about. Now that I need to fulfil that promise though, I’m not keen. But if I don’t, he won’t reciprocate, and that’s the only thing I’m here for.

‘Mr King and I?’ Charlotte smiled. ‘Almost a musical.’

Ned did not smile back. He reminded Charlotte of a man she’d seen once, who was being arrested by the police. For domestic disturbance, according to the other onlookers. Banged on the front door of the house of his ex-wife, who, not surprisingly, did not open it, but called the police instead. He refused to quieten down, so they slapped him in handcuffs and took him away. Charlotte caught a glimpse of his face as they bundled him into the patrol car. His expression said, in no uncertain terms, that he considered the business of the day unfinished.

Patrick didn’t say anything about Ned this afternoon, Charlotte thought. It was all about Clare, and Tom, and work. From the look on Ned’s face, Charlotte decided, Patrick means more to him than he does to Patrick. I’m not sure that bodes well at all.

‘He’s my employer,’ she said. ‘I’ve worked for him for five months. I’m not sure what else I can tell you.’

‘Tha likes him,’ said Ned. ‘Tha thinks he’s a good man.’

‘I do.’ Charlotte hesitated. She felt as though she were about to step off into the deep end of an icy cold pool. ‘But you don’t?’

Ned ran his thumb to and fro along the foot of his wine glass.

‘Patrick King,’ he said, without looking up, ‘killed my sister.’

Charlotte gasped, and the heads of the few others in the bar turned to look.

She bent forwards, so only Ned could hear. ‘What do you mean? How did he kill her?’

Ned waited a moment before replying. ‘She were in love wi’ him, an’ he rejected her, an’ she went out, got drunk and were raped. It turned her t’ drugs, and she took an overdose an’ died. She weren’t even twenty.’

‘So he didn’t kill her?’ Relief made Charlotte suddenly furious. ‘How dare you wind me up like that with such nonsense!’

Ned leaned in. ‘She were my sister!’

He kept his voice low, but the fury in it instantly evaporated her own with its heat. Charlotte thought she had never seen a man so angry.

‘She were seventeen! He used her an’ dumped her, an’ left her at t’ mercy of t’ world! And t’ world right royally fucked her up! Thanks to Patrick fucking King, my little sister did not have a fucking chance!’

‘And where were you when all this happened?’

It was out before Charlotte realised. Part of her marvelled at her own courage. The rest of her prepared to run for the hills.

But it was as if she’d punctured him. Ned’s shoulders slumped, and his voice lost most of its fierce edge.

‘I left her wi’ him,’ he said. ‘I trusted him t’ look after her.’

‘Ned,’ said Charlotte gently, ‘how old was Patrick? How old were you?’

‘Old enough t’ know better!’

‘How old?’ Charlotte persisted.

‘Eighteen. We were both eighteen.’

Charlotte suppressed the urge to laugh. That would not only be dangerous, she thought, but it would also be wrong. At eighteen, I may have been a blooming and virginal (well, almost) girl, but Patrick and Ned would have considered themselves men. I assume, given what I know of Patrick’s youth, that they may not have been fully embracing an honest working life, but that did not mean they were unaware of their responsibilities. Which, she thought, would undoubtedly have been greater than mine.

‘Where were your parents?’ Charlotte asked.

‘My mother died years back. My father were a drunk.’

‘So you were on your own?’

‘And I suppose tha grew up in t’ perfect family?’ Ned lifted his wine glass as if in an ironic toast. ‘Ma and Pa happily married. Two-point-five children and dog?’

Charlotte knew that, despite the obvious parallels, her upbringing and Ned’s were not really comparable. My sister and I had a roof over our heads, for one, she thought, and food in the cupboards, if not always on the table. But the tone of his question — more of an accusation — riled her. You don’t have to drag your childhood traumas and grudges with you through adulthood, Ned Marsh, she thought. It is possible to let go and move on.

‘Well, let’s see,’ Charlotte replied. ‘My father and mother are still married, yes, but until his gout effectively crippled him, my father did spend a lot of time idling in lay-bys and visiting public conveniences. He thought we didn’t know. Everyone knew. My mother minded a little, I think, but unlike other husbands, he didn’t pester her for sex, which she found quite a relief. She preferred gin, anyway, though I can’t say that, over the years, it’s been the happiest of relationships. My mother is often maudlin, which is not ideal when you wear as much mascara as she does. Best to visit her in the morning. Preferably between nine-thirty when she manages to crawl out of bed and ten when the second gin starts to kick in. My elder sister is very happy, so far as I know. She’s an archaeologist and, nominally, a lesbian, and lives in the Orkneys. So yes.’ Charlotte stopped and pretended to think. ‘Apart from the fact we never had a dog because my father was allergic, we really are the perfect family. The pitch-perfect, not a foot wrong, middle-class cliché.’

‘You had money, though,’ said Ned.

‘Which, of course, made it all worthwhile!’ Charlotte had had enough. ‘Don’t start lecturing me about what it’s like to be poor. You can wear it as a badge of honour if you like, but don’t expect me to bend a knee!’

‘Charlotte t’ nanny,’ Ned’s half-smile was back, ‘you’re a wee lioness.’

‘Do you have the slightest idea how patronising that sounds?’

‘Blame my upbringing.’ Then he said, ‘Has tha eaten?’

Charlotte shook her head. The question, being identical to that asked by Marcus on the one evening when he had fancied her, cut a little close to the bone. If Ned suggests pizza, she thought, I shall have to refuse.

‘I know place where they make great gnocchi,’ he said. ‘If tha wants t’ go?’

Charlotte did. But they had not walked ten yards before Charlotte, in the grip of unusually heightened emotions and frustrated desire, grabbed Ned by the shirt, pushed him into a nearby wall and kissed him.

She felt him jerk with surprise and, initially, resist, but she pressed her whole body firmly against his, trapping him and, after a moment, he began to kiss her back.

Charlotte had expected a certain clumsy coarseness, certainly no finesse, but again she was surprised. Ned was an excellent kisser, if a mite stubbly, and Charlotte found herself melting into him, eager for more. She ran her hand down his chest, and over his belt. And he placed his own hands on her upper arms, and lifted her away.

‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘Charlotte t’ nanny, I am not going t’ fuck you.’

‘Why not?’ Charlotte did not like the sound of her own voice — too shrill, too needy.

‘Because,’ Ned looked embarrassed but resolute, ‘I don’t do casual sex.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ said Charlotte. ‘You’re a man. Men can start having sex before even being aware of it!’

Ned shook his head. ‘Not this man.’

Charlotte felt all the desire drain out her, leaving a residue that was uncomfortably close to abject humiliation. It wasn’t fair. All those years of attracting men — any man she chose — with as much ease as if they’d been hypnotised. Now, she thought bitterly, I could drop Spanish fly and double-strength Viagra in their drinks and they still wouldn’t sleep with me. Here I was earlier, thinking I could say the word and Patrick would fall into bed with me. When in reality, he would probably have much preferred to watch a repeat of Arsenal against Spurs.

‘It’s me, isn’t it?’ she said to Ned. ‘You don’t fancy me.’

‘Man would have t’ be corpse at arse-end of disused mineshaft not t’ fancy thee,’ said Ned. ‘It’s not you. I just don’t like sleeping wi’ women I hardly know.’

‘You do know me!’

‘I don’t! And you don’t know us!’

Ned folded his arms, and leaned back against the wall, staring down at his feet.

‘Patrick used t’ give me shit for it,’ he said. ‘My dick would drop off from lack of use, that’s what he’d say t’ us. He thought women were there for taking. And so he took them, an’ fucked them an’ threw them away like they were sweet wrappers. Including my sister.’

He lifted his head and met Charlotte’s eye. ‘I can’t forgive him,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’

Slowly, he straightened up, and touched her lightly on the arm. ‘Happen we’ll do gnocchi some other time,’ he said. ‘But for now, I’m going t’ walk tha home.’

17

‘Thank God for Spanx and salmonella,’ said Michelle, ‘or it’d be no new dress for me.’

She eyed her reflection in the mirror that hung in the hotel room. ‘As it is, it might as well have come with a free stomach-stapling operation, for the way those specks of shop assistants looked at me. What’s Italian for heffalump? Whatever it is, that’s what they were whispering behind their tiny little frozen hands.’

‘Puccini did a fair bit of hand-warming, apparently,’ said Anselo. ‘And other parts besides.’

He’d been dressed and ready for some time, and was contemplating raiding the mini-bar. The knowledge that six peanuts would set him back around ten quid had thus far put him off, but if Michelle and Clare did not get a move on, he’d have no choice but to eat the nuts in one bite, foil bag and all.

‘What do you think?’ Clare came out of the bathroom. ‘Splash on the mint sauce and call me mutton?’

She had on a thin-strapped sequinned mini-dress in an antique rose colour, nude flat sandals and, Anselo couldn’t help but observe, no bra.

‘Bitch,’ said Michelle. ‘What did you do with your cellulite? Put it in the hotel safe?’

Michelle’s own new purchase was an elegant red dress with a nod to the eighties in its shawl collar that came around to make a tight twist across the neckline, just above the bust. Her shoes were high and black and she was wearing black pantyhose. With her straight black bob, Anselo noted, she looked like the lead singer of that eighties band, Swing Out Sister. What was their one hit called again? Oh yeah, ‘Breakout’. Good notion, he thought. Terrible song.

‘You both look great,’ he said.

‘So do you,’ said Michelle. ‘Took a risk with that shirt, but it works. Mind you, you could be wearing those shiny pants with the green daisies on them and you’d still look hot.’

‘Thanks.’ Anselo’s pleasure at the compliment was instantly smothered by guilt. He had not really needed any new clothes, but a sense that he deserved some meant he had not demurred when Michelle and Clare insisted he should power-shop right along with them. The clothes he’d been urged to buy — a soft tailored mid-grey suit and a banana-yellow shirt — had been horrifically expensive. So was the hotel room, and God knows what he would end up spending tonight. The three of them had agreed to go Dutch, but Clare had Patrick’s credit card with its seemingly bottomless limit, and Michelle had breezily announced that she’d made Chad factor a night out and a shopping spree into their Italian budget. Whether this was true or not, Anselo had no idea. He assumed it must be: Chad had not protested at all when the plan to stay over in Milan had been hatched. He’d kissed Michelle goodbye and carried a sleeping Harry off to the car. He’d be back at the villa by now, Anselo calculated. With my wife, whom I have not texted or called once today. Not that she seemed to care whether I went off and left her, he thought, guilt now vying with resentment. What did she say to me? OK. That was it. OK. I could have told her I was going to sail to Iceland on a home-made raft, and she would have had the same response.

Clare picked up her purse. ‘What he means by “You look great”, as all men do, is: “Can we go now?”’

‘Don’t let me drink too much,’ said Michelle as they headed out the door. ‘I’m going to have enough trouble dancing in these shoes as it is. Mind you, I could just sway in a corner by myself,’ she added. ‘In which case, line up those Screaming Orgasmios and fire them at me!’

‘We were lucky to get a table at such short notice,’ said Clare, when they were seated in the hotel restaurant. ‘Fortunately, August is when the whole of Italy falls asleep, and only idiot foreigners come out to play.’

‘Yeah, most of the nightclubs are closed for the month,’ said Anselo. ‘We might have to take what we can get.’

‘As long as it has a flatteringly dim light, decent cocktails and a man who will sell me cocaine,’ said Michelle, ‘I’m not fussy.’

‘Are you serious?’ Clare stared at her.

‘No,’ said Michelle. ‘It’s a drug that makes terrible people truly appalling, and I shudder to think what kind of hell-beast it might turn me into. I’m just a little concerned about making it to the wee hours. I used to have stamina, but then I had children. Now if I want to stay up past nine-thirty, I have to stick my tongue on the end of a battery every five minutes to jolt myself awake.’

‘Shame,’ said Clare. ‘I feel I’m due for a serious blow-out, and what better fuel for one than actual blow?’

‘If Chad were here,’ said Michelle, ‘we wouldn’t be able to speak the word aloud, nor any of its pseudishly hipster street names. Poor lamb took it once at an after-work party and under its girding influence propositioned his boss’s succulent young wife. This was before he knew me, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Clare.

‘She said yes, as you would if Chad offered,’ Michelle continued, ‘but he was too wired to perform. Now, for him, cocaine is synonymous with degradation, impotence and the Sword of Damocles of impending job loss. For the sake of his psyche, I even had to switch to Pepsi.’

‘Patrick would happily take it,’ said Clare, ‘but I refuse to let him. Can you imagine Patrick on coke? Like a hearty Incredible Hulk. Everyone within a ten-mile radius would dive for cover lest he slap them jovially on the back and snap their spine.’

‘Why isn’t he here?’ Michelle frowned. ‘I thought Patrick would always be up for a night on the lash?’

Clare was studying the menu. ‘He’s concerned that Tom’s being abandoned.’

‘Tom seems perfectly happy to me,’ said Michelle. ‘There’s undoubtedly some Freudian stew bubbling away in him, as within all our children. But as long as it waits until adulthood to come to full boil, why should we care?’

Cosmo’s hardly at risk of being scarred by me, thought Anselo. The most interaction we’ve had is me holding him while Darrell straps on the baby carrier. I might as well be a hat stand, for all he’s aware of me. I can’t even imagine having any influence in his life. Can’t imagine ever really feeling like a father.

‘Of course, we’re missing the ultimate good-time guy,’ said Michelle. ‘I don’t believe sexpot Marcus’ plans could possibly be more fun than hanging with us, but whatever. He’s probably boffing some Mafia don’s wife, and today’s the day Signor Psycho goes out to stash severed stallion noggins in the beds of local politicians.’

‘And I thought Patrick had no tact,’ said Clare with a half-smile.

‘What?’ Michelle blinked, bemused. ‘Oh! Right. Mea culpa,’ she said to Anselo. ‘No more mention of sexy exes. I promise.’

In Anselo’s mind, the notion that Marcus Reynolds might have renewed designs on Darrell had evolved from fleeting, and was now hovering, small but insistent, much like a fruit fly above an overripe banana. Like a fruit fly, the notion zigzagged on various short, sharp emotional tangents. Marcus Reynolds was an odious douche. Marcus Reynolds was a lucky bastard, to have such undeserved, unearned wealth and privilege. Darrell was an idiot not to see through him. Darrell, like so many women, undoubtedly preferred easy, confident charm to prickly reluctance. Marcus Reynolds had never had a relationship of substance in his life. Marcus Reynolds might be at the villa right now, telling oh-so-amusing stories, and sitting just that bit too close to another man’s wife.

Whereas I’m here, Anselo thought, thirty miles away, wearing new clothes I can’t really afford, and thinking dangerous thoughts about payback for a crime I don’t even know my wife is committing. Jesus, am I that weak and petty that I need to cancel out my guilt with someone else’s? Why can’t I just own it, like any half-decent man would?

Maybe he could, he thought, if his potential — all right, possibly imagined — rival was a half-decent man, too. But he wasn’t, was he? He was an unfairly and odiously confident super-sized bag of douche.

Given the louring nature of his thoughts, Anselo was convinced he’d heard wrong when Clare said, ‘I don’t think our Mr Reynolds is that sexy. I prefer a bit of substance myself.’

‘I agree,’ said Michelle. ‘That’s why we’ve married the men we have. Because we know they’ll love us faithfully and unconditionally, even when we yell “Do it to me, George!” in the middle of sex.’

A waiter appeared behind Michelle’s shoulder, and coughed discreetly.

‘Oh, thank God,’ she said to him. ‘All this sex talk is making me famished!’ She scanned the menu. ‘Oo, tiramisu! Hope the Spanx hold up. Otherwise, I’ll be buddying up with the bulimics in the loos, playing Tickle my Uvula. Better remember to take my rings off first.’

Anselo saw Clare raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Sure you know what you’re getting into?’ she said.

Any gratitude Anselo had felt at her dismissal of Marcus Reynolds was gone. Clare sees me as Mr Cautious, he thought. Mr Safe. She thinks I always play by the rules.

Michelle closed her menu with a snap and said to the waiter, ‘Bring me lasagne, tiramisu and wine, and be quick about it, my good man. I’ve got a long night ahead of me that, with luck, I’ll remember nothing whatsoever of in the morning.’

Anselo leaned his forehead against the door of the toilet cubicle and tried to decide what to do. I need to go back out, he thought. Clare and Michelle are still on the dance floor, and I doubt very much that they’re ready to leave. But I’m not sure I can be trusted yet. So I’ll stay here a few minutes more. Until it’s safe …

After dinner, the three of them had gone back to Anselo’s room and drunk the champagne in his mini-bar. ‘Preloading! As if we’re young again!’ Michelle had said, and Clare had added, ‘All we’re missing is orange spray-tan and a chihuahua that looks like a shaved pube.’ And a bloke willing to pick up the tab, was the thought Anselo had kept to himself. He’d refused even to look at the price of the bottle Michelle was now holding above her open mouth, tipping the last drops onto her tongue.

The nightclub they’d been directed to by the hotel concierge was off the Corso Como, and was all dark-chocolate leather couches, square lampshades and backlit bottles arranged artfully on the bar.

‘Classy!’ Michelle had said. ‘And if I pass out, you can just lay me down on this couch and leave me. Perfect!’

They’d got there relatively early, just after midnight, and it was not until after one that the place began to fill up. By that stage, they were several cocktails down — or up, as Clare had suggested. ‘Poised on the apex of the drunk curve,’ she’d said, ‘teetering on the sloshed meridian. Time to pace myself, or I’ll be starting down the track that leads inexorably to the conviction that everyone here would love to join me in the Macarena.’

At one-thirty, the dance floor had lit up, and Michelle and Clare had been right amongst it. Anselo had been keen to let off some energy, but something, maybe a sense that the two women might tease him, made him reluctant to join them. He’d begun to find their presence restrictive. If they weren’t here, he’d started to think, I’d be free to do what I want. Dance with whomever I choose. Leave this club and go off into the night.

Michelle and Clare had pushed their way back through the crowd.

‘Come on,’ Clare had said. ‘We’re feeling like Cagney and Lacey undercover in Spearmint Rhino. We need you before people start actively averting their gaze out of pity.’

They’d taken an arm each, and pulled him onto the dance floor.

‘You can really dance!’ Michelle had had to yell it in his ear.

‘Yeah, I know,’ he’d said, not caring if she heard or not. ‘I’m full of fucking surprises.’

Clare had been found by, or had found, a young Italian, no more than twenty-five, Anselo guessed, dressed in cropped white pants and a peacock-blue shirt, half-open, showing a tanned, hairless chest. He and Clare were bumping and grinding, the young Italian’s gaze, Anselo noted, fixed on Clare’s bra-less breasts, as they moved freely beneath her sequinned dress.

‘I have to pee!’ Michelle had yelled in his ear. ‘Save my space!’

Anselo had watched her move unsteadily but cheerfully through the crowd, and disappear. He’d looked around, but Clare and the young Italian, too, had been swallowed up; he could not see them. He was alone on the dance floor, and the realisation had galvanised him, filled him with a sudden burst of euphoric energy.

That, he thought, as he pressed his forehead onto the cool surface of the toilet door, was where it had all started to go pear-shaped. He checked his watch. Only an hour ago. Sixty minutes that have ticked away in my mind, he thought, like a timer on a bomb.

Anselo tried to corral his recollections of that last hour, which were scattering about his mind like cockroaches under sudden bright light.

The ticking started when that girl came up to me, he thought. She had on a silver lace micro-dress. She was beautiful — caramel-coloured hair and skin, glorious figure, long, long legs.

She began to dance with me, and I was thrilled. I felt like the king of the world. I could blame the alcohol for that, or I could blame myself, he thought. Doesn’t really matter, does it?

The dance floor was packed. We were pressed up against each other, and I realised she had nothing, absolutely nothing on underneath her dress. And then she took my hand and slipped it between her legs.

Anselo paused. His breathing had become very shallow. I didn’t, he thought. I could have, so, so fucking easily, but I didn’t. I took my hand away, smiled and shook my head. And she smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss me once, briefly, on the mouth. Then she moved on.

I suppose there are plenty of men like me out there, Anselo thought. In our designer suits and our on-trend coloured shirts. A euro a dozen, we are. It didn’t matter to her who I was, and it didn’t even matter that I said no; she wasn’t offended. To her, the whole thing was no big deal. C’est la vie. No hard feelings. Arrivederci, signor.

It mattered to me, though. It mattered to me that I felt it again: the surge of adrenaline, the astonishing high of being noticed and admired and wanted. As if I’m some little orphan boy, who’s been lining up for years with brushed hair and tidy clothes but always passed over for those who are younger, who dimple when they smile — until one day, someone puts their hand on my head and cups my face in their palm.

I’ve let Darrell build barriers between us, he thought, and between me and my son. I haven’t protested because until now I’ve felt that I haven’t had the right. But I do have rights. And I have needs. Needs that pretty fucking clearly are not being met.

I’m like an unpaid extra in my own life, he thought, and it’s time I found the guts to speak up. He shoved open the cubicle door, and walked back out into the thump and glitter of the dance floor.

Michelle was perched on the square arm of a couch. She was trying to sit elegantly, with legs crossed, but had to keep uncrossing them and putting her foot down heavily to prevent herself falling off.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she said to Anselo. ‘Or have I been looking at you all this time with blurry vision?’

‘Dancing,’ he said.

‘Me, too!’ said Michelle. ‘Or I might have been drinking. That starts with “d” too. Easy to get them confused.’

Anselo scanned the dance floor. ‘Where’s Clare?’

‘In there somewhere, with Justinio Biebero,’ said Michelle. ‘If he were any younger, she’d have to stop between numbers and suckle him.’

‘Do you want to dance?’ Anselo said.

‘I think I might puke,’ said Michelle. ‘To be honest, at the risk of sounding sad and old, I’d quite like some fresh air.’

‘Good call,’ said Anselo. ‘I’ll find Clare and tell her we’re leaving.’

He circled the dance floor, watching out for Clare’s chestnut hair and pale sequinned dress. Silver lace shot into his line of vision, and he felt his heart double-thump. But it was a dark-haired, shorter woman dancing with a lithe black man who was wearing shiny pants with green daisies.

There she was. Clare, still dancing with the blue-shirted beardless Italian. His eyes were still fixated on her chest, Anselo noted, but now he also had his hands on her waist. Anselo wondered briefly if Clare intended to do more than dance. But even if she does, he decided, who am I to judge?

Anselo struggled his way to Clare’s side and touched her arm. The Italian boy lifted his hands in a ‘no harm, no foul’ gesture, but Anselo shook his head to indicate that his interruption was of no consequence.

‘Michelle needs some air,’ he spoke in Clare’s ear. ‘You want to stay or go, too?’

‘Stay,’ said Clare. ‘My calves may regret it tomorrow, but I’ve still got some rug to cut.’

Anselo cut his eyes to the young Italian. ‘You sure?’

Clare nodded. ‘Even though he speaks not a word of English, we have formed a very clear understanding about the safe touching zones.’

‘You’ve got a key to the hotel, right?’

‘Yep. What time are we heading back to the lake?’

Anselo shrugged. ‘After lunch? Say, two?’

‘See you then!’ said Clare, and she turned back to her dance partner.

Anselo broke out of the crowd, and had to pause for a moment as the relief of being released from the crush of people sent a rush of oxygen to his brain.

He strode up to Michelle and took her arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a stroll under la luna.’

Outside, breathing in the warm peace of the night air, he felt the same heady exhilaration, as if he’d been given a last-minute reprieve just as the hangman was about to slip the hood over his head.

‘Did you score some Ecstasio or something?’ Michelle said accusingly. ‘You’re looking full of fagioli, while I’m a sweaty and dishevelled wreck. I’ll never be like that chick in the song, the one the Aga Khan gives racehorses to for fun. You know, the one who can sip the Napoleon brandy without getting her lips wet? Mind you,’ she added, ‘do I want to be like her, I ask myself? Frigid, scrawny, dry-lipped cow.’

Anselo laughed, and Michelle said, ‘You should do that more often. Laugh. Smile. You take life too seriously!’

‘So I’ve been told.’ Anselo’s good humour dimmed. Doesn’t take much, he thought. Doesn’t take much to bring me back down to reality.

‘How can you be serious here?’ Michelle waved her free arm. ‘Look around! We’re in Italy! Frescoes! Ferraris! Statues with boobs and willies! Men in floral pants!’

He felt a tug on his arm, as Michelle stopped short.

‘You all right?’ he said.

‘I’m feeling a tad unsteady.’ She fanned her face. ‘High heels are the likely culprits. I mean it could hardly be the twenty-two Italian cocktails, could it?’

‘What do you want to do?’ said Anselo.

‘As a matter of fact, I want gelato,’ said Michelle. ‘Gelato cures everything!’

‘It’s three in the morning,’ said Anselo. ‘Most gelateria shut at eleven.’

‘How about the hotel? Surely, they’re bribe-able? It’s Italy, after all.’

Anselo looked around. The street they were on was a mix of new, commercial buildings — much of Milan was bombed in the war, he recalled, and had had to be rebuilt — and older-style, square, solid, yellow-washed blocks with shuttered-window apartments above, the odd café below. Everything here was closed at this hour, but they were by no means the only people on the streets.

I want to keep walking, he thought. Down this street, past palazzi and gardens and shops and statues, across piazzas, down alleys. I want to walk for the rest of this buono notte and into the next giorno and I want to feel the old me drop away and a new me spring up, strong and free and in total control. So that when I return to the villa tomorrow, I’ll have all the power I need to take what’s due to me, take back what’s mine.

Michelle was leaning on him, hanging on to his arm.

‘Hotel it is,’ he said.

18

Patrick opened his eyes and regretted it. His attempt to close the bedroom curtains last night had been cack-handed at best, and the morning sun seared straight into his retinas, as if someone behind it were about to subject him to interrogation.

I should interrogate myself, he thought, holding up a hand to ward off the glare. Why did you drink twelve beers last night, Mr King? Why did you not stop after eight, by which stage you knew you were already shit-faced? Why did you try to make your wife feel guilty about leaving your son, when you left him alone all afternoon because you had to sleep off the beer you’d drunk at lunchtime? Exactly how much beer did you drink yesterday? I see. Are you an alcoholic, Mr King? Or just a fucking moron?

At least I didn’t do anything under the influence that would make me feel worse than this hangover, thought Patrick. I was loud and embarrassing last night, but then, when am I not? Chad and Marcus didn’t seem to care. Darrell gave me an anxious look when I knocked over that chair, but on the whole she laughed right along with the other two.

Neither she nor Chad seemed at all worried about their spouses living it large in Milan. I guess they trust them, Patrick decided. And to be fair, I trust Clare, too. Before we got married, she made a point of telling me that she believed in fidelity. She knew I’d shagged more women than I could remember, so this was her way of being clear that if I strayed with even so much as a look, she would thread my cock onto a kebab skewer and serve it up to me.

I didn’t have to ask if the same rules applied to her, he thought. When Clare makes up her mind about how something will be, that’s how it is. She wanted to go to Milan, so she did. There was nothing I could have said to change her mind. I’m not sure how I feel about that, the fact that my wishes were heard but, in the end, ignored. At least I can be certain she won’t play away. I trust her, even when I’m starting to doubt every last thing about myself.

Clare hadn’t slept with many men before him, Patrick recalled. But that was because she’d made rules about that, too. Her ambition for her career was as honed as a Global kitchen knife, and to make it in PR, she’d told him, it paid to play the Virgin Queen game: keep them hanging on with a promise but, ultimately, never commit. Old Liz the First made each suitor think they might be the one to get access to her royal navy via the royal fanny, but she died with the reins of power still clutched firmly in her bony white fist. Clare had told him there was no shortage of men who wanted to sleep with her, and Patrick hadn’t doubted it for a second. But he knew she was careful about whom she favoured.

I always figured that’s why she chose me to marry. I was an outsider. I wasn’t a player in her world but — and this was important — I played a successful game of my own. Our ambition connected us, Patrick thought. Back then, we moved at the same speed.

Thing is, I’m slowing down. Getting sloppy. Yeats again: lose momentum, you lose control. Happens. Even Roger Federer makes unforced errors these days. Pretty soon, he’ll be a name in the sporting histories and another guest in the crowded commentary box. And there’ll be a new boy on the court, acing his opponent so fast, the other guy won’t even bother to lift his racquet.

Patrick turned his head to see the alarm clock. It was after nine. I’d planned to be up to give Tom breakfast at seven-thirty, he thought. Now, I’ll be lucky if I can get to the bathroom without Wallacing. Some fucking father I am.

He made it to the bathroom, and bent carefully to drink out of the tap. The water swilled around inside him and, as if in a blocked sink, started to rise again, but by breathing deeply and staying perfectly still, Patrick managed to keep it down. He knew Clare kept a packet of super-strength aspirin in her travel bag for period pain, and he rummaged around on the bathroom shelf, praying she had not taken it with her. The aspirin were there and Patrick, not willing to risk more water, let four dissolve directly in his mouth. Tastes like the inside of an exhaust pipe, he thought. Serves me right.

He stood over the toilet and sent a stream of lurid yellow, pungent urine into the bowl. If that’s what my liver’s trying to process, he thought, I’d better put myself on the donor waiting list soon as I get home. That’d serve me right, too.

Patrick contemplated the shower, but a tiny techno DJ was throwing down a drum track in the space behind his eyes, while the lighting engineer made lurid strobes duck and dive in front. Patrick made it back to the bed, sat down gingerly on the edge and waited for the aspirin to work.

Five hours later — that’s what it felt like, thought Patrick, but apparently it was only twenty minutes — the rave crew had packed up their equipment and left the warehouse. Briefly, he wondered what state Clare was in after her night on the majolica tiles. She’d party hard, he thought, but she’d never get out of control. Clare always knows how to keep the lid on. Unlike her alcoholic, sick-horse-pissing, aspirin-chewing, child-neglecting, loud, embarrassing moron of a husband.

I still feel like shit, thought Patrick, but at least now I can probably dress myself without aid. Though I suspect I’ll be doing that like everything else today — slowly and very carefully.

Not trusting his balance, he sat down on the bed to pull on his pants. Shirt and jeans on, Patrick checked that everything that really needed to be buttoned and zipped was, and wandered over to the front window.

The bedroom was on one corner of the villa. Its front window gave a view right across the lake, to the eastern shore, and the side window overlooked the lawn and the gardens. The sun bouncing off the lake was doing Patrick no favours, so he moved to the side window. What he saw there undid all the soothing work of the aspirin in an instant. What he saw was Tom in the arms of Ned Marsh.

Patrick’s first instinct was to run, and he made it out of the bedroom and halfway down the stairs before his body staged a mutiny.

‘Fuck …’

Patrick hung on to the banister with a sweating hand, as a black, buzzing swarm rose behind his eyes, and bile scorched the back of his throat. He sank down onto the stair, and breathed deep, willing himself not to throw up. His instincts were still screaming at him to move, but more running was out of the question. By focusing on his breathing and on taking steps that did not unduly jar him, Patrick made his way down the stairs, through the kitchen and out onto the lawn.

If I die today, he thought, it won’t be from alcohol poisoning. It’ll be from fucking heart failure and frustration. He’s probably gone by now, snatched Tom and taken him fuck knows where. And there’ll be fuck-all that I can do about it.

But Ned was still there, and so was Tom.

His small son, Patrick saw, was now sitting on the lawn next to Charlotte, who had laid out biscuits and cordial on a rug. Rosie was there, too, sitting next to Tom, reaching out, as he was, to receive the plastic cups Charlotte was handing them. Ned was on the grass, sitting with one knee down, one up, with his hand resting on it.

In his brown overalls, he looks a bit like a bronze garden statue, Patrick thought. Only nowhere near as benign.

Charlotte had her back to him, so it was Ned who spotted Patrick first. He said to Charlotte, ‘Tha’s got company.’

‘Hello!’

Charlotte turned and smiled up at Patrick. She was wearing the yellow sundress he could have sworn she’d started the day in yesterday. She looked as fresh and neat as a daffodil.

Patrick recalled what he’d said to her yesterday afternoon, and the state he’d been in when he’d said it, and inwardly cringed. Oh well, he reasoned. At least she missed my encore performance last night. Where had she been? he wondered. Out with some bloke? His eye shifted immediately to Ned, but all he saw there was the usual hostility. And Charlotte was showing no signs of embarrassment at being caught with him. Ned’s too old for her anyway, Patrick thought. Too old, too working class, too uncultured. Not Charlotte’s type at all.

‘Come and join us.’ Charlotte patted the grass next to her.

Patrick decided it was best at this point, for multiple reasons, to stay standing. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Chad has taken Harry fishing,’ she said. ‘He found lifejackets and rods in the boathouse, and they’ve gone out on the lake. I shouldn’t expect we’ll be feasting on sun perch tonight, but no matter.’

‘And Darrell?’

‘Darrell is out.’ Charlotte reached for the plate of biscuits and lifted it up to him. ‘Coconut macaroon?’

‘No, thanks.’ Patrick felt his gorge rising. He was feeling the sun, too, even though this day was cooler than others before had been. The heat, on top of his recent exertion, was making his shirt stick to his back and he could feel rivulets of sweat trickling uncomfortably down from his armpits. He ran his hand over his forehead. It came away damp.

‘Hard night?’

Ned’s tone and half-smile filled Patrick with resentment. I bet that bastard knows exactly why I’m sweating, and that it’s not all the fault of the alcohol. I bet he was carrying Tom on purpose, just to wind me up.

‘Don’t you have a job to do?’ Patrick said.

‘Aye,’ said Ned. ‘But your nanny invited us t’ have morning tea with t’ children.’

Rosie chose that moment to get up and toddle over to Ned, and crawl onto his lap. She sat facing him, so she could thrust the chewed, spit-slick remains of her macaroon at his mouth.

‘Rosie bikkit Ned!’ she insisted.

‘Ta, flower,’ said Ned, deftly ducking his head to avoid it. ‘But ’tis all yours.’

He turned her in his lap, so she was facing forwards. Rosie settled happily against his chest, and began to masticate the remains of her sticky macaroon.

‘Rosie bikkit,’ she said smugly.

‘Charlotte?’ Patrick gave himself a pat on the back for how calm he sounded. He beckoned with his finger. ‘A word?’

Charlotte added a notch to Patrick’s blood pressure by turning first to Ned, who, after a sly glance at Patrick, nodded. She hopped up and Patrick took her by the arm and led her as fast as he dared out of earshot of the group on the lawn.

‘Charlotte, what the holy flying fuck?’ he said. ‘Why are you letting Ned Marsh within twenty fucking miles of our children?’

‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t,’ said Charlotte crisply. ‘He’s not a paedophile. Or a serial killer or a child slaver.’

‘That’s not the fucking point!’ Patrick could feel the return of the black swarm. He paused to regulate his breathing. ‘Ned Marsh fucking hates me! I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could fucking throw him!’

‘It’s only you he’s keen for revenge on,’ said Charlotte. ‘Tom’s perfectly safe.’

Patrick blinked at her, and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes.

‘My brain is not firing on all cylinders this morning,’ he said, ‘but I’m getting the distinct impression you know all about me and Ned. Who told you? Clare?’

Charlotte hesitated. Long enough for Patrick to consider the only other option.

‘Ned told you?’ He noted her brisk nod in disbelief. ‘Charlotte! What the fuck?’

‘Well, I didn’t know who he was before he told me, did I?’ Her voice rose, too. ‘And honestly — it’s ridiculous! It happened almost thirty years ago! How can anyone possibly carry a grudge for that long?’

‘Because it still hurts.’

Ned was right behind them, carrying Rosie and holding Tom’s hand.

‘Give him to me.’

Patrick lunged forward and snatched Tom up into his arms. The speed, the rough handling, startled the boy, and he began to cry.

‘Shit.’ Patrick cradled his son’s head into his shoulder, rocked him. ‘Sorry, tiger. Didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘Didn’t mean, didn’t mean.’ Ned spat out the words in a contemptuous singsong. ‘You nivver do mean it, d’ you? But ye do it, all t’ same.’

‘Stop it!’ said Charlotte firmly. ‘There are children present. Ones who generally behave a sight more maturely than you two are right now.’

‘Top it!’ yelled Rosie cheerfully. ‘Top it! Top it!’

Tom had quietened down, but Patrick continued to rock him. ‘She sounds like she’s in the Coliseum,’ he said. ‘Baying for blood.’

He looked at Ned. ‘Is that what you want? Blood? A pound of flesh?’

‘There’s nowt you could gi’ me,’ said Ned. ‘Not a thing.’

‘Ned, honestly,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m so sorry you lost your sister, but really, does it do any good to still be this angry, after so many years?’

‘Shit,’ said Patrick. ‘Is she dead? Is Julie dead?’

‘Did ye not think t’ find out?’ said Ned. ‘She’s been dead twenty-five year. Most people might have asked by now.’

‘Yeah, they would have,’ said Patrick. ‘I don’t have any excuses.’ He paused. ‘Was it drugs?’

‘’Twas,’ said Ned.

‘Like I said: I don’t have any excuses,’ said Patrick. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry. She deserved a better life than that. So did you.’

‘You got a better life, didn’t you?’ said Ned.

A sudden, intense rage galvanised Patrick from head to toe.

What do you know about my life, Ned fucking Marsh? he thought. What do you know? My life is escaping me, galloping madly off in all directions like a bad novel. My grip is being prised off it, finger by finger, and, when it goes, where and how far will I fall?

‘Charlotte.’ Patrick drew himself up, and spoke quietly but with steely resolve. ‘If you want to see Ned, see him on your own time. I won’t stop you. But during the day, when the children are here, I don’t want you anywhere near him. Ned will keep to the garden and you’ll keep out of his way. No more tea on the grass, do you hear me?’

I’ve not spoken to anyone like this in months, he thought. It’s my deal-making, don’t-fuck-with-me tone. And you know what? I’ve missed it.

‘Do you hear me, Charlotte?’

She nodded. Her face was pale, and, for a second, Patrick felt a stab of guilt.

But no, he thought. Fuck it. This is how it has to be.

‘Pack up and bring Rosie,’ he said. ‘I want you inside in no more than five minutes.’

He did not wait for a response. He did not need to. He held Tom securely in his arms and walked back to the house.

19

‘I’m not sure,’ said Darrell. ‘About the drive.’

‘What worries you about it?’ said Marcus. ‘We won’t get lost. I have a sat-nav that speaks like Sophia Loren. She makes “Take the first right at the roundabout” sound like phone sex.’

‘Italians drive like maniacs,’ said Darrell. ‘Have you seen the road around the lake on a Sunday? Like Crash Bandicoot on the Nürburgring. Every lunatic with a fast car or motorbike going flat out, with skeins of cyclists and walking school-buses of nuns thrown in on blind corners to help them hone their overtaking and braking skills.’

‘You’re worried we’ll have an accident?’

Marcus wasn’t smiling, Darrell saw. He’s taking me seriously. Anselo would have just rolled his eyes.

‘I’m not that keen on driving with Cosmo in the car,’ she admitted. ‘The plane trip was bad enough. “The crew has a life-jacket for your baby. Put on your own oxygen mask first.” Jeepers.’

‘Hm.’ Marcus put his arm round her shoulders and gave her a quick hug. ‘We’ll give it a miss then. How about a ferry jaunt to the Villa d’Este, instead?’

A throng of emotions formed a less-than-orderly queue in Darrell’s mind. I’m being stupid about Cosmo, she thought, I know that. I can’t keep him safe forever — no one can. Am I going to be one of those hyper-vigilant paranoid mothers who refuses to let her children out the front door without a subcutaneous GPS tracking device? I cycled down the street to the playground when I was five years old. I’m still here, aren’t I? And I want to go for this drive. I want to see more of the country. I’ve been cooped up here in the villa for almost two weeks. I haven’t even been to Como. Last time I went out in the car, I drove as far as the next town and sat by the lakeside. I’ve seen a lot of lake. It’s beautiful, but after a while even beauty is boring.

And then there’s Marcus. It was slightly terrifying how much I liked his arm around me just now. He was always an excellent hugger, always made me feel warm and — well, appreciated. If we take this drive, we’ll spend the whole day together. I don’t know when Anselo will be back; he’s not texted me and I don’t expect he will. Late, I imagine. After I get home. He probably won’t even know that I’ve been out.

‘No, let’s do the big drive,’ she said to Marcus. ‘I’ll have to stop and feed Cosmo. But that’s OK, isn’t it?’

He smiled. ‘Of course,’ he added. ‘And I can very nearly promise not to look.’

Marcus helped her carry all of Cosmo’s paraphernalia, and strap the baby seat into the back of a sporty little two-door Alfa Romeo.

‘Gus’ car?’ Darrell said.

‘Well spotted,’ said Marcus. ‘It’s a Giulietta. Gus bought it because it reminded her of her great lost love, Jules.’

Darrell had met and quite liked Jules. Jules had not let Gus boss her around.

‘I thought Gus dumped her?’

‘She did.’ said Marcus. ‘But she regrets it. Of course, if Jules were to come back, Gus would probably dump her again. She is nothing if not predictable, my sister. Pygmalion-like. Prefers to create ideal women in her mind because reality so rarely measures up.’

He slung the baby bag in the back and closed the hatch. ‘Whereas I have the opposite problem. Every woman I meet seems ideal to me.’

‘That must make lasting commitment somewhat of a pipe dream.’ Darrell bent into the back, and strapped Cosmo into his seat. She checked the fastenings, and tugged on the seat belts to make sure they were firm.

When she straightened up, Marcus was right next to her. ‘Eventually,’ he said, ‘I hope to find one who is more ideal than the others. Pygmalion and Galatea did live happily ever after. Or so the story goes.’

He gestured for her to take the passenger seat, and when she was in, he shut the door, and came round to hop into the driver’s seat. Darrell became suddenly aware of his physical presence, the space he occupied in the small car; his smell — in Darrell’s experience, Marcus wasn’t a cologne wearer, but he had something on today that smelled good; and his proximity, his body only inches away, his hand on the gear stick almost touching her leg.

I once had a fantasy, Darrell recalled, where he and I were driving flat out in a classic Bugatti, and he turned to me and said—

‘Happy, darling?’

My God, thought Darrell. That! Exactly!

‘What decade are we in?’ she said. ‘I need to check.’

Marcus put the car in gear, and manoeuvred out onto the road. ‘I love that phrase. So very Georgette Heyer. I would have been a perfect nineteen-thirties Hooray Henry. I look sensational in a striped blazer and tennis whites.’

‘“Blazer” is common,’ said Darrell with a smile. ‘You should say “jacket”. Your brother taught me that.’

‘Claudie has many appealing qualities,’ said Marcus. ‘An anally retentive adherence to the rules of U and Non-U is not one of them. He even texts me with full punctuation and no abbreviations whatsoever.’

‘And I bet you send him back texts with “Gr8”, “LOL” and “IMHO”?’

‘Not “IMHO”,’ said Marcus. ‘I’ve never had a humble opinion in my life.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I forgot to set Sophia.’

To Darrell’s alarm, he took one hand off the wheel and reached out to press the screen on the sat-nav. After a few seconds, a road map appeared, and an accented, sensual female voice said, ‘Take the next left, then keep right for five hundred metres.’

‘Everything she was, she owed to spaghetti, apparently,’ said Darrell glumly. ‘Everything I am, I owe to forty extra pounds during pregnancy. They say the weight drops off like magic when you breastfeed. Obviously, I forgot to say abracadabra.’

‘You look magnificent,’ said Marcus. ‘Goddess-like. And besides, I’ve always rather liked a bit of fat on a woman.’

‘Bollocks!’ said Darrell.

‘It’s true! I once had sex with a beauty who was sixteen stone. It was tremendous. Like erotic wrestling on a jelly-filled waterbed.’

‘Take the first right at the roundabout,’ said Sophia.

‘I wonder,’ said Marcus, ‘if I can drive for three hours while nursing a semi?’ He grinned at Darrell. ‘Shall we experiment? In the name of science?’

‘You are a bad man,’ said Darrell. ‘I’m glad my impressionable child is asleep.’

Her voice was stern, but she couldn’t help a smile. Marcus could always make me laugh, she thought. So could Tom. My Tom was more focused, less flippant, but he and Marcus, thought Darrell, were optimists, the pair of them. Life always seems brighter when you’re around positive people like that.

Marcus even drove positively, she noticed, confidently and skilfully, with no aggression or impatience. The car purred along the motorway, and Darrell felt herself relax into its new-smelling leather seat.

I’m going to enjoy this drive, she thought. In more ways than one.

‘Snow!’ Darrell’s voice squeaked, but she was too excited to be embarrassed. ‘How can there be snow in August?’

‘We’re on the highest paved mountain pass in the eastern Alps,’ said Marcus. ‘According to the tourist guide.’

They were standing beside the car, in the parking area near the top of the pass. Darrell shaded her eyes and peered upwards.

‘Can we get to it?’ she said. ‘I haven’t touched proper snow in ages. If you get anything in London, it’s grey slush. All of the inconvenience. None of the pretty.’

‘If you’re keen to scale that vertical shale slope, then certainly.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Darrell. ‘Cosmo is somewhat of an impediment to scaling.’

‘Or wait for a month until it gets down to the car park.’

‘Have you been up here before?’ Darrell asked him.

‘I drove up here once in a borrowed Maserati. The roads were slick with ice and I was out of my mind on cocaine,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had so much fun in my life.’

‘You’re a very bad man,’ said Darrell. ‘I’m glad you took it easy on those hairpins coming up here — how many were there?’

‘Forty-eight, I believe.’

‘Seemed like more. Thanks for not hurtling round them. I didn’t really want to add the aroma of vomit to my customary scent of stale breast milk and baby wipes.’

Marcus put his arm around her shoulders again, and pressed his face briefly into her hair.

‘You smell delicious,’ he said.

He kissed her temple, and Darrell pulled away.

‘Don’t,’ she said.

‘You’re a married woman.’

It was a statement of fact; there was no judgement or resentment in his voice. Darrell, to her dismay, felt her throat tighten, and tears prick her eyes. Bugger, she thought. Don’t cry. I mustn’t cry.

She looked away, taking deep breaths of the crisp, clean air, and gazing out over the mountains that stretched, layer upon layer, into the bright blue distance. They appeared barren, rocky, but patches of green and yellow proved that even snow could not kill everything. The concrete car park had been laid, flat and bleak, on the edge of a shingle slope. Above them, the road went straight up to tourist shops and restaurants, before, Darrell imagined, beginning its descent through more hairpin bends into — where? Switzerland? Germany? I really must get a better grip on geography, she thought.

The tears appeared to be under control. She risked a look at Marcus. His expression was one of mild concern. He saw my reaction, thought Darrell. Now what?

‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but I’m starving. Fancy an overpriced, weak coffee and a meat-like substance in a bun?’

Darrell heard a small cry through the open car door.

‘I’ll have to feed Cosmo,’ she said. ‘But don’t let that stop you.’

‘I’ll bring something back.’ He glanced around at the grey concrete slab of the car park. ‘Not the most picturesque of picnic spots. But it does have a very fine view.’

Darrell tried not to watch him walk away, but failed. A dark-blue Aston Martin convertible was pulling into the car park, and Marcus had to stop to let it pass. Inside were a solid, ruddy blond man with a substantial moustache and his female companion, also blonde, but — Darrell could see even from a distance — glamorous and almost certainly moustache-free. The woman turned her head to look at Marcus as the car passed. Darrell could not see Marcus’s face, but she could picture the smile on it, the unabashed expression of appreciation and, without doubt, invitation. Marcus behind them now, the blonde woman took off her sunglasses and slipped the end of one of their arms between her lips. He got her, thought Darrell. She’s imagining Marcus instead of that moustachioed slab of ham in the car next to her, imagining leaning over, unzipping his fly and—

Darrell was jerked back to reality by Cosmo’s unusually piercing yell.

‘All right, all right!’ And she climbed into the back seat to feed her baby.

20

The drive back was long. There was an accident on the main road, and Marcus had to negotiate with Sophia to find the most direct detour. Before they reached the main motorway, Cosmo needed feeding again, so they pulled off into a vacant lot in a dusty industrial township that appeared to have no redeeming features whatsoever.

‘Most of these places house workers for the factories around here,’ said Marcus. ‘This area is the hub of Italian industry. Everything from cosmetics to tomatoes.’

He was outside, leaning against the car, speaking through her open door. Darrell was in the passenger seat this time, as the back seat had proved extremely cramped.

I don’t know why Italians bother to make cars with more than two seats, she thought. The back seats are only ever suitable for infants or people with tea-trolley wheels instead of legs.

‘Do you like living here?’ she said. ‘Would you stay here permanently?’

‘I’m not sure Italy is large enough to hold more than one Reynolds,’ he said. ‘Gus and I are already personae non grata in two Milanese nightclubs. When she returns, we may very well aim for the hat trick.’

‘Don’t tell me what you did,’ said Darrell. ‘I feel naïve enough as it is. I mean, I’ve never even seen cocaine, let alone driven a sports car under its influence.’

She slipped Cosmo off her breast, and rested him on her shoulder. He let out a surprisingly loud burp.

‘Train him to do the whole alphabet,’ said Marcus with a grin, ‘and you may never have to work again.’

He waited for Darrell to settle Cosmo in his seat again, and got back in the car. But he didn’t immediately start it up. Instead he sat, staring straight ahead. Darrell tried to follow his line of sight, but all she could see was broken wooden crates piled up against a grubby wall, and what appeared to be a spilt sack of carrots. Maybe there’s donkey round here, she thought. Or a hutch of rabbits, being bred for use in cosmetic testing.

She became aware that Marcus was now staring at her.

‘Sorry, did you say something?’ she said. ‘I was away with the rabbits.’

‘I asked: are you happy?’

‘Oh, dear.’ Darrell felt her throat constrict again. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. I mean I really didn’t hear it the first time, but now I’ll pretend I didn’t.’

I’m babbling, she thought. But that’s better than answering.

‘Darrell—’

‘No!’ She slapped her hands over her ears. ‘Drive! Now!’

It was the first time she could recall seeing Marcus look angry.

‘Why the hell won’t you talk to me?’ He swivelled in his seat to face her. ‘I thought we were friends!’

‘You don’t have any friends!’ Darrell yelled. ‘Serial shagging makes friendship impossible! Haven’t you worked that out by now?’

That smarted, she thought. Look at his face. That really hurt him. You ungrateful cow, she scolded herself. He planned today’s trip for you. He’s been nothing but kind and funny and generous, and you may as well have just slapped him in the gob with a mackerel.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Marcus, I didn’t mean it.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Darrell. ‘I was just scrambling to avoid the subject of my marriage. I’m sorry.’ She reached over and touched his arm. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Am I a bad man?’ he said with a frown.

‘Of course not.’

‘I think I am.’ He shifted in his seat so that he was facing forward again. His frown was now more puzzled than angry. ‘I think I must be …’

Darrell felt a mounting panic. ‘You’re one of the nicest, dearest men I know,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve had more fun with you in the past two days than I’ve had in the last year.’

Now, that’s an admission, she thought. That’s an admission I’ve barely dared make to myself. What ominous crack in the ground have I opened up now?

Marcus stared at her. ‘You wouldn’t have me, though, would you?’ he said. ‘Even if you were free. Don’t worry,’ he added. ‘I don’t need an answer.’

He reached down to turn the key. Darrell caught his arm.

‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t want the day to end up like this. I want us to stay friends.’

‘I have no friends, remember?’ he said.

Pulled tight with heat and nerves, Darrell’s patience suddenly went flying, like a released rubber band, complete with pinging sound.

‘I didn’t mean that and you know it!’ she said. ‘You put me on the spot and I was desperate. I am your friend. Get over it!’

Marcus sat back and narrowed his eyes.

‘I don’t recall you ever being this shrewish,’ he said. ‘I remember you being sweet and lovely and extraordinarily accommodating.’

‘Yes, well.’ Darrell flushed. ‘That approach didn’t work out terribly well for me, did it? Not that I’ve managed any better since.’

Marcus regarded her in silence for a moment, then drummed a short tattoo on the steering wheel with his fingers.

‘I need a break from driving,’ he said. ‘More pressingly, I need a beer. Let’s stop in the next town and try our luck.’

The next town proved only marginally more prepossessing than the last. But there was a small enoteca — more like a holiday camp general store, thought Darrell, with plastic chairs, crisps and ice-cream with your grappa — and Marcus seated her and Cosmo and went up to place their order.

He came back with a Peroni and a tall glass of sparkling water for Darrell, which, to Marcus’ amusement, she emptied in less than thirty seconds.

‘Now’s the moment to teach your son to burp the alphabet,’ he said to her. ‘I’m happy to take him under my wing for the more advanced skill of setting alight one’s farts.’

Cosmo was asleep, propped in the crook of Darrell’s arm. Glancing down, Darrell noted his dark skin and hair, so like Anselo’s, and felt the twang of guilt. I’m being disloyal, she thought, at least in spirit. I’m wondering what it would be like if Marcus were Cosmo’s father, if he and I were married instead. Would it be easier? More relaxed, more fun? Would I feel safer?

‘Do you want to talk?’ said Marcus gently.

My face always gives me away, thought Darrell. I’d be pathetic at poker — I’d end up leaving the saloon dressed in nothing but a barrel.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. I need to work up to it.’

‘I’ll nurse this beer then,’ said Marcus. ‘Nothing worse than reaching your driving limit before you’re ready to hit the road.’

‘Good to know you’re being responsible,’ said Darrell with a smile.

‘It’s because you’re here,’ said Marcus. ‘You always made me acutely aware of when I was being a selfish arse. Not that I necessarily amended my behaviour,’ he added. ‘But I was aware of it, nonetheless.’

Darrell felt her face grow warm. I am so needy, she thought, it’s appalling. A smile, an affectionate word and I’m putty. But I can’t respond. I simply can’t, it’s far too risky. So I’ll resort to my usual strategy of deflection and avoidance.

‘Why did you get fired?’ she said. ‘Did you sleep with the producer’s wife?’

Marcus gave her an offended look. ‘You really believe I’m that shallow and obvious?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, all right, I am. But that’s not why I got fired.’

Cosmo made a small noise, and Darrell checked that he was still sleeping. He was. He always is, she thought. Lucky Cosmo. Not a worry in the world. Not yet, anyway.

‘I lost a starlet,’ Marcus was saying.

‘You … lost someone?’

‘Her name was Ruby Kapoor, and she was nineteen. My employer had seen her in a B-grade Bollywood film and been smitten enough to pay for her to come over. She came with strict orders from her family that her innocence, in which they firmly believed, was to remain untarnished. That job,’ said Marcus, ‘was given to me.’

‘Um …’ said Darrell.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Marcus. ‘He did it as punishment. Hoped six weeks of escorting the untouchable Ruby — actually, she was a Brahmin, but you know what I mean — would give me such a bad case of blue balls, I’d be out of action for the foreseeable.’

‘Envious of your stellar ability to pull birds?’

‘No, he was just an arse. I didn’t care.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘I’d already shagged his wife.’

Darrell bit her lip. ‘And how did you lose Ruby?’

‘She slipped out a back window at Spago,’ he said. ‘Like a dusky-skinned Houdini. And went on a spree that put Lindsay Lohan to shame. It even put me to shame. I spent the whole night hopping in and out of cabs, running from one scene of devastation to another. I haven’t been in such a lather since, well, since I shagged the producer’s wife. She made me take her on his desk,’ he added, ‘while he was at the Korean nail bar getting his cuticles buffed. She also made me put his Oscar to a use that wasn’t entirely ornamental.’

‘You have no shame,’ said Darrell. ‘Back to Ruby. I assume you never found her?’

‘I did,’ he said. ‘And it should have all been fine. She was an unknown, so no paparazzi had her on their radar. If she hadn’t hit the wrong button on her phone, no one would have been the wiser.’

‘She accidentally texted home?’

‘Worse,’ said Marcus. ‘She sent them a short video. I’ve seen strikingly similar ones on BanginHotTeens.com.’

‘No! You perve!’

‘They’re not actually teenagers,’ said Marcus. ‘They put their hair up in very tight ponytails for a reason.’

He pulled back his own hair, tightening the skin on his face such that he resembled a hammerhead shark.

‘I bet the producer enjoyed firing you,’ said Darrell.

‘Relished it.’ Marcus took a swig of his beer. ‘My parting words were that he should go and sniff his Oscar. I hope he didn’t think it was the English version of “take your job and shove it”. I truly, deeply hope he picked that little golden bastard off his mantelpiece and took a good, long whiff.’

‘He had a mantelpiece in his office?’

‘He was an arse,’ said Marcus. ‘Which is why I shouldn’t be so bothered by it all. But yet,’ he added glumly, ‘I am.’

‘Why? You’re eminently employable, I would have thought,’ said Darrell.

‘Oh, come on! I was a glorified office boy!’ said Marcus. ‘I have no training, no qualifications, and I suspect I have burned off all my potentially useful contacts by being badly behaved around them or their loved ones. I could get a job stacking freezers at Asda. Possibly.’

‘What about publishing?’ Darrell said. ‘When we were seeing each other, you were buying rights to a foreign novel for your producer. Did you shag her, by the way? The French teen erotica queen?’

‘Berenice?’ Marcus met Darrell’s eye, but he was clearly uncomfortable. ‘I did, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.’

‘What is the most women you’ve had on the go at one time?’

‘This is hardly helping to rebuild my shattered self-esteem!’

‘It’s not shattered,’ said Darrell. ‘You’re like a squash ball. A Mack truck could run over you and you’d bounce back intact.’

Marcus looked as though he intended to protest, but settled instead for finishing his beer.

‘Can we talk about you now?’ he said. ‘I find the subject of me as depressing and pointless as the long-range forecast for the Outer Hebrides.’

‘Oh, God.’ Darrell breathed out. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’ve hardly let myself think about it, let alone talk about it.’

‘Do you want another glass of water?’ said Marcus. ‘Or a beer?’

Darrell shook her head.

‘May I have another one?’

‘I’m not your mother.’ Darrell’s nerves were making her irritable.

‘No.’ Marcus stood and looked down at her. ‘Patently, you are not.’

When he returned, beer in hand, he didn’t hesitate. ‘Is he mistreating you?’

‘No!’ Darrell let out a breath. ‘We just … we don’t talk to each other anymore.’

‘Did you before?’ said Marcus. ‘He never struck me as Mr Voluble.’

‘We did,’ said Darrell. ‘But somehow, we’ve stopped.’

‘And you don’t know the cause?’

Darrell hesitated. ‘I don’t think it’s down to one incident. I think it’s been a series of progressions,’ she said, ‘or regressions, if you like. It started when I got pregnant and I ran away. I thought we’d got over that — we did get married, after all — but we can’t have. Because when Cosmo was born, it got worse. And now—’

‘Have you tried talking to each other?’ said Marcus.

Darrell gave a short laugh. ‘Sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Part of me wants to, so badly. But the other part of me resists. I suspect that’s because I know I won’t much like what I’ll hear. As a mother, I’ve been — well, clingy is as good a word as any, and I’ve been a proportionately less attached wife.’

‘Babies are important,’ said Marcus, and before Darrell could add in a defence for husbands, he pressed on. ‘I find it hard to believe that you ran away when you got pregnant. You’ve never struck me as a bolter.’

‘I ran away when Tom died, too,’ said Darrell. ‘I ran to London because I couldn’t face living in the burned-out bloody shell of what we’d had together.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable,’ said Marcus. ‘Grieving people need to rebuild their lives.’

‘Did I, though?’ said Darrell. ‘Or did I just escape straight into the first set of welcoming arms, which happened to be yours? And from yours into the next set? I’m not sure I ever truly dealt with being on my own, or with … my loss.’

‘Perhaps that’s why I’ve never got close to anyone,’ said Marcus. ‘I’ve never wanted to risk feeling the pain of losing them. Or even the fear that I might lose them.’

He reached out a hand and gently stroked Cosmo’s small, warm arm.

‘And when they’re as vulnerable and precious as this,’ he said, ‘the fear must be immense.’

‘That’s it,’ said Darrell in a rush. ‘I ran because I was terrified Cosmo would die, just like Tom did. So terrified, I couldn’t even think.’

Her breathing was coming in shallow bursts, and her heart was racing. She held up her free hand, and saw it was damp and trembling.

‘God,’ she said with a shaky laugh. ‘Even now. I can’t stop it …’

‘Angel.’

Marcus set down his bottle on the table, and shifted his chair next to hers. He placed one arm around her shoulder and gently squeezed.

‘You’re all right. Your baby’s here, perfectly all right. Everything’s as it should be.’

He dropped a kiss onto her hair, and then sat back. His expression told Darrell that he was girding himself to say something, and she found the act of breathing normally had suddenly become extraordinarily hard.

Is it more fear? she wondered. Anticipation? I feel as though I’ve come up against another invisible line and this time it is dramatic. I’m standing on it, trying to keep my balance, because a step one way could mean the end of everything, and I don’t know which way is which.

‘I’m ready to do something worthwhile, something decent with my life,’ he said. ‘Yes, I realise that most people make that call long before they reach my advanced years, but then we all know I’m a selfish, shallow moron, don’t we?’

Darrell wanted to remind him that he wasn’t yet forty, but her ability to speak had apparently gone the way of her breathing.

‘I want to return to England,’ he went on, ‘and train for some kind of recognised qualification, even, quite frankly, if it’s a piece of paper that proves I know how to make a competent flat white. I want a house of my own, with a garden — don’t know why the garden, but it seems important.’ He paused. ‘And I’d like you and Cosmo to share it with me.’

‘I’m married,’ was all Darrell could manage.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I don’t ask this lightly.’

‘Why me?’ said Darrell. ‘You could have anyone.’

‘There’s no one else I can picture growing old with,’ said Marcus. ‘That seems important, too.’

Darrell had to look away. All her faculties shut down in sheer panic. She dropped her face to the top of Cosmo’s head and breathed him in.

I have no idea what to do, she thought.

‘I shouldn’t have been so unfair on you as to ask,’ said Marcus. ‘But it’s done now.’

‘I can’t give you an answer.’ Darrell’s voice was muffled by her baby’s downy hair. ‘I simply can’t.’

‘Then I’ll wait, patiently, I promise,’ said Marcus, ‘until you do have an answer for me. And if it’s no, I’ll accept that, and I’ll bow out for good.’

He stood and laid a hand briefly on her shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you both home before dark.’

Home, thought Darrell, as she followed him out, Cosmo in her arms. Where Anselo, my husband, is heading also. I wonder how he will be … how we will be? Will he give me a clue as to how I should feel about this? Or is it a decision I need to make all on my own and, on my own, take the consequences?

21

Charlotte reminded herself for the umpteenth time that being told to have the day off was not tantamount to a dismissal. It only feels like that, she thought, because of the way he talked to me. His tone wasn’t cold, exactly, but it certainly wasn’t friendly. Anyone who’d overheard would never have guessed that, only two days before, he had sat in front of me, head in his hands, and openly confessed his fears and self-doubt — his increasingly uneasy sense that in the arena of his life, he was no longer the emperor, but the bloodied gladiator lying in the dust waiting for the inevitable two thumbs down.

Perhaps if he hadn’t opened up to me, thought Charlotte, he would not have felt as betrayed by my consorting with Ned. Betrayed is a strong word, but that’s how I believe he saw it. And I’m not sure he can forgive me.

When we were in the study together, Charlotte recalled, I felt as if every confession of his threw a small grappling hook into my being, and every minute winched us closer together.

At least, that’s what I’d felt, she thought. But in the now unlikely event that he had sensed something between us, too, it was destroyed the instant he saw me with Ned.

Charlotte knew her face had not revealed one jot of the desolation overlaid with panic that burgeoned inside her when Patrick instructed — it was not a request — that she take the day off. His rationale was that Clare and Michelle were back from Milan, and it was time, in his opinion, for the children to spend at least one whole day with their respective parents. Charlotte did not know whether Clare and Michelle shared this opinion, but from Patrick’s tone she inferred that their views, whatever they might be, were irrelevant. Patrick had decided today would be a family day, and that was that.

Perhaps there’s nothing more to it than that, thought Charlotte. I know Patrick was concerned about Clare’s apparent neglect of Tom, because he told me. Or, if not neglect — Tom was being cared for, after all — then a separation from her son that seemed as complete as her connection to him had been previously. If Clare’s relationship with Tom had been yin, it was now yang. Patrick could not explain this, he confessed to Charlotte, but it disturbed him profoundly. What disturbed him more was that he felt powerless to change it.

So perhaps all that lay behind this, Charlotte thought, was Patrick reasserting his power? Perhaps it has nothing to do with Ned and me at all.

But no matter how logical and reasonable the words sounded in her mind, she could not convince herself, and now it was she who felt so powerless that she wanted to yell out loud with fear and frustration.

Of course, I did no such thing. I told him I would be happy to take the day off, and I thanked him, and I went upstairs to my room, and I sat on my bed until it became too dark to see.

And now I’m standing outside the villa at eight in the morning, she thought, the front door shut behind me, with no idea what to do or where to go. I should be putting my mind to the issue of Darrell and Anselo’s marriage, and the fact that their little nest has been infiltrated by an over-sexed, morally challenged cuckoo named Marcus Reynolds.

Darrell had looked hot and harassed on her return from their “drive” — Charlotte mentally added the inverted commas of doubt. That might have been, Charlotte guessed, because Darrell had arrived back at the villa barely twenty minutes before Anselo had. If she’d been any later, Charlotte thought, her ability to extemporise would have been nicely tested. Mind you, Charlotte decided, Anselo was no better. If he were my husband, I’d not be tolerating any jaunts to Milan nightclubs. Judging from Michelle’s recount, the evening was free from scandal. But as the saying goes, thought Charlotte, dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire, and as Michelle had cheerfully confessed that she’d passed out fully clothed on the hotel bed at three-thirty in the morning, she would have no idea what Anselo and Clare had got up to in the hours between then and dawn.

Michelle had been the only cheerful one last night, Charlotte recalled. Darrell and Anselo barely exchanged a word. That doesn’t bode well, and I really should be forming a plan to deal with the situation. The risk their marriage breaking up posed to her connection with Patrick was still very real, she knew. The difficulty, Charlotte thought, as she began to walk to the village, is that I simply don’t care enough about the pair to be bothered acting. I don’t care about anyone but Patrick, which is why being forced to have a day without him is just hell.

Charlotte gave herself a mental slap. Wallowing is not going to help. If I want this day to pass quickly, I need to keep busy. She considered her options. She could catch the bus into Como and go shopping, or she could sit in a bar, hoping to find some man who might be interested in a little afternoon delight.

I could have had that with Patrick in the study, thought Charlotte, if I’d seized the moment. Now, I suspect any subsequent moments will be floating like dandelion clocks and thistledown in a current of warm air, way up in the ether, miles out of my reach.

Thistles made Charlotte recall the hill she used to climb as a child. I climbed it when I wanted to escape, she thought, which, let’s face it, was often. It was a scrubby, stony, thistle-ridden hill and that’s why I chose it — because no one else wanted to be up there, not even stray sheep. No one in my family noticed when I went or when I came back, so I could be away for as long as I liked. It was not a comfortable hill to sit on, but I was at ease there. It was not a tall hill, either, but it elevated me sufficiently so that I could make believe that if I ran fast enough down its slope, I might take off and fly up into the blue, and never have to go home ever again.

I want to climb, Charlotte thought. She shaded her eyes and looked up, above the roofs of the villas across the road, way up to where she could just see the top of the steep dark-green hills that enclosed the lake. Up there, she thought. I want to climb all the way up there. With luck, it will take all day.

She did not know exactly how to get there, but on a previous day, she’d taken the children for a walk, and found steps, behind the school, leading up to a tunnel that ran under the main road. The tunnel did not look terribly savoury, and the steps thus far had been very steep and the children were complaining, so Charlotte had decided to turn around. Now, she would follow the steps all the way, and hope they led her to a path up the hill.

The steps, as she’d noticed before, were punctuated on each turn with illustrated plaques depicting the Stations of the Cross. Charlotte assumed they were there to remind you that, no matter how hard these steps were on your arthritic knees, you were not carrying a hundredweight of wood on your shoulders, nor did you have a circle of nature’s barbed wire incising bloody grooves into your scalp. Charlotte, who associated church entirely with insincere beige men in synthetic maroon cardigans, envied the Italian Catholics their open and heartfelt, if rather blousy, religion. Catholicism is a bunch of bright peonies just before they fall apart, she thought, whereas British Anglicanism is like one of those dead brown spiky things used in floral arrangements, which do nothing but gather dust and prick your fingers out of spite when you stuff them finally and thankfully in the bin.

Charlotte reached the tunnel, which did not look so bad now that she had no small children to worry about. An older Italian couple were coming through from the other side, he in a dark suit and hat, she in a matching skirt and jacket, navy blue. He responded to Charlotte’s buon giorno with a curt nod, while his wife only stared suspiciously, through small black eyes like a shrew’s. Oh well, thought Charlotte, the Stations of the Cross will probably perk them up, and by the time they get to the plaque that depicts Jesus’ long, painful death, they’ll be positively chipper.

The path popped out on the other side of the main road, busy and fumy with cars, and then wound upwards into a cluster of houses, old stone ones packed tight together, doorways opening directly out onto the path. Charlotte hesitated. It seemed like trespassing to walk right past someone’s front door, but that was where the path went, and if she wanted to find a way up the hill, she had no choice but to follow it.

Imagine living here, she thought. Cheek by jowl with your neighbour, with the houses opposite so close that you could hand across a cup of sugar without leaving your doorstep. There were people about, children wheeling bicycles — God knows how they could ride them up these steep, stone-flagged paths.

An old man in a grubby singlet was sitting in his doorway, right on the street, peeling an apple with a knife. From open windows came voices, and once, the sweet, caustic-edged smell of laundry powder. Few of the houses at the start seemed to have gardens, but as Charlotte climbed, the plots of land grew bigger. In one vegetable garden, Charlotte counted four cats sleeping, curled up amongst tomatoes and corn stalks and nasturtiums. Italian cats, she had observed, were on the large side, and these four were no exception. Like black and white Russian hats, thought Charlotte. Their weight won’t be doing that mixed cos any favours.

Then the houses ended, and Charlotte was at the tree line. The view, as she turned to look, was spectacular. She hadn’t been aware of how high she’d climbed. The villas by the lakefront were no bigger than butterscotch sweets, marzipan decorations on a cake. The day was now hot, and the walk so far had been steep and strenuous, but Charlotte fizzed with energy. She gazed up into the trees, but there was no way to gauge how far she had to go.

I’ll keep on, she thought, until the path runs out, or I simply can’t walk another step.

She sipped from the water bottle she’d brought from the villa.

I should have brought some bread, too, Charlotte thought. I’ll be famished by the time this walk is done.

She gave thanks that she’d chosen to leave the villa dressed in suitable clothes. As long as she didn’t get caught on the hills overnight, her cotton floral sundress and flat sandals would be perfectly adequate for the walk.

Round a bend, Charlotte found an abandoned stone building. A creek ran down its side, a trickle now in the height of summer, but a torrent, Charlotte imagined, when the snows melted. She saw the remains of a mill wheel, and religious scenes painted above the door and on the walls, mostly faded but with the red and orange colours still bright, like old Polaroids. Did priests or monks work here? she wondered. Did they live here or did they just come here to mill grain? Lugging sacks of it down to the town must have been arduous. Perhaps they had donkeys?

After the old mill, there were no more buildings. The path wound steeply up through the trees, and Charlotte saw nothing but dappled green, brown and yellow. Live things — lizards, she hoped — skittered and rustled in the undergrowth. Bird calls Charlotte did not recognise chimed from the high branches. It was tranquil and comforting, and she felt her spirits lift.

Around the next corner was a group of stone houses, their appearance so unexpected in the middle of the forest that Charlotte became worried she’d been trespassing on private property all this time. She took a closer look and saw that most of the houses — cottages really, they could not be more than one bedroom — were shuttered up. Some had been renovated, their new window frames and roofs and freshly painted doors pointing to some affluence about the owners. The odd one was almost derelict. None seemed to be occupied.

What are these places? Charlotte wondered. Homes left by people who’ve gone on holiday? Places people come for a holiday, or a weekend retreat? What an absolute bastard it must be to get furniture all the way up here. The moving men must have thighs like Titans!

The path forked, and on the left route a rocky wall had on it a sign that said pericolo vipere. Even without the helpful picture of the snake, Charlotte thought, I expect I could have translated. I’ll go to the right.

Two bends on, there were more stone cottages. Only this time, Charlotte could see an open door, and she could hear the tinny sound of a radio.

Someone’s home, she thought. Someone who doesn’t mind toting groceries up a near-vertical hill for an hour, or living surrounded by pericolo vipere. Such a person might also be the kind who objects to strangers, and expresses this objection by means of a shotgun or deftly hurled axe. But one peep won’t hurt, she thought. I’ll be gone before they see me.

Before the open front door was a short wooden — well, I can’t dignify it with the title of veranda, thought Charlotte. Worried the wood would creak, she stepped carefully and, holding her breath, took a quick sideways peek in through the doorway. She saw one room, a fireplace, an old couch covered in a blanket, a small wooden table with two chairs. There was an internal doorway she assumed led to a bedroom. Where the bathroom was, she did not like to guess. Outside, she presumed. I hope whoever lives here checks the seat for perilous vipers beforehand.

The radio was on the mantelpiece. If you could describe the crude shelf of wood above the fireplace as such, thought Charlotte. On the table sat a mug, along with a paperback book, propped open, spine up. Someone had been in the room very recently. But they were not here now.

She heard the wooden boards behind her creak, and as she spun around, a hand grabbed her upper arm, roughly, and held it in much too tight a grip.

‘What in God’s bloody name,’ said Ned Marsh, ‘are tha doing here?’

22

‘Unhand me!’ demanded Charlotte.

Ned’s scowl eased, and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Ye make it sound as if I’m about t’ tie tha t’ railway tracks.’

He let go her arm, and Charlotte rubbed it, gazing at him with resentment. Amazingly, he was not in overalls, but Charlotte would almost have preferred it if he was. His lower half was clad in a pair of ancient jeans, ends short and frayed like Huckleberry Finn’s, but his upper half was entirely bare. Charlotte could see that his torso was a fitting tribute to years of physical labour, and felt a heat in her face that was not all due to adrenaline and exertion.

‘What’s tha doing here?’ he said. ‘How’d tha know where I lived?

‘I didn’t!’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ve been taking a walk! It’s pure coincidence that I was—’

‘Snooping,’ finished Ned.

‘I was curious,’ said Charlotte. ‘What are these cottages?’

‘Holiday homes now, mostly,’ said Ned. ‘Summer rentals, but as ’tis end August, most folk have gone now. They used t’ be homes, for workers, fishermen. Nowhere else they could afford t’ live. The lake’s allus been for t’ rich.’

‘Do you own this one?’

Ned shook his head. ‘Too dear for likes o’ me,’ he said. ‘I pay peppercorn rent in exchange for keeping eye on t’ other places. Scare off squatters and burglars.’ He gave his half-smile. ‘Oh, t’ irony of it all.’

Then he said, ‘Why are tha walking? It’s a weekday. Or are you no longer Charlotte t’ nanny? Did tha boss fire you for fraternising wi’ the enemy?’

That cut close to the bone, and Charlotte felt a cold clutch of dread. But if Patrick had wanted to fire her, he would have. Charlotte had no doubt about that.

‘Day off,’ she said.

‘And tha chose to walk up mountain instead of shopping or sightseeing?’ Ned was sceptical.

‘This is sightseeing!’ Charlotte spread her arms out to the trees. ‘This is beautiful!’

Ned’s forehead creased, as if he had been suddenly posed a riddle. Charlotte decided to use the hiatus to her advantage.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

Ned’s mouth tightened with reluctance. ‘’Tis my day off, too,’ he said. ‘I look forward t’ a bit o’ peace an’ quiet.’

‘I’ll be quiet as a mouse,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ll refill my water bottle, rest my feet for a spell, and be on my way. You’ll barely know I was here.’

Inside the cottage, Charlotte knew exactly why Ned was wearing no shirt. She peered into the mug on the table.

‘Why in God’s name are you drinking tea in this heat?’

‘I like it.’ Ned was hovering in the doorway. ‘Ye can fill your water bottle from there. Water’s good.’

He gestured to the back of the cottage. On the wall adjacent to the front door, Charlotte saw a basic wooden bench with an old ceramic butler-style sink, under which were two shelves filled sparsely with pots and dish-wash supplies, and an aged, squat fridge. Next to the bench sat an even older electric stove — circa 1973, Charlotte guessed — with a battered whistling kettle on one element. A small amount of crockery was neatly stacked on a triangular corner shelf.

Everything may have been old, but it was impeccably clean. There were no dishes in the sink at all, not even a teaspoon. A blue-and-white tea towel hung from the oven door handle. It, too, was clean.

‘Is that your bedroom?’ Charlotte indicated the closed door.

Ned did not reply. He’d stopped hovering in the doorway, and was now hovering in the middle of the room. He’d switched off the radio, and the room was now extremely quiet. Charlotte filled her water bottle — the tap squeaked and the pipes rattled but the water did run clear — walked to the small wooden table and pulled out a chair. When it became obvious Ned would rather hover than join her, she lifted the paperback to see what it was.

‘Far from the Madding Crowd?’ Charlotte smiled. ‘How astonishingly appropriate. Are you enjoying it? I’d imagine Hardy would be right up your street: all tortured solitary men and fickle women.’

‘’Tis all right.’ Ned had decided to sit on the couch, but right on the edge, back taut, elbows propped rigidly on his knees. ‘Prefer Lawrence.’

‘Closer to home?’

‘Not my home no more,’ said Ned. ‘Don’t belong there.’

‘Then why is your accent so strong? Surely a few “thees” and “thas” should have worn off by now?’

Ned twined his fingers for a moment before answering. ‘Happen I’ve not been ready to lose everything.’

He stood up again at speed, as if projected by a wayward spring. ‘Feet all rested now?’ he said.

Charlotte’s good spirits had finally met their match in Ned’s disinclination to put up with her presence for even a minute more.

No one wants me, she thought, and loathed how pathetic it sounded. Like that juvenile refrain: nobody likes me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms. But dismissing it as childish did not lessen the emotion behind it one whit.

‘Fine.’ Charlotte rose from the chair. ‘I’ll leave you to your book, and your tea, and your solitary confinement.’

‘I’ve offended thee.’ Ned was pulling on the fingers of one hand with the other. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No.’ Charlotte was annoyed with herself. ‘I’m feeling rejected and wallowing in self-pity. Not your fault at all.’

She made an effort to smile. ‘Enjoy your peace and quiet. I envy you, having such a wonderful place to enjoy it in.’

Charlotte checked her watch. ‘I should probably head back now. Unless the top of the path is close?’

Ned was at her side now. ‘Nowhere near,’ he said.

Then, in a rush, he said, ‘Charlotte, will y’ come t’ bed wi’ us?’

Charlotte was convinced she’d misheard. Her hesitation caused Ned’s face to wall up.

‘Forget it,’ he said, and began to walk away.

‘Ned!’ Charlotte grabbed his arm. ‘Are you offering because you feel sorry for me?’

Ned stared at her. ‘Why would I be that daft?’

‘Because you’re a good man.’ Charlotte found she was blushing, and felt compelled to make a quip. ‘Cantankerous. But good.’

‘Patrick King thinks I’m a bad man,’ he said. ‘Too bad t’ be around his children.’

‘Patrick,’ said Charlotte firmly, ‘is currently finding his life somewhat exigent, and you are what is commonly referred to as the last straw. If you forgave him and moved on, he would do the same. In a heartbeat.’

‘And what exactly is so “exigent” about his life?’

‘I don’t betray confidences,’ said Charlotte. ‘Not wittingly, at least.’

Ned was silent, and Charlotte, uneasy, said, ‘Do you still want to go to bed with me? Or have you changed your mind?’

It was a moment before Ned replied.

‘No,’ he said, and Charlotte’s heart sank until he added, ‘I’ve not changed my mind.’

He stepped up to her and laid both hands lightly on her arms. ‘But don’t expect too much, Charlotte t’ nanny. I’m no Casanova. I’ll do my best, but it may not be up t’ standard you’re used to.’

Charlotte very gently placed her palm on his stomach. She felt his abdominal muscles flinch and his diaphragm rise and fall. She could smell his sweat, induced by nervousness and heat, and a faint green woodiness, as if the gardens he tended had been somehow infused into his body. She could see, through the faded, thinning fabric of his jeans, that he had the beginnings of an erection, but she kept her hands above his belt. It would not pay to rush it, she sensed. He was skittish enough as it was.

She stood on tiptoes and kissed him lightly, briefly, on the mouth. Then she took his hand.

‘Come on.’ She began to lead him to the closed door, but paused. ‘Unless this is the bathroom,’ she said, ‘and you sleep outside in a tree?’

‘In this heat, I’d be tempted,’ he said, ‘’tweren’t for t’ bats and snakes.’

‘The perilous vipers,’ said Charlotte, leading him once more by the hand. ‘If I’m ever bitten, I give you permission to suck any part of my body you want.’

Ned had gone to the bathroom, which was not, as Charlotte had feared, in a rusting lean-to around the back, but off the bedroom. In it were an old lavatory and basin, originally white but now covered in crazing that gave them the grizzled appearance of an eighty-year-old chain smoker, and a shower unit, again, by Charlotte’s guess, circa 1973. The bathroom, like the kitchen, was faultlessly clean. The taps and shower nozzle had not a trace of lime. Even the tiny grooves and corners in the window frame were sparkling.

The fitting and furnishings in the cottage might be straddling the poverty line, thought Charlotte, but their caretaker would never be brought low.

The bedroom was tiny, just large enough for the single bed, a bedside table and a chest of drawers, but comfortable, homey. The bed covers, before they’d ended up in a heap on the floor, consisted of crisp white sheets and a colourful woollen blanket, the kind your grandmother might insist on making you out of — what were they called? Charlotte thought. Oh, yes, peggy squares. The sight now of the blanket on the floor made Charlotte terribly cheerful, although, she had to admit, there may have been other reasons for her upbeat mood.

Sex is such a great distraction when it’s good, she thought. And despite my doubts, this has been very good indeed. It could well have been otherwise; he might have been too anxious, too tense, which would inevitably have made him too quick. As it was, his only moment of panic was when he rummaged through the drawers for condoms.

‘Shit,’ he’d said. ‘Where the fuck are they? Don’t tell us I fucking threw ’em out.’

He’d slammed shut one drawer and yanked open another. Charlotte, sitting on the bed in bra and panties, wondered whether this was an opportune time to tell him that she had some in her wallet, but decided that piece of information was best revealed only if absolutely necessary.

‘Thank fuck.’ Ned had stood up, waving the foil strips in his hand.

‘Only four?’ Charlotte’s expression had been innocent.

‘Don’t tease.’ Ned had slipped his arm under hers and pulled her up off the bed.

‘Tha can mess wi’ us later,’ he’d said, and kissed her with an intensity that made Charlotte glad he was holding her up. ‘But for now,’ Ned had murmured against her mouth, ‘be kind.’

I didn’t need to be kind, thought Charlotte. The first time was an exploration, a delicious discovery, our lips, fingers and tongues all over each other’s bodies. I practically had to order him to enter me, and when I came, he was surprised and then triumphant, though I could see he was doing his best not to let it show. The second time, it was as if he felt he now had permission to loosen the reins. I hesitate to labour the equestrian metaphor, she thought, but by God, we rode each other like we were at Aintree, and at one stage, we were so slick with sweat that Ned had to grab a towel and rub us down. We were vocal with it, too. Anyone else walking up the track would have been in no doubt about what was going on in the last stone cottage on the left. Really, I don’t know what he was worried about.

Ned came out of the bathroom.

‘Water?’ he said.

‘Yes, please,’ said Charlotte happily. ‘I’m parched, but far too lazy to get up.’

When he returned, he handed her a glass, and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. As Charlotte drank, she once again admired his physical form. Patrick’s in not bad shape, she thought, but Ned is like a Michelangelo sculpture, all distinct solid musculature and heroic sinews. Though he is most certainly better endowed than the statue of David, she mentally noted. It must have been chilly in the Florentine studio that day.

Charlotte placed the empty glass on the bedside table and scooched back down so she could lay her head on the pillow again. She stretched out a leg and hooked up the one closest to Ned, who, as she’d hoped, trailed his fingers lightly from her knee all the way up her inner thigh. Then he bent and placed a kiss right where his fingers had come to a stop. Charlotte made a small sound of pleasure, and closed her eyes, ready for him to kiss her onwards and upwards.

Instead, she felt him sit up, and opened her eyes to find him staring at her.

‘Not keen?’ she said.

‘Keen enough,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t mind just talking for a bit. We’ve not done much talking.’

‘That’s very true,’ said Charlotte. ‘Did you want to talk about anything in particular? I warn you, I’m not the greatest fan of deep and meaningful conversation.’

The corner of Ned’s mouth lifted. ‘Afraid, are thee?’

‘Certainly not!’ said Charlotte. ‘I simply don’t find most people terribly interesting.’

Ned laughed. ‘That’s honest, I suppose. Unless,’ he added with a knowing grin, ‘tha’s just saying it t’ hide fact tha’s afraid?’

‘What did you want to talk about, Ned?’ said Charlotte. ‘Or was your plan to bait me and see how long I take to rise to it? Because — warning number two — I never rise. So I’d give up that idea right now.’

Ned said, ‘I’ll start with summat easy then, shall I?’

‘Depends,’ said Charlotte. ‘What do you classify as easy?’

‘I thought it about time I asked your last name,’ said Ned. ‘Can’t call you Charlotte t’ nanny forever.’

‘It’s Fforbes,’ said Charlotte. ‘With two fs. And if you ask me if I’m related to the Fforbes of North Yorkshire, I may strike you.’

‘The Fforbes of North Yorkshire have no female issue,’ said Ned. ‘And I imagine them lads aren’t long for this world, neither.’

‘You sound straight out of a Catherine Cookson novel,’ said Charlotte. ‘Which I have to say I find rather disturbing, so please don’t do it again.’ Then she added, ‘Is that it? Have we finished talking?’

‘Why don’t ye do boyfriends, Charlotte Fforbes, with two fs?’ asked Ned.

‘Why don’t you do girlfriends?’ Charlotte retorted.

‘Oh, I do girlfriends,’ said Ned. ‘Just not at t’ moment.’

Charlotte was perturbed to feel a twinge of jealousy. Up until now, she’d pictured Ned as a resolute loner, keeping women at bay as self-protection against heartbreak. She’d also made an assumption that, despite the condoms in the drawer, she was the first to share the cottage’s single bed, and it irked her to have to question it.

It’s only because he paid you attention when you were feeling neglected, she scolded herself. It’s a sense of mild attachment born out of gratitude. Nothing more.

‘Why haven’t you got married then?’ she said snappishly.

‘How’n hell could I support a family?’ he said with a scowl.

‘There isn’t actually a clause in the marriage contract stipulating that you must breed,’ said Charlotte. ‘And I sincerely hope you don’t hold some hidebound, antediluvian notion that you need to keep your wife?’

Ned’s scowl did not abate. ‘What kind o’ man can’t support his wife and children?’

‘As you have neither,’ said Charlotte, ‘I’d suggest it’s a moot point!’

‘Tha didn’t answer my question,’ said Ned belligerently. ‘It were about boyfriends, in case it’s slipped your mind.’

‘It hasn’t,’ said Charlotte. ‘I didn’t answer because it’s none of your business.’

She folded her arms and they glared at each other, until Charlotte said, ‘Well, this conversation’s going swimmingly, isn’t it? I can see I’ve really missed out on this talking lark.’

Ned looked away, but when he turned back to face her, he was smiling, albeit somewhat ruefully. He dropped a kiss on her still-bent knee, and began to caress her inner thigh again.

‘When’s your next day off?’ he said. ‘Or will you be under cosh from now on?’

‘Sunday.’

Charlotte did her best not to sound subdued, but the lack of certainty around Patrick’s intentions prompted a churning queasiness every time she thought of it. Maybe he’ll be waiting when I get back to the villa, she thought. Waiting to sack me. What on Earth will I do then?

‘Got plans?’ she heard Ned say. ‘If tha haven’t,’ he went on, ‘d’you want to go out on t’ lake?’

Charlotte perked up a little. ‘On a yacht?’

Ned pursed his mouth. ‘More a rowing boat.’

‘Oh, God.’ Charlotte shuddered. ‘No, I’m sorry. I cannot bear rowing boats.’

‘Why not?’ Ned said, put out. ‘Forced t’ read Wind in t’ Willows one too many times as a lass?’

‘No …’ Charlotte hesitated. ‘I had — a bad experience in a rowing boat once.’

‘But tha won’t tell us,’ said Ned, though his tone was gentle, ‘because it’s none o’ my business?’

He’d paused in his caressing and his warm calloused hand was resting on her thigh. Charlotte was surprised to find it extraordinarily comforting.

‘This is going to sound very stupid,’ she said. ‘Childish and stupid.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Ned. ‘Go on.’

‘I tried to run away from home once,’ she said. ‘Our house backed onto the Thames, and one day I packed a little bag, and got into the neighbour’s rowing boat, and managed to row myself all the way down to the next village.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Oh, ten,’ said Charlotte. ‘Old enough to know better, really. When I got to the village, I realised I’d forgotten about the lock. I had this vague idea that there was a man who operated it, but if there was indeed a man at this lock, he must have been off at the pub. I had no idea what to do. I waited to see if anyone else sailed up, who would have more of a clue. But I think the Henley regatta was on, and everyone with a boat was there instead. I waited for what felt like ages, but was probably only an hour, and then I gave up, tucked the boat into the bushes, scrambled up the bank and walked home. I’d been gone over five hours, but no one noticed. I took my bag back up to my room, and that was that.’

She blushed. ‘I told you it was stupid.’

‘Most kids want t’ run away at some stage,’ Ned said softly. ‘Did tha have particular reason?’

‘None,’ said Charlotte. ‘Other than my family home was an arid wasteland, full of bitterness and bile, and without a shred of love. At ten, I decided I deserved better. But clearly, that was my lot.’

‘Bit harsh on t’ rowing boat,’ said Ned. ‘If you don’t mind us saying so.’

‘It failed me,’ said Charlotte. ‘It promised to take me away, and it didn’t. It sat there and bobbed aimlessly while I despaired.’

She gave him a look of embarrassed defiance. ‘I never said I had a sensible reason to hate rowing boats.’

‘Nay.’ Ned propped his hands on either side of her and bent forward to kiss her on the mouth. He smiled down. ‘And you don’t need un, neither.’

‘Are you going to kiss me again?’ said Charlotte. ‘Or are you averse to breaking your rule a third time?’

‘Rule?’

‘You told me you don’t like to sleep with women you hardly know.’

‘Very true.’ Ned nodded. ‘But can I tell thee summat, Charlotte Fforbes? Sometimes I feel I’ve known thee all my life.’

And in the ensuing, sweaty, vocal entanglement, Charlotte forgot that she’d had any qualms at all about that comment.

23

‘No.’

Clare, who had been lying in bed, now sat fully upright.

‘Excuse me?’ she said.

Patrick pulled a T-shirt on over his head before replying. ‘It’s a bad idea.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Clare after a pause, ‘but I’m getting the distinct impression that you are forbidding me to return to work.’ She glanced around. ‘Were we transported back to Victorian times while I was asleep?’

‘Tom needs his mother.’ Patrick was kneeling, lacing his sneakers. ‘Not some nanny.’

‘Really?’ said Clare. ‘And on what evidence, exactly, are you basing that assertion?’

Patrick stood up, but he already knew, from the tone of her voice, what Clare’s face would look like. When Clare was upset, she would yell and rant. But when she was truly furious, she adopted the bored-mocking delivery of a seasoned defence lawyer discrediting the prosecution’s expert witness. The only clue to her level of emotion was that her nostrils went pink and white around the edges. Normally, Patrick took this as his cue to back off. But not today.

‘You know, and I know,’ he said, ‘and everyone knows that Tom isn’t talking when he should be. But apart from that one trip to the paediatrician, you and I haven’t discussed it at all. Well, here’s what I think.’ He folded his arms. ‘I think there’s something wrong with him. Whether he’s autistic or not, I can’t say. But whatever the case is, the last thing we should do is fob him off on some paid fucking “caregiver”, who won’t really give a rat’s arse about him, and who Tom doesn’t know from a fucking bar of soap. You think leaving him in the care of some stranger will help his development? I think it’s a recipe for fucking disaster.’

Clare was silent, but Patrick knew better than to assume this meant she was weighing the merits of what he’d just said. What she was doing, he knew, was the mental equivalent of loading shells into a howitzer and calibrating the sights.

‘I’m thankful,’ she said, ‘to hear how much you care for our son. Because, God knows, I haven’t been a very good mother to him at all. I haven’t spent the last two years of my life dedicating myself to his every need, doing everything within my power to help him live a normal life. I haven’t put him first on every occasion, erasing my entire sense of self in the process by giving up everything I once enjoyed and felt productive doing. So it’s good to hear that at least one of us cares for Tom.’

‘Clare—’

‘NO!’

Clare shoved back the covers and scrambled to her feet on top of the bed. Clare was five-five and this was the only way she’d ever get any height over Patrick. She stalked to the edge and stood facing her husband.

‘How dare you!’ she yelled. ‘How bloody dare you! You arsehole!’

‘Clare, come on,’ pleaded Patrick. ‘Keep it down.’

‘I have given two fucking years!’ she yelled. ‘And you have the fucking arsehole nerve to tell me that’s not good enough!’

‘Clare—’ Patrick reached out, but she slapped his hand away.

‘What were you doing all that time?’ she yelled. ‘Fucking working, that’s what! Going to the fucking pub! Coming home when you fucking felt like it!’

‘Fuck’s sake …’ Patrick breathed out, and clasped both hands briefly behind his head.

Clare was standing, wobbling slightly on the soft bed, gazing at him as if in disbelief.

‘You’re just a wide boy,’ she said quietly, ‘a Cockney wide boy who thinks of women as “birds”, and sees their sole purpose as fucking and frying. You’re a conventional, narrow-minded, working-class arsehole, and I bloody knew that when I married you. I just assumed you knew it, too, and were willing to change.’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Patrick. ‘That is not fucking fair!’

‘Fair!’ Clare was yelling again. ‘What do you know about fair?’

She jumped down off the bed, and stormed to where her suitcase sat on a luggage rack. She began to throw clothes into it.

‘Clare, don’t be—’ Patrick bit back the last word.

‘Stupid?’ Clare, a bundle of knickers and bras clutched in her hands, paused and looked over her shoulder. ‘I’m being very far from stupid. I’m being sane for the first time since I married you.’

She dumped the underwear in the suitcase. ‘I made up my mind in Milan,’ she said, ‘to go back to work, and I knew you wouldn’t be happy. But I did assume that you cared enough about me to see it from my point of view. I assumed that you acknowledged and valued the effort I’ve put in—’

‘I do!’ said Patrick. ‘It’s not about that!’

‘No,’ said Clare. ‘It’s about Tom. Your son and heir. He comes first and I come dead last, no matter how much I give. I see that now. I began to see it yesterday when you forced me to spend time with him, when you so high-handedly laid down the law. You didn’t give a damn about how I felt, or what I wanted. Yesterday, I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. Now, I have no doubts at all.’

She picked up two pairs of shoes and threw them on the pile in the suitcase.

‘You’re angry,’ said Patrick. ‘Don’t—’

‘I’m not angry,’ said Clare. ‘I stopped being angry when you called me stupid. I’m now clear-headed and extremely focused.’

She slammed down the lid of the suitcase, and tried to zip it shut. It wouldn’t, no matter how hard she pushed on it, so she unzipped it again, grabbed a pile of clothes and shoes from the top and hurled them into the corner of the room. She zipped the case and grabbed it by the handle, and with the other hand, slipped her bag over her shoulder.

‘Where are you going, Clare?’ said Patrick. ‘You’re not even dressed!’

Clare glanced down. She had on a pair of knickers and the same old T-shirt of Patrick’s that she’d been wearing the night she’d said yes to Italy.

‘I’ll change in the car,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave the car seat. You can share the diesel with Darrell and Anselo.’

She began to hurry to the door.

‘Clare, come on!’

Patrick chased her and grabbed her arm. She shook herself free.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she said with a venom that made Patrick blench.

‘But … where are you going?’ he said helplessly and, before he could stop himself, added, ‘What about Tom?’

Clare paused, hand on the doorknob. ‘Well, Patrick,’ she said, ‘now, it’s your turn to figure that out.’

She wrenched open the door and went. Patrick listened to her rapid footsteps descend the stairs. He heard the front door slam. He lifted his hands to his head and found they were shaking.

‘Fuck it,’ he said to the empty room.

The clock on the bedside table said seven forty-five. Patrick had got up especially to take Tom to breakfast, and now he’d probably missed his chance. Charlotte would already have led Tom down to the kitchen.

‘Things fall apart,’ he murmured. ‘Yeats, me old china, you are a fucking wanker.’

‘Well,’ said Michelle, ‘what do you think?’

Darrell dragged her mind back to the present. ‘About what?’

‘The French government’s policy on grain import subsidies.’ Michelle grabbed Darrell by the shoulder and shook her. ‘What do you mean “about what”? The big bust-up, of course!’

‘Do I need to have an opinion?’ said Darrell.

Michelle sat back in the chair, and stared at Darrell through narrowed eyes.

‘You’ve changed,’ she said. ‘You used to have an opinion on everything. Oh, no, wait — that was me.’

Michelle had come to join Darrell at the table by the loggia. Cosmo had just finished feeding, and was lying asleep in Darrell’s arms.

I should lay him on the mat, thought Darrell, rather than keep holding him. But you know what? I can’t even be bothered doing that.

‘I haven’t known Patrick and Clare as long as you have,’ said Michelle. ‘Did you see this coming?’ Without waiting for a reply, she went on. ‘I mean, I knew Patrick hadn’t been overly enamoured with Clare’s parenting style, which he made sound akin to Russian tanks rolling into Warsaw. But I hadn’t seen any of that here, had you? If anything, Clare was like one of those paint-by-mouth chappies — completely hands-off.’

Michelle sipped on the glass of water she’d carried out with her. Darrell eyed it enviously. Breastfeeding always gave her a raging thirst, but her hands had been too full with Cosmo and his load of baby necessities to bring water outside as well. I could have stayed inside, she thought, but Anselo was in the kitchen, and so was Charlotte, and Chad and Patrick were in the living room with the children, and I really, really needed to get some air. And now, here’s Michelle. I suppose I could tell her to go away, but we all know that will never happen, don’t we?

‘Chad usually refuses to comment on other people’s business,’ Michelle was saying. ‘But this morning, I forced him to, and he thinks Patrick and Clare had never discussed what would happen after Tom was born, whether Clare would go back to work, et cetera. Chad and I discussed it, in the sense that I told him how it would be, and he accepted it. Clear communication is so important in a marriage, don’t you think?’

Darrell’s rational brain knew that Michelle was joking, but her primary response was that someone had landed a vicious punch dead centre of the vulnerable expanse of emotional jelly that seemed to constitute the majority of her being.

I need to talk to my husband, she thought. We need to talk to each other. But it’s not happening, and I can’t see how it will.

When the group had come home from Milan, Michelle had been full of stories — about shopping in designer stores and staying in swanky hotels and dancing at fashionable nightclubs. Michelle was full of praise for Anselo’s ability to dance, which she likened to John Travolta’s in Saturday Night Fever. (‘You know, that super hip-swivelly thing, as if his bottom half and top half aren’t connected. Uber cool.’) Darrell’s mood, which had been low to begin with, had begun a Jules Verne-like descent into deepest subterranean darkness.

Anselo and I have never been dancing in a nightclub, she’d thought, admittedly because I rate it as slightly less enjoyable than treading on Lego bricks in my bare feet. He and I have never stayed at a swanky hotel; when we last went on holiday, we lived as cheaply as we could. The only designer dress I’ve ever worn, I borrowed from Clare. I know that was in the time before he started working for Patrick, in the time when we had no money left over for indulgences. But, still, where he got the kind of readies he seems to have spent on this spree, Lord only knows. And because I guarantee I will never ask, that knowledge with the Lord shall exclusively remain.

Anselo had contributed very little to the story-telling session, Darrell recalled. He had also, during its entirety, avoided her eye. And he didn’t ask me once how I’d spent the two days he was gone, she thought, and for that, I have to admit I feel more relieved than hurt. Because what on earth would I — could I — tell him?

This morning, we did speak, about Clare and Patrick, but it was brief and acrimonious. I annoyed him, he walked out of the bedroom, and I’ve been avoiding him since.

Our relationship is unravelling obviously now, and at speed, thought Darrell, and all I’m doing is watching it, like a disinterested spectator. It’s not good enough — I know that — especially as I’ve been the one most at fault. But being the first to speak, to broach the subject that all is not well, where will that lead? I can only see it heading to recriminations, blame and failure. My failure.

I’m simply not brave enough to face that, she thought. I’m not brave enough to make a decision about Marcus, either, even though I know full well what it should be. That’s why I’m sitting here, doing my best to avoid everything and everyone, until I’m forced to do otherwise, forced once and for all to act.

Darrell became aware that she had not yet responded to Michelle. Good thing Michelle’s perfectly capable of carrying on this conversation without me, she thought.

But then Michelle said, ‘Did you catch up with sexy Marcus? I can’t believe he wouldn’t come with us to Milan.’

Darrell dithered frantically. Should she lie? No one had seen her leave with Marcus, nor come back. Oh shit. Except Charlotte …

‘I saw him.’ Darrell settled for a half-truth. ‘But I’m pretty sure he won’t visit again.’

‘Why in tarnation not? What are we? Chopped liverio?’

Michelle, to Darrell’s alarm, seemed genuinely interested. Usually, all she wants is to talk about herself, Darrell thought. Why now of all times, plagues upon her, does she want to hear about me?

‘Um,’ Darrell began, ‘I don’t know. He’s busy, I guess.’

Michelle was staring at her with uncomfortable intensity. ‘You seem reluctant to share news of him. Don’t tell me he tried one on, Italian-style?’ she said. ‘Offered to slip you the salami? Make the whoopio?’

‘No!’ Darrell knew her cheeks were flaming, and cursed her inability to remain unflustered. ‘Of course not! Don’t be stupid!’

‘Wow,’ said Michelle. ‘You protesteth muchly, like bitchface Gertrude in Hamlet. Hit a nerve, did I?’

‘You know how easy I am to wind up!’ said Darrell. ‘It was nothing like that!’

Which is the truth, she thought. What it was like, however, is harder to say. No, not hard. Utterly impossible.

‘If I weren’t married to Chad, or if I were married to someone less perfect and godlike, I’d jump sexy Marcus in a nanosecond,’ said Michelle. ‘I can completely understand now why you were obsessed with him. At the time, I just assumed you were mentally unhinged.’

‘I was,’ said Darrell. ‘A little. I hadn’t fully gotten over Tom’s death.’

‘And Marcus filled a gap, so to speak?’

‘Not really,’ said Darrell. ‘But, as you know, I have an active imagination.’

‘Good thing you snaffled Anselo, then,’ said Michelle. ‘He’s the right stuff. Solid. A man you can rely on.’

Darrell was grateful for the sounds of childish voices that made Michelle turn away. Harry was running across the grass towards them, behind him Chad, smiling and carrying Rosie, and Patrick, considerably less cheerful, carrying Tom.

Michelle turned back to Darrell and pulled a quick face. ‘God, look at him. The poor sod. If I start being my usual tactless self, can you shove a baby wipe in my mouth? I don’t think I could cope if I made a man that size cry.’

I’m glad she didn’t ask where my own husband is, thought Darrell. I’m glad her family has turned up to distract her. And if I play it right, not one of them will notice if I quietly slip away.

24

Anselo sat at the kitchen table, watching Charlotte tidy away the children’s breakfast things, and wondering how he could trick her into telling him what his wife had been up to during the two days he’d spent in Milan. And who she’d been up to it with, he added mentally. I have my suspicions, but then again, isn’t that just my nature?

He couldn’t ask Charlotte outright, because that would make him look like an idiot loser and, if his suspicions were indeed correct, a cuckold. One marriage on the rocks is probably enough for now, thought Anselo. I don’t need to make it a double.

Ironically, he thought, it was this morning’s argument between Patrick and Clare, the key points of which had been audible to everyone, that had led he and Darrell to have their first exchange in days that comprised more than two or three words.

Anselo had been in the ensuite when Clare had yelled at Patrick that he was an arsehole. He’d popped his head out and caught the eye of Darrell, sitting up in bed, looking shocked. They’d stared at each other while the yelling continued, and Anselo had seen Darrell’s expression change from shock to a kind of puzzled pain, as if she’d just overheard someone she’d thought a good friend say something nasty about her. She’d flinched when Clare had slammed the front door and, when they’d heard the car drive off, she’d looked down to her hands, which Anselo could see she’d cupped together, fingers twisted, nails digging into her palms.

‘I guess we’ll be sharing the Peugeot with Patrick and Tom,’ she’d said.

‘You don’t think she’ll be back?’

Darrell had looked up at Anselo again. ‘Clare doesn’t like to fail.’

‘So she’ll expect Patrick to go after her, and make him beg and grovel for forgiveness? Typical.’

Darrell had frowned. ‘I’m not so sure, given how he acted yesterday, sending Charlotte off like that, making Clare look after Tom. Don’t you think that’s what the argument was about? That he’s not prepared to compromise?’

‘What are you saying?’ Anselo found her whole attitude intensely irritating. ‘That’s it for them? Finito? Next stop, divorce? What about Tom?’

‘Are children still used as an excuse to hold failing marriages together?’

Anselo had graduated from irritated to pissed-off. ‘One argument is hardly a failed marriage. Jesus, you can be a fucking doom merchant sometimes.’

Darrell’s eyes had widened, but all she did was blink a couple of times, and then look back down at her fingers and dig her nails in some more. Anselo had had enough. He’d got dressed and out of the bedroom as quickly as possible.

And now I’m in the kitchen, he thought, trying to figure out a way to get intel on her, on my own wife, because apart from that unsatisfactory conversation, she and I haven’t talked.

I was right in saying one argument doesn’t make a failed marriage, he told himself. It’s the thousand tiny slights and stored-up resentments that do the real damage.

‘May I offer you a cup of coffee?’

Charlotte had finished tidying and was now smiling at him. She was looking especially radiant this morning, thought Anselo. Her prettiness was distinctively English, he felt. It brought to mind fruit puddings and cream and the mellow luminosity of the countryside on a perfect crisp autumn day. She had on a fifties-style full-skirted cotton dress, with a print of pink and red roses on a white background. Anselo could not recall ever seeing Charlotte wear trousers. Dresses and cardigans, he thought, that’s Charlotte’s style. Feminine and pretty and sexy. Which was ironic, considering her personality was more akin to the kind of woman who breeds terriers and who wears scratchy tweed and men’s brogues and has stout black hairs sprouting from her chin.

Perhaps that’s a lesson for me that I shouldn’t worry so much about how people judge my appearance, Anselo thought; that people actually care more about what’s inside. Trouble is, I doubt what’s inside me right now is in any way appealing. Right now, the seventh circle of hell could not churn any more black and noxiously.

Charlotte was waiting for a reply. With an effort, Anselo returned her smile. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Coffee would be great.’

As she busied herself with the stovetop espresso maker, Anselo knew that if he wanted information out of her, it was now or never. His suspicions had been simmering away for so long, he could almost convince himself that it’d be a relief to have them confirmed.

‘So what did you get up to yesterday?’ he forced himself to say. ‘On your day off?’

Charlotte paused, a spoonful of ground coffee in her hand. ‘As it happens, I went for a walk. Up in the hills behind the village.’

‘A walk?’

She gave him a look. ‘It’s an activity in which you put one foot in front of the other, and eventually, depending on your stamina, reach a destination.’

‘Thanks, yeah, I got it,’ said Anselo. ‘How was it?’

Charlotte’s smile was almost secretive, he thought, as if she’s remembering a private pleasure. Anselo felt a pang of envy. Lucky fucking Charlotte. I wish my recent memories made me smile like that.

‘Energetic but highly enjoyable,’ she said. ‘I achieved quite dizzying heights. It’s a beautiful walk,’ she added, placing the espresso-maker on the gas. ‘If you ever feel a need to stretch your legs, I can highly recommend it.’

Stretch them? thought Anselo. I want to run and run until they refuse to take me one step further.

‘Got any other ideas for stuff to do?’ He cast a lure and hoped. ‘You and Darrell seem to have the kid-friendly expeditions nailed.’

The espresso-maker bubbled, and Anselo had to wait as Charlotte lifted it from the element, and poured the coffee into two cups. When she handed him his, and pulled out a chair opposite, her expression was thoughtful.

‘I’m not sure I’d have been keen to take a baby on such a long drive,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have the tolerance to remain cooped up in a car with the older children for more than fifteen minutes.’

Charlotte paused to sip her coffee, and Anselo held his breath.

‘However, I suspect,’ she pursed her mouth, ‘that our Mr Reynolds’ standards are more relaxed than most.’

Bingo, thought Anselo. Fucking bingo!

But his quick hot burst of triumph was smothered as the churning noxiousness rose from his gut and filled him up, dark and relentless, until he could hardly see.

Fuck, he thought. My wife took a long drive with douchebag Reynolds and did not think to mention it once. Not that I asked, but still — that’s a pretty fucking big omission.

Whose idea had it been? It had to be the douchebag’s, Anselo decided, but how the fuck did he persuade her? Darrell had balked at taking Cosmo in a cab to London Bridge to get the train to Gatwick, he recalled, and that was a ride of no more than forty minutes. What had Marcus fucking Reynolds said to his wife, Anselo wondered, that made her OK about taking a long drive — and how fucking long, exactly — on Italian roads? What had he offered her? A quick grope in a lay-by while Cosmo was asleep? His hand in her jeans? In return for her mouth around his—

Anselo became aware that Charlotte was giving him an odd look, part wary, part questioning. My expression must have turned murderous, thought Anselo. And for good reason. If Marcus Reynolds walked in here right now, I would punch him to the floor and kick him to death. And then I would revive him by stabbing a giant adrenaline injection right in his heart and kick him to death all over again.

Anselo took a deep breath.

‘You know what?’ he said to Charlotte. ‘That walk sounds like a fucking good idea.’

But I won’t be walking up any hill, Anselo thought, unless it’s a metaphorical one. I’m headed straight to the garden to find my wife.

Charlotte was rather thankful when Anselo left the kitchen. Dear God, she thought, I feared the man was on the brink of an aneurism. She knew she’d taken a risk telling him about Darrell’s day trip with Marcus, but so long as Anselo did not drop dead of a brain haemorrhage, it was all part of the plan.

Last night, she’d slept surprisingly soundly — well, perhaps not so surprisingly, considering yesterday’s sustained and energetic exercise — and had woken clear-headed and filled with resolve. The best way to get back into Patrick’s favour, she’d decided, was to reconcile Darrell and Anselo. And the best way to do that was to make damn sure the pernicious influence of Marcus Reynolds was comprehensively neutralised. In telling Anselo what his wife had been up to, Charlotte intended to provoke a showdown between the two men. She did not have complete faith that Anselo would come out the winner, but she assumed that Patrick would always side with family, which would make it two against one (or, more accurately, given that it was Patrick, two-and-a-half). And to make the plan absolutely watertight, she intended to visit Marcus herself and sleep with him. Charlotte had no doubt he’d agree — the man was an inveterate fanny-hound — and then she would have all she needed to dash any hopes Darrell might foolishly be harbouring about the man’s commitment and integrity.

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 sniffed. 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?’

‘Ran 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.

‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ said Ned. ‘No man likes t’ feel trapped.’

Darrell saw him hesitate, frown, and then shake his head as if cross with himself. When he looked over Cosmo’s head to Darrell, she could see a heightened colour in his face. He’s embarrassed, she thought, intrigued. Why?

‘I don’t suppose,’ he began, ‘tha knows where Charlotte is?’

‘Charlotte?’

Darrell couldn’t help the squeak of surprise, and cursed herself, as the scowl instantly reappeared on Ned’s face.

‘Charlotte’s out with the children and the others,’ she said as breezily as she could. ‘She’ll be back fairly soon, I imagine.’

Ned gave a single nod, and, although her mind was churning with curiosity, Darrell felt it would not be tactful — or wise — to press him.

‘You’re good with babies,’ said Darrell instead, with a smile. ‘Never been tempted to have your own?’

‘Course,’ said Ned. Colour flared again in his face and he dropped his gaze to the top of Cosmo’s head. ‘Need a wife first, though.’

God, thought Darrell, I sincerely hope he doesn’t have designs in that direction for Charlotte. My firm impression is that Charlotte would be no more keen to breed than to don a pair of denim overalls and jig along to ‘Come On, Eileen’.

As if on cue, the peal of a child’s voice — Harry, thought Darrell — sounded from the lawn below. Ned stiffened, and glanced over his shoulder.

Looking back, he caught Darrell’s eye, and she saw his mouth tighten with what, this time, was unmistakably anger.

‘Better go,’ he said, and stood, holding Cosmo out for her to take. ‘Can’t be caught near t’ innocents.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Darrell frowned as she gathered Cosmo into her arms.

Ned picked up the hedge clippers, and inspected the blades. ‘Tha Mr King has forbidden us contact wi’ t’ children.’

‘What?’ Darrell was incredulous. ‘Surely not? That’s ridiculous!’

Ned took the empty mug in his other hand, and stood, feet apart, arms slightly out from his sides — as though he’s expecting someone to take him on, thought Darrell. Gazing up at his bulk, she couldn’t imagine anyone who would not live to regret such a decision. Assuming they lived, of course.

The look he was giving her was challenging and, Darrell observed, somewhat chilly.

I’m tarred with the brush of Patrick, she thought. Whatever happened between them, all those years ago, it’s no less raw for Ned today.

‘I’ll have a word with him,’ said Darrell, sounding more confident than she felt. ‘He’s being ridiculous.’

That’s right, a little voice said. You sort it out for everyone else. That’s the perfect way to avoid sorting anything out in your own life, isn’t it?

Shut up, she told the voice. Shut up and go a long way away. All the way to infinity.

‘And you can see Cosmo whenever you like,’ she added defiantly.

A screech sounded from the lawn that would have made a harpy bow down in worshipful awe.

‘Who needs anthrax?’ said Darrell. ‘Just mail a recording of Rosie, and all your demands will be met in an instant.’

To her relief, she heard Ned chuckle.

‘She’s a firecracker, all right,’ he said. ‘Kind they had t’ ban.’

He nudged with his toe a clod of moss growing between the flagstones.

‘Better go,’ he said, and bent to smile at Cosmo, who gave a happy shout, and almost launched himself out of Darrell’s arms.

‘Jeepers,’ she said. ‘When did you suddenly learn to move that fast?’

‘He’ll be crawling in no time,’ said Ned. ‘Then you’ll really know what speed is.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Darrell felt the blush rise in her cheeks, but pressed on regardless. ‘Sorry that we didn’t meet under easier circumstances.’

‘’Tisn’t tha fault,’ he said.

And he nodded once, and walked off back down the steps.

I am sorry, thought Darrell. Sorry life hasn’t been kinder to you. Sorry you’re not a father when you so clearly would be brilliant at it. Sorry that Patrick has been such an incomprehensible arse— What was he thinking? she wondered.

I’m sorry, too, she thought. Sorry that Anselo and I have gone past any possibility of talking like two people who care, and are now fighting like two people on the brink of an ugly divorce.

Not that we really fought as such, thought Darrell. I sat and listened, while Anselo let fly. Let’s face it, my position was hardly defensible, and I felt that trying to explain, or even apologise, would only have made things worse.

But, oh, thought Darrell, I wish he’d given me just one chance to tell him how I’ve been feeling, to tell him what’s been going on in my stupid head for so many months. All the things I should have told him long before now. If I had, perhaps we wouldn’t be at this terminus, this last stop where everyone has get off.

Do I really think he’d go through with it? Darrell asked herself. Do I really think that, if we parted, he’d fight me for our child? He was angry this morning, angrier than I’ve ever seen him, and you say things you don’t mean when you’re angry, don’t you? I have to believe he didn’t mean it. I have to believe that he would never do anything that drastic, she thought. And surely even if he tried, his family — Patrick and Jenico — would stop him? Surely?

You don’t know that, the voice from before said. Only he and Cosmo truly belong to the family — you’re only one of them by marriage. So perhaps you’d better accept that there’s a strong possibility you’ll lose your husband and your child, and you’d better accept that it’s mostly your fault. If there’d ever been a chance to save your marriage, you blew it by spending that day with Marcus. It was not entirely innocent, and you knew that, yet you did it anyway.

I suspected before that I’d act only if I was forced to, thought Darrell, and I can hardly ignore the fact that the moment of crisis has well and truly arrived. But I’m not at all sure I trust myself to act in the right way, she thought. Nor do I have the first and faintest clue about which way might possibly be the right one.

26

Patrick sat on the bed, still unmade, and stared at Clare’s clothes, still strewn in the corner. He’d excused himself straight after dinner, which he’d spent in the company of Michelle, Chad and Charlotte — cheerful — and Darrell and Anselo — not very. Patrick knew something was now badly awry between them, but he could not summon an ounce of energy to ask them about it. Some head of the family I’ll make, he thought. Everyone else’s problems get buried under my own steaming pile of Richards.

The mobile phone in his hand told him it was ten past nine at night. London was an hour behind. Eight o’clock, thought Patrick. Would she be back by now?

There was only one way to find out. He pressed the word on the phone’s screen that said ‘Home’.

It rang and rang, until the voice message kicked in. Clare’s voice: ‘We can’t take your call. Leave a message.’ Her tone added an unsaid, ‘if you really must’. Patrick did not leave a message.

He’d resisted calling her mobile because he assumed she wouldn’t have answered any calls from him, and he did not want to feel the hurt and humiliation he knew this would inevitably provoke.

Too much of that and I’ll get angry, he thought, and then I may as well just mail the divorce lawyer a bunch of signed blank cheques.

This has all happened because I got angry, Patrick thought. I got angry at myself for being useless and aimless and weak. But I took it out on Clare, and that was a huge mistake.

My judgement is shot. I suspect it always has been, and I’ve just, up until now, got lucky.

When I was a lad, thought Patrick, I had no sense of consequences. Absolutely none. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, without stopping for even a nanosecond to think about what might happen as a result. I lived entirely in the present — stole and fought and drunk and fucked without looking forward an instant, and most certainly without looking back.

Perhaps that’s why I did get lucky, for the most part, he thought. I managed to avoid seeing the mess I’d made, because I never looked over my shoulder. That’s what happened with Julie Marsh; I never saw because I never looked. I never looked because it never once occurred to me to do so.

Even prison didn’t really make me wise to consequences. It had simply been an experience I had no wish to repeat, and all that did was reduce (in my thick head) the options I’d previously considered freely available to me. I could no longer steal and I had to be more careful about who I chose to fight, but as far as I was concerned, I could still drink and fuck with abandon. It was only when I got my first proper job that I chose to put the limiters on drinking, too, thought Patrick. I chose only because I liked making money better. Was that the one sensible decision I made? he wondered. Did I even know it was sensible? Or did I just do what suited me best at the time, and the fact it was also a smart thing was pure coincidence? Pure luck?

Jenico used to tell me I was lucky, thought Patrick. He didn’t mean it as a compliment.

Shit, thought Patrick. Jenico.

The prospect of telling his uncle what had happened filled Patrick with sick dread. Marriage failure was hardly uncommon in the Herne–King clan — Patrick’s own parents were a prime example — and Jenico accepted that not all the clan even wanted to be married. Aishe, Anselo’s sister, was a single mother, and Jenico’s youngest daughter was currently living with her partner, and showing no desire to emulate her sisters and walk down the aisle in a dress with a price tag that made your eyes water almost as much as prolonged retinal exposure to the dress itself.

No, admitting that his marriage was in trouble was not the issue for Patrick. What he dreaded was admitting that it was all his fault.

I fucked it up, thought Patrick, which I imagine, to Jenico, will seem like déjà vu all over again.

When I was young, Patrick thought, I never appreciated how much effort Jenico put into being a surrogate father to me. By the time I was rampaging around as a teenager, Jenico had little kids of his own, not to mention a sense of duty to all the other cousins. Anselo was one of five, for starters, Patrick thought, and when they lost their dad, Jenico stepped in as surrogate father for them as well.

In retrospect, Patrick was amazed Jenico had made any time at all for the ungrateful, resentful, ignorant, selfish shit that he’d been back then. But his uncle had kept at it because he’d felt, as the head of the family, that it was his duty. He’d kept at it because there were no other grown-up men around — the family had lost them all through desertion and death.

He put the effort in, Patrick thought, because he wanted me, one day, to step up and be a man, become one of the family’s leaders. He thinks that day is soon.

But how can I be the next rom baro? Patrick thought. I might have his size, but I certainly don’t have his stature. A man who splits his family apart through his own stupidity is hardly fit to be a mentor and guardian for all his other relatives.

He ran his thumb over the screen of his phone.

Should I ring her mobile? he thought. Can I handle it if she doesn’t pick up? And what should I do if I can’t get hold of her at all? Fly back with Tom, I suppose. Some holiday I’ve turned this into.

Patrick scrolled down his list of contacts until he hit ‘K’. Clare King, he thought. He’d been chuffed beyond belief that she’d taken his name when they married, because she was so fiercely independent. He’d never taken it as read that she’d want to give up her maiden name, and it had felt to him like an honour that she’d chosen to do so.

His thumb hovered over her name on the screen. Then he sucked in a deep breath and pressed down.

It went straight to voicemail: ‘Clare King. Leave a message.’ Patrick hesitated, cursed himself for it, and spoke.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I fucked up. I miss you. Call me.’ In the nick of time, he added, ‘Please.’

He hung up, and cursed himself anew for being an inarticulate fuckwit. He hadn’t even managed to say he loved her.

It was uncomfortable sitting on the bed, so he lay down on it instead, on top of the covers. He could smell Clare’s scent on the pillows. She had worn the same perfume ever since he’d met her. It was called Fracas, a name that when he’d first learned it had made him shout with laughter.

‘Yes, well,’ Clare had said dryly, ‘it was either that or Poison by Christian Dior.’

Patrick turned his head to inhale the scent. When he and Clare were first going out, he only had to catch a whiff of it to feel the stirrings of an erection.

Now, he thought, all I feel is an urge to fucking cry. But grown men don’t cry. They stay strong, because others depend on them.

There was a quiet tap on the bedroom door, and Patrick’s heart sank. Fuck it, he thought, I’ve had enough of people today, trying to be kind, trying to be careful. Just leave me alone. How else will I fucking get used to it?

But the door opened, and Charlotte appeared in the gap. Not caring if his reaction was obvious, Patrick heaved a sigh, and hauled himself back into a sitting position.

‘I’m sorry for intruding,’ said Charlotte. ‘I wanted to see if there was anything I could do.’

Her gaze went to the pile of clothes in the corner. ‘Such as tidying the room.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about the room,’ said Patrick. ‘It can stay like this till doomsday for all I care.’

He saw Charlotte’s expression flicker, but she was back to her usual cool self in prompt fashion.

‘Well, I suppose that is what the cleaner is for,’ she said. ‘Even though all I’ve seen her do to date is rearrange the dust with one of those feathered things that looks as though it spends its off days draped round the neck of Gina Lollobrigida.’

She met Patrick’s eye. ‘However, said cleaner is not due for another two days. I thought you might prefer not to wait until then.’

‘Charlotte,’ said Patrick wearily, ‘I don’t care what state the room is in. I seriously fucking don’t.’

When she hesitated, he wanted to scream out loud. Do I actually have to tell her to fuck off? he wondered.

‘Very well.’ She started to back out the door, and Patrick silently cheered.

‘But if there is anything you need,’ she said, still not quite out of the room, ‘anything at all, I’ll be here.’

I need my wife, thought Patrick. I need a son who speaks. I need a whole new modus operandi, because the one I’m currently using is as fucked as an old Austin Princess.

Can you give me all that, Charlotte? he thought. Not fucking likely.

But then he noticed that her hand was not just holding the doorknob, but gripping it so tightly that her knuckles were protruding. It’s taken some nerve for her to come up and talk to me, he suddenly realised. And I’m being a gold-medal arsehole.

‘Thanks for the offer, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘But the best thing you can do for me is stay away. I need to stew in my own juices for a while yet. Best leave me to it.’

‘What about the others?’ she said. ‘Shall I keep them away, too?’

Christ, she’s determined, thought Patrick, and he didn’t know whether to be pissed off or admiring.

‘Be the sphinx outside my temple?’ he said with a faint grin.

‘Someone told me once that I was a lioness,’ said Charlotte. There was not a trace of a smile on her face. ‘Perhaps that’s my true calling? But I’ve had to wait for a person who mattered enough to me to pursue it.’

Then she said, ‘Do you want to take Tom down to breakfast tomorrow?’

Thrown by her sudden change of direction, Patrick took a moment to register her question.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I would.’

‘Then I’ll make sure he knows to come to your room,’ she said. ‘Good night.’

And without waiting for a reply, she closed the door.

Patrick blinked. Had he misheard her? Had Charlotte really said he mattered to her?

She won’t mean it like that, he told himself. She’s being loyal, that’s all. Like she was when she put up with me offloading all my problems on her the other day. Another example of me being weak, he thought, and felt a bilious rush of self-loathing. And proof that Charlotte could never have feelings for me other than a sense of duty and obligation. Which to be frank, thought Patrick, I have done fuck-all to really deserve.

She’s a good girl, Charlotte, he thought. Under that cool, efficient exterior, she has a good heart. If she ever decides to get married, I hope she chooses a bloke who genuinely appreciates her, who knows the true measure of her worth. The kind of bloke Clare should have chosen, he thought bitterly, instead of a knuckleheaded fuckwit like me.

He remembered that Clare and he had once talked about whether they would get married again if the other one died.

‘I’d be happy for you to remarry,’ she’d said. ‘Just as long as you never forget that every woman who came before me was a mistake, and any woman who comes after is a downgrade.’

She’d been smiling at the time, but Patrick knew she’d meant every word.

I couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but Clare. And, fucking hell, I couldn’t handle seeing her with anyone else but me.

The idea of it bloomed in his head like a toxic fungus — Clare in another man’s bed, in another man’s house, perhaps even with another man’s child.

And I know just what kind of bloke he’d be, thought Patrick. Rich, handsome, educated, successful and well-connected — a score of five to my feeble two. He’d know a good wine from a bad, whereas anything short of wood alcohol is fine by me. He’d bring Clare breakfast in bed, of freshly squeezed orange juice and eggs Benedict that he’d whipped up himself on the Aga. He’d be able to complete the Times crossword. And he’d undoubtedly know the correct fucking way to pronounce quinoa.

His mobile phone was on the bed. Patrick snatched it up and stabbed his finger on the screen.

‘Clare King,’ said her voicemail. Patrick disconnected before he was told once again to leave a message.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Patrick craved to hurl the phone through the window and hear the glass smash to smithereens. Instead, he drove his fist into the pillows, again and again until the sound of splintering wood brought him to a sudden halt. Behind the pillows was a padded headboard, and one of the struts connecting it to the bed was now cracked.

There you go, thought Patrick. More mindless destruction caused by yours truly. I should drive into Como and raise hell on a drunken spree. Then they can lock me away for the good of everyone.

Everyone except Tom, he thought, and his anger was subsumed into a morass of sadness. I’m all he’s got now. The poor, unfortunate little sod is stuck with me, and what good will that do him? I might as well leave him on the doorstep of the village church; can’t do his psyche any more harm than staying with me. And he’ll get to grow up Catholic, thought Patrick. The one religion where no matter how badly you fuck it up, you have a right to be forgiven.

I doubt Clare will forgive me. I doubt Tom will either, down the track, when someone tells him the truth about why his parents aren’t together.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Patrick chastised himself. You can self-flagellate all you like, and it will make sod-all difference. Get a grip, he ordered. Grow up. Be a man.

He scrolled through the contacts on his phone until he came to H. Then he touched the screen and made a call to Jenico Herne.

27

Charlotte intercepted Anselo in the hallway the next morning, as he was heading towards the front door. She made it appear a coincidence, but she’d been on the lookout since rising with the children an hour earlier. Charlotte wished to find out how her plan was progressing, but knew that eliciting information would require subtlety and patience on her part, Anselo generally being as garrulous and forthcoming as a slab of granite atop a tomb.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘All well?’

Anselo gave her a look that suggested he’d be having more fun if he were on fire.

He said, ‘Peachy. Thanks.’ And took another step towards the door.

‘Will you be taking the car?’ said Charlotte. An unnecessary question, she knew, as the car keys were in his hand.

Anselo halted, spine stiff with reluctance. He wants to escape as quickly as possible, thought Charlotte. Well, we all have to get used to disappointment.

‘Why?’ said Anselo. ‘Do you need it?’

‘There was talk of a trip to Cadenabbia,’ said Charlotte. ‘The Villa Carlotta has some very fine gardens, which we feel are large enough for us to safely release Rosie.’ She gave Anselo her most gracious ‘we’ll make the best of it’ smile. ‘But I’m sure the children won’t be too upset if we postpone until tomorrow.’

Poor man, she thought. He’s visibly sagging with resignation. Oh well. Needs must. If I let him escape now, I’ll never get anything out of him.

‘Right.’ Anselo stared down at the car keys for a moment, as though willing another set belonging to a new car to magically appear, before replacing them slowly on the hall table.

‘Sorry,’ said Charlotte. ‘Were you going somewhere in particular?’

A wry smile came and went. Anselo shook his head. ‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘Which pretty much sums up my life.’

Charlotte felt a genuine pang of sympathy for him. Guarded and emotionally constipated Anselo might be, she thought, but he was fundamentally decent. And he was Patrick’s cousin and business partner, which placed him squarely on the right team. Unlike Marcus Reynolds, who could not be less on-side if his middle name were Quisling.

Charlotte placed a hand briefly on Anselo’s arm. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

He gave a short, surprised laugh. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Unless you happen to know the address of Mr fucking Marcus Reynolds?’

Excellent, thought Charlotte. I am the grand master and the pieces are well placed. Now, I just have to decide my next move. Do I play the knight, Anselo? Or do I wield the ultimate weapon, the queen, aka yours truly?

The risk of a mano-a-mano showdown, she decided, was that men found it tricky to accept defeat. A bloodied nose was very likely to lead directly to bloody-mindedness. And the last thing she wanted was Marcus feeling forced to make some kind of dramatic ultimatum. Women like Darrell seemed to be notorious suckers for the last-ditch ‘I’ll expire without you’ type of emotional plea.

No, Charlotte concluded. Queen’s move. But I will throw Anselo a bone.

‘I don’t have his address,’ she said to him, ‘but I guarantee I’ll be able to find it.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Anselo.

Charlotte smiled. ‘Leave it to me.’

Charlotte had not lied. Though she had been in Marcus Reynolds apartment, she had no idea where it was, other than on a hill overlooking Lake Como. As the lake was surrounded by hills packed with houses, this hardly narrowed it down.

She solved the problem by phoning art galleries in Milan until she found the one owned by Marcus’ sister. Then she informed the person (who, fortunately, spoke perfect English) that she was the personal assistant of an old boyfriend of Gus’, who was in town and wished to call on her. This, not surprisingly given Gus’ sexual orientation, caused a little confusion, but the address was imparted nonetheless. It will give them something to gossip about, thought Charlotte, which will relieve the tedium of being forced to stare all day at undoubtedly awful examples of modern art.

Now all that remained was the issue of transport. Charlotte knew that she was shirking her duty by hiving off to Como, but she had time to think of a plausible excuse. Not that anyone would care — Patrick, Anselo and Darrell were barely functioning. Michelle might protest, but Chad would smooth the waters. Besides, Charlotte had had only one day off in three weeks. And she hadn’t even wanted to take that one!

But she didn’t intend to be completely selfish; she would not deprive them of a car. There was bound to be a bus she could catch from the village. Failing that, a taxi. Failing that — well, Charlotte was sure she’d think of something.

She could hear that Chad had come into the kitchen. Good, she thought. He’ll look after the children. She grabbed her bag and slipped out.

‘Grazie! Grazie!’

Charlotte waved as the little old man in the Fiat Panda tipped his hat and pulled back out into the traffic without looking, causing a rider on a Ducati motorbike to do such a rapid braking stop that his back wheel lifted into the air. There had been no bus due in the village any time soon, and no taxis, so Charlotte had approached the gaggle of old men on the lakefront. Alfonso or Affonso (hard to distinguish through the accent) had been about to deliver his eggs to an organic food shop in Como. At the speed he drove, Charlotte thought, there would never be an issue with breakage. The Ducati rider was not the first motorist this morning to be made apoplectic by the ancient egg-man.

Gus’ apartment was in a complex no more than three storeys tall, nestled in a patch of greenery. There was a panel of bells and a speaker system inside the front entrance. Charlotte pressed the correct bell and waited for the speaker to crackle. It stayed mute, so she pressed the bell again, for longer this time. Still no answer.

Bother, thought Charlotte, he’s not there. Or if he is, he’s refusing to answer, most likely because he is sleeping off the excesses of the night before.

Charlotte stood in front of the sliding glass doors that would let her in to the apartments, but they refused to budge. She waited for several minutes in the hope that someone would come, and she could persuade them to flout security. But no one came.

Damn it, thought Charlotte, I refuse to give up. And she pushed her thumb against Gus’ bell and left it there.

It had been at least three full minutes, and Charlotte’s thumb was starting to ache, when, finally, the speaker crackled and an intensely pissed-off voice yelled, ‘Vai a cagare!’

‘Marcus, it’s me. Charlotte.’

There was a pause. ‘It’s not an ideal time,’ he said.

‘Let me in,’ said Charlotte. ‘Or you will be sorry.’

‘Hell,’ she heard him mutter. The speaker went dead.

Charlotte waited, fingers crossed. Then the glass doors went click. Not trusting the lift, Charlotte took the stairs. Gus’ apartment, she recalled, was at the end of the top-floor hall, and she hastened to it before he changed his mind.

There was another bell by the door. After what seemed an age, she heard the sound of a security chain being loosened and locks unbolted. Marcus opened the door.

‘My, my.’ Charlotte pursed her mouth. ‘I must say — you’ve looked better.’

Marcus was unshaven, and wearing a shirt that desperately needed washing. He desperately needs washing, thought Charlotte. He smells like the cloth a publican has just used to wipe the bar, the floor and, finally, the ashtrays.

‘I wasn’t expecting company,’ he said.

‘You should have been,’ said Charlotte. ‘Misery loves company.’

‘Very funny.’

Charlotte stood, waiting. Marcus sighed, and opened up the door. ‘Come in, and take your chances. I refuse to apologise for the state of the place.’

The apartment wasn’t quite as Charlotte remembered it. It was still stylish, with some very nice designer pieces. But it was now also a shambles squalid enough to rival Mr Krook’s in Bleak House. Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink and bench (Arclinea, Antonio Citterio). The stovetop (Bertazzoni) was encrusted with what looked like charred baked beans. Rubbish overflowed from the bin (Brabantia, matt white), and there was a pile of empty beer bottles at its foot, and another on the floor by the sofa (Bill by Hannes Wettstein, if she wasn’t mistaken). Someone, Marcus she assumed, had turned that second pile into a little pyramid.

The only thing that appeared to have remained unscathed was the large black-and-white photograph of the hairless pudenda.

Charlotte gestured to it. ‘I presume that’s Gus?’

Marcus had flopped back down on the sofa, head on a pile of cushions, legs outstretched.

‘It isn’t,’ he said. ‘Gus refuses to wax. She says any lover who can’t deal with cunt hairs in her mouth is not adventurous enough.’

He picked up the cigarette that was in the ashtray on the floor beside him, and took a long drag. Charlotte had not previously smelled any trace of nicotine on Marcus, but she assumed chain smoking was de rigueur if one wanted to attain a state of true squalor.

Charlotte approached the sofa, but decided against sitting on it due to the stains. She could not tell what had made the stains, and had no inclination to investigate further.

‘I realise the apartment has had over a fortnight to go downhill since I was last here,’ she said, ‘but how did you reach this level of personal seediness in only a few days? You were looking reasonably dapper when you came to collect Mrs Anselo Herne.’

Marcus gave her a sideways look that wasn’t entirely friendly.

‘Sheer hard work and determination,’ he said. ‘It’s a strict regimen that involves beer, cigarettes, a lot of sensationally mediocre television, and the occasional wank. I intend to write a self-help book based on it. I’ll make millions.’

‘And are you simply bored?’ Charlotte said. ‘Or is there a more compelling reason for it?’

Instead of replying, Marcus got up and walked to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. He flicked off the top, and came back to the sofa, and resumed lying on it, drinking and smoking.

Charlotte decided that the far end of the sofa was relatively sanitary, so she perched on its edge.

Seducing Marcus might help achieve my goal, she thought, but given his listless and frankly disgusting state, it would be deeply unsatisfactory.

Charlotte knew that the secret to being a good tactician was the ability to adapt on the fly, so she quickly weighed her other options and decided, for expediency’s sake, to go for a full-frontal attack.

‘Why are you doing your best to destroy Darrell’s marriage?’

Marcus’ cigarette smoke went down the wrong way, and Charlotte had to wait while he coughed up what sounded like an entire lung and a good portion of spleen.

‘Who were you in a past life?’ he said, eyes streaming. ‘Himmler?’

‘You are causing a lot of angst,’ said Charlotte. ‘And I am suspicious of your motives.’

‘Are you?’ said Marcus. ‘And what precisely are your motives here?’

Charlotte had not expected that. She gave thanks, not for the first time, for her ability to remain as impassive as the Mona Lisa, except without even a hint of a smile.

‘Darrell and Anselo have a new baby,’ she said. ‘It’s a time that puts every marriage under stress, and I feel you are taking advantage of that. You’re putting pressure on Darrell when she’s at her most vulnerable.’

‘Himmler crossed with Mary Whitehouse,’ said Marcus. ‘Stemming the tide of turpitude, one transgressor at a time.’

He took a pointed drag on his cigarette. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘this whole series of events — meeting you, meeting Michelle, seeing Darrell again — only reinforces my theory that fate forces us to live within ever-decreasing circles. Like a noose tightening around one’s neck.’

‘Full marks for avoiding the subject,’ said Charlotte. ‘But I won’t be diverted.’

Marcus stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray, and ferreted under the sofa for the pack, which turned out to be empty. He crumpled it in his hand and threw it with force across the room. It hit a Kartell table lamp, which wobbled but, to Marcus’ obvious annoyance, remained upright.

I’ve pushed him as far as I dare, thought Charlotte. Time to take the steel out of the gloves.

‘I think you should leave Darrell alone,’ she said gently. ‘It will hurt too many people. People I care about.’

Marcus stared out the window, which had, Charlotte observed, an extremely fine view of the lake.

‘And what if I were in love with her?’ he said.

Charlotte resisted an impulse to roll her eyes. Love? What did Marcus Reynolds, world-champion shagmeister, know about love?

‘You’ll still hurt her,’ she said, and gave the knife a twist. ‘You’ll hurt Cosmo, too.’

‘Gawd,’ he muttered. He laid his head on the back of the sofa, and covered his face with his hands.

Charlotte felt a quick surge of triumph, but warned herself not to celebrate prematurely. Many a slip twixt cup and lip and all that. A bowed Marcus Reynolds was not necessarily beaten.

He lifted his hands and sat up. ‘Yes, all right,’ he said wearily. ‘Point taken.’

‘And?’ said Charlotte.

‘And what, for Christ’s sake?’ Marcus demanded. ‘You’ve already flayed all the skin off me. What more do you want?’

‘You’ll leave her alone?’

Marcus gave her a long look.

‘The reason,’ he said eventually, ‘that I’m in this state is that I’ve already convinced myself that Darrell will never, ever say yes to me. Which hurts like a bastard because I’ve also convinced myself that I do love her.’

Horrified, Charlotte interrupted. ‘Are you telling me you’ve already … propositioned Darrell?’

‘Naturally you’d choose a word that makes it sound indecent!’ Marcus was riled. ‘Yes, in short — I have. But before you get out the small crotch-height guillotine, let me make it clear that I will be leaving her alone. Not because of you, but because it’s what I’ve already promised her. I’ll wait here instead, wallowing in self-made filth and pity.’

Charlotte gathered herself and took stock. Marcus had already stated his intentions, which was bad. But Darrell had not yet responded, which meant the situation could still be managed.

I’ll work on Darrell, Charlotte decided; she’s easily swayed. But I’ll keep Marcus on-side; I won’t make any more demands of him. Best if he thinks I’ve accepted things, she thought, best if he thinks I’m no longer a threat. Anselo, too — I’ll have to keep him away, no point in them clashing like stags now. If Marcus felt pressured by either of us, then he might try something foolish, like eloping with Darrell to Dubrovnik.

‘Would you like a hand cleaning up?’ said Charlotte. ‘I can’t do much about the pity, but I can help you with the filth.’

Marcus blinked. ‘Really?’

‘I’ll expect you to do your share, of course.’

He gave her a mock salute. ‘Jawohl, Heinrich.’

Charlotte glanced down at the sofa. ‘Although I think these stains will need professional treatment. What did you spill?’ she said. ‘Or do I not want to know?’

Marcus peered at the yellowy blotches. ‘Looks a bit like urine, doesn’t it? Or it might be beer. As I can’t remember, and have no intention of sniffing it, why don’t we just assume that it’s either of those?’

‘It’s somewhat appalling to leave your sister with a urine-or-beer-stained sofa.’

‘She left me with a toilet blocked by a strap-on dildo when she stayed with me in LA,’ said Marcus. ‘Fortunately, the plumber was a lesbian, too. I let her keep it.’

Charlotte smiled, and not just because she was amused. Marcus was being friendly, and friendly meant the plan was back on track.

And now that I’ve bought some time, Charlotte thought, I can put my focus on the one person who’s really important to me. And to whom I intend to inch closer to each and every day.

28

Anselo was rigid with fury. Adrenaline pumped through every muscle, and he yearned for something to lay into, hard, with both fists. Ideally, that something would be Marcus Reynolds, who had just hung up on him. That action and the conversation that preceded it were the reason Anselo’s anger had risen to a level that gave him new insight into the phrase ‘maddened with rage’. Anselo’s rage was such that his urge to smack something bordered on uncontrolled, and he was beset with glorious visions of berserker-like destruction, wherein he hacked the limbs off a thousand Marcus Reynolds and watched blood spurt in scarlet geysers from a thousand severed arteries.

Well, it’s your own fault, said a voice that sounded a lot like his mother — or possibly one of his aunts. You were the one who decided to throw your weight about. You came down hard on Darrell; acted like a real bully, because only bullies pick on those who aren’t likely to put up a fight. Now that you’ve taken on someone your own size, you should hardly be surprised that they bloodied your nose.

Definitely his mother. Anselo could hear her yelling up the stairs to him, as she used to whenever he retreated to his bedroom. You shouldn’t have sneaked Darrell’s phone, either, she was saying. Sneaks never prosper!

It’s cheats that don’t prosper, Mum, he thought. Trouble is, I’m one of those, too. My karmic balance sheet is so far in the red, my soul is about to be repossessed.

Anselo, still lacking Marcus Reynolds’ address, had suddenly realised that it might be easier to find his phone number. Which he had, in the list of received calls; Darrell didn’t like talking on the phone much, so it wasn’t difficult to work out which was his. Anselo was relieved that she hadn’t yet added the flatworm to her contacts. He knew his own name was in the list because, tragically, he’d double-checked. Darrell had written ‘(Hubby)’ after it, and Anselo had felt his stomach clench with a mix of pleasure and regret. He had very nearly decided not to call, but rather talk to Darrell again, properly this time.

But I wanted to feel like I had some sort of power in this situation, thought Anselo, and that need won out over sense.

He might have handled the conversation better, Anselo decided, if he hadn’t used Darrell’s phone to make the call. In his mind, Anselo’d had a row of measured, cutting demands readied like archers. But Marcus had answered immediately, in a voice full of affection, and with the one word, ‘Angel’, and the only line Anselo, in his fury, could muster was, ‘Stay the fuck away from my wife!’

There’d been a pause, and then Marcus, in quite a different voice, had said, ‘Your wife is her own person, and if she wants me, I will go to her, without hesitation. Your wife is also deeply unhappy, and, if I were you, I’d look closer to home for the cause. You can blame me all you like, but it may pay to ask yourself why she chooses to talk to me, and not to you. And if your dull-witted macho pride still demands satisfaction, then by all means come on over and take a swing. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a genuinely decent laugh.’

And he’d hung up.

Which was why Anselo was now squeezing the phone hard in his fist, rage stampeding through him. It wasn’t only the humiliation, it was the sheer injustice of it! Marcus Reynolds could no more win a fight with Anselo than swim the Channel. How dare he imply that the breakdown with Darrell was Anselo’s fault, when it was Reynolds who was trying to make a move on someone else’s wife? Right now, Anselo was coming up with so many inventive and excruciating ways to hurt Marcus Reynolds, Torquemada would have wept tears of envious joy.

I should take Darrell home right now, Anselo thought. Grab her and Cosmo and hustle them back to England. Leave the liver fluke in the dust. Take charge of the situation.

Throwing your weight about again, in other words, the voice of his mother remarked. You can’t bully people into respecting you, you know.

Yeah, I do know, thought Anselo, as he finally released his hold on Darrell’s phone, and dropped it back into her bag. His grip on it had been so tight that there were red dents in his palm. The stigmata of failure, but at least these marks will disappear. Wish I could say the same for my rampant insecurity. It’s like a fucking hydra, he thought. Think I’ve managed to lop off a head, and two more grow in its place.

Anselo knew that he had not handled things well with Darrell. I did bully her, he thought, and I said stuff to hurt her because I was hurt and wanted to get my own back. I was high-handed, made it clear I had no interest in her viewpoint. So now, if we’re ever going to talk — properly talk — I’ll have to make the first move.

Trouble is, Anselo thought, I don’t know how do that without being defensive — as I’ve pretty effectively proved. I don’t know how to suppress all these resentments and fears I’ve been storing up. I’m afraid they’ll just rise up like a little rebel army and take over. And then we’ll be back where we were: me haranguing, Darrell sitting there, white-faced and fucking miserable.

Which she still is, he thought. That’s why she’s avoiding me, and I can hardly blame her. I must have burned up any goodwill, any respect she might have had for me. Why would she want to talk to me now? he thought. I wouldn’t, if I were her.

Anselo glanced around the bedroom. The bed was made, but he hadn’t slept in it. Last two nights, he’d snuck up to the study and slept there. He suspected Darrell minded less than he’d hoped she would. Where Darrell was at this moment, he had no idea. In the garden, probably, with Cosmo. It was the best place if you wanted to escape.

I should join them, he thought. I should do it now. Make the first move.

But after the humiliation of the phone call, Anselo’s self-confidence, which was usually at the level of an ankle sock with bad elastic, now felt more like a scraping of dog turd lodged in the sole of his sneaker.

Thank fuck Charlotte hadn’t found Reynolds’ address yet, he thought. Even if I laid him out cold in one punch, I’d still lose. He has the knack of attracting people to him. All I do is push them away.

Speaking of people, Anselo decided reluctantly that he’d better put in an appearance. So far, Patrick’s marriage meltdown had been a successful screen for Darrell and Anselo’s own problems, but now Michelle was starting to look at them both sideways. Anselo didn’t want to be forced to explain anything to Michelle.

I’d be more comfortable hanging from the ceiling from a chain attached to my nipples, he thought.

Anselo’s belief in a merciful god had a momentary resurgence when he got downstairs, and found the house empty. But his relief lasted all of two minutes, which was when the French doors that led out onto the terrace crashed open and the villa was filled with a strident medley of querulous demands (Harry, thought Anselo), incensed squeals (Rosie), and briskly firm refusals (Charlotte). Anselo heard Michelle in the background, making some comment about chicken, and then the horde was upon him.

‘Today’s picnic was not a success,’ Charlotte announced as she dumped a bright-patterned cloth on the table, which unfolded to reveal a tumble of plastic plates, cups and utensils. ‘So some of us are having a little quiet time — in our rooms,’ she added, quellingly, as another whining protest arose from Harry, ‘until we can learn to behave like civilised human beings.’

Rosie’s shriek provided an apt punctuation. Chad, who was struggling to hold his irate daughter, said, ‘I’ll take her up.’

‘No up!’ roared Rosie. ‘Bikkit!’

Chad gave Charlotte a helpless look, but Charlotte held his eye and shook her head.

‘Quiet time now,’ she said. ‘Bikkit upon its successful completion.’

Chad’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’ll read to her,’ he said. ‘Might calm her down.’

‘No read!’ yelled Rosie, and made a lunge for his hair with fierce fingers.

Her father grabbed her fist just in time, and held it. ‘Read!’ he said to her. ‘Or bed!’

Rosie pouted, but her father’s expression remained resolute. She dropped her head onto his shoulder and made small, cross mewing sounds, like a cat that’s trapped itself in a cupboard but lays all blame with its owner when it is discovered and finally let out.

Chad caught Michelle’s eye and they exchanged a grin. It was amused and affectionate and Anselo’s gut gave a sudden lurch. Not trusting his own face to stay impassive, Anselo turned to the sink and filled a glass with water.

‘Harry,’ said Charlotte, ‘follow your father to your room. Sit there in profound silence for five minutes and you may come back down for lunch. Any interruption before the five minutes is up will add a further minute to your sentence. Do I make myself clear?’

Harry pointed at Tom, who, as Patrick had sunk into a kitchen chair, was now sitting in his father’s lap.

‘How come he stays?’ Harry said.

‘Tom stays because he did not rudely snatch biscuits from the plate,’ said Charlotte. ‘Nor did he try to prise the last macaroon from his sister’s hand. Nor did he tip his lemon cordial onto his sister’s leg when said sister refused to relinquish said macaroon.’

Charlotte put a hand on the small of Harry’s back.

‘No more discussion,’ she said. ‘Climb those stairs and we will see you after five blessedly silent minutes.’

Harry’s face was now bright red with frustration and rage. ‘He’s dumb!’ he yelled, pointing again at Tom. ‘He’s stupid! He can’t talk, so he’s stupid!’

‘Harry!’

Michelle’s voice snapped out across the kitchen, and halted Harry in mid-flow as effectively as if she’d smacked his bare leg. His lower lip began to tremble and, with a wail that said all it needed to about the grotesque injustice that had been inflicted upon him, Harry ran from the room and up the stairs.

‘Sorry,’ said Michelle to Patrick. ‘No prizes for guessing where he gets his tactful nature from.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Patrick. He ran his hand gently through Tom’s copper curls. ‘It’s probably better that we get it out in the open. Hiding it’s going to achieve fuck-all.’

‘So did Clare feed him chicken?’ said Michelle.

‘I have no idea,’ said Patrick. ‘But if she did, you can bet it was as free-range as a Swedish nudist colony.’

‘Chicken?’ said Anselo. ‘What the hell has chicken got to do with anything?’

‘Thanks to battery farming, the level of Omega-3 in our chicken has been dwindling since the 1970s,’ said Michelle. ‘And it’s Omega-3 that stops us all going mental!’ Then she said, ‘Not that Tom’s mental, of course. Only a truly tactless person would suggest that.’

Charlotte had tidied up the remains of the picnic. She opened the fridge door, and said, ‘I’m afraid that since we failed to go shopping yesterday, we are down to a cubic inch of cheese and two limp slices of tomato.’ She shut the fridge. ‘And on the bench, a crust of ciabatta and a lemon.’

Anselo checked his pockets for his wallet. ‘I’ll go,’ he said, thankful for the excuse. ‘Any requests?’

‘Where’s Darrell?’ said Michelle.

‘In the garden with Cosmo.’ Anselo prayed his expression did not alert her to the fact his answer was a complete guess.

‘Where-the-heck-abouts?’ Michelle said with a frown. ‘Is there some secret locked-up bit that she’s stumbled onto? Ooh!’ she added, excitedly. ‘If there are secret passages, maybe there’s one that will lead us to George! I could lurk in his wine cellar, and leap on him when he comes down for his next bottle of Montepulci-thingio! Go and get Darrell immediately,’ she ordered Anselo. ‘If she’s been keeping this from me, we will have words.’

Caught, Anselo frantically searched for an appropriate excuse. He was saved by Harry, whose distinctive tread could be heard clumping back down the stairs.

Charlotte, expression grim, moved to intercept him at the door, but he pushed past her, his whole body propelled by excitement.

‘Mommy, mommy, mommy!’ He threw himself at Michelle. ‘There’s a doggy! On the lawn!’

‘A doggy?’ Michelle frowned. ‘What kind of doggy?’

‘A black one!’ yelled Harry. He tugged at her hand. ‘Let’s go see it! Let’s go!’

‘Harry!’

But Charlotte’s warning was interrupted by a loud knock on the front door.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, and strode briskly off to answer it.

In response to Charlotte’s greeting, they heard an English voice, well bred, and male.

‘Who the hell’s that?’ Patrick frowned.

Jesus, Anselo thought, every muscle tense. If it’s that fucker Reynolds, I’m about as well prepared to do battle as Custer at Little Big Horn.

Charlotte reappeared in the kitchen, and when it was Anselo’s eye she caught, he braced himself.

‘It’s your sister,’ she said.

‘What?’ Anselo had heard, but it made no sense.

‘Actually,’ said a tall, blond young man from the doorway, ‘it’s only me at this juncture. Aishe and Gulliver are outside with Darrell. She let them in through the garden gate.’

‘Benedict!’

Michelle leapt up and planted a kiss firmly on his cheek, which flushed pink.

‘Michelle,’ he said. ‘Hello.’

‘Fuck me.’ Patrick, grinning, was also on his feet, Tom now in his arms. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Mommy, mommy!’ Harry was tugging at Michelle’s skirt. ‘The doggy!’

‘Harry thinks he saw a dog,’ said Michelle.

‘Ah,’ said Benedict. ‘He did. It’s ours, I’m afraid.’

‘You bought the fucking dog?’ said Patrick.

‘Pet passport,’ said Benedict. ‘Any EU country accepts them. Jenico was helpful enough to steer us in that direction.’

‘Jenico,’ said Patrick, his grin gone. ‘Did he send you to hold a pity party for me?’

Benedict’s eyes widened. ‘Not at all! Gulliver had one last jazz concert in Grenoble, so we thought we’d drive the campervan over and—’

‘Sponge off you.’

A small, dark and extremely beautiful woman in her mid-thirties pushed past Benedict, and made her way across the room to Anselo.

‘Hope you don’t mind,’ she said to him. ‘Too bad if you do.’

‘Aishe,’ said Anselo.

‘Saw Darrell in the garden with the baby.’ His sister paused for a moment. ‘So. How’s it going?’

Once more, Anselo was saved, this time by a clatter of claws on tile and the arrival of a panting, hairy black missile that shot into the kitchen, circled it, sniffing and barking, and then launched itself out the door again.

‘Doggyyyy!’ Harry let go of his mother’s skirt and rushed out after it.

‘You brought the dog.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘Un-fucking-believable.’

Chad now appeared in the doorway, Rosie in his arms. His expression was irritated, hers smug.

‘Quiet time,’ he said, ‘has been a spectacular failure. Through no fault of mine, I might add.’

‘Chad, look who’s here!’ Michelle grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room. ‘You remember our former nanny, Benedict? Who, as you know, is now shacked up in England with our former neighbour, Aishe—’

A lanky teenage boy with a mass of copper curls identical to, if slightly less clean than, Tom’s sloped into the kitchen.

‘And here’s our former babysitter!’ added Michelle. ‘Gulliver! How are you?’

‘Starving,’ he said, and picked up the crust of ciabatta from the bench. ‘This anyone’s?’ And he stuffed it in his mouth.

‘You’ll find tomato and a square of cheese in the refrigerator,’ said Charlotte, arms folded, mouth thin with disapproval. ‘If you also have an appetite for raw lemon, by all means, feel free.’

‘Groovy.’ Gulliver opened the fridge door, and extracted the food, leaving both empty plates inside. He wrapped the tomato slices around the cheese, ate it in one bite, and leaned back against the bench.

‘So here we all are in Italy,’ he said. ‘Rock on, good people. Where’s the party?’

29

‘I’m firmly convinced that six degrees of separation is a myth,’ said Charlotte. ‘How else can you explain it? Michelle moves across the United States and ends up living in the same street as her best friend’s husband’s sister. Oedipus Rex has a less ridiculously incestuous plot!’

Ned lifted his mouth from her nipple and began instead to circle it with his thumb.

‘So t’ red-headed lad is t’ sister’s,’ he said. ‘Who’s t’ father? Not t’ skinny blond bloke, surely? He can’t be more ’n thirty.’

‘Benedict is not the father, no,’ said Charlotte, ‘and yes, he is at least four years younger than Aishe. They met in the States — Benedict took a job as Gulliver’s tutor, and also for a time, God help him, as Michelle’s nanny. Gulliver’s real father, so I gather, is the drummer in a Norwegian heavy metal band, who unknowingly impregnated Gulliver’s mother when she was eighteen.’

‘Unknowingly?’

‘It appears Aishe never told him she was pregnant,’ said Charlotte. ‘She had the baby, married an American who died, and lived in the States until last year, when they returned to England because Gulliver wanted to acquaint himself with his extended family, from whom his mother had, I also gather, long been estranged.’

‘T’ infamous Herne clan.’ Ned flicked his tongue over Charlotte’s other nipple. ‘Sound like she had some sense, keeping away.’

‘Well, she’s back in the fold now,’ said Charlotte crossly, ‘with son, boyfriend, and bloody menagerie all in tow, not to mention a campervan and a conglomeration of musical instruments. The villa now resembles backstage at Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey, complete with aroma of eau de chien and unwashed adolescent!’

And I can’t get near Patrick, was the thought Charlotte kept to herself. He’s been annexed by Benedict and Gulliver, and now even Chad’s joined the cabal. Only Anselo seemed to be keeping his distance. But right now, I don’t have the energy to care about him and his problems. If I don’t breach the stronghold of maledom that has arisen around Patrick, all my good work thus far will be lost.

‘Tha must be thankful for tha day off then?’ said Ned.

Charlotte caught a note in his voice, and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps she was not being as responsive to Ned’s attentions as was, in the circumstances, polite.

And I daren’t tell him it’s actually my second day off this week, she thought. I’m not sure he’d appreciate hearing I spent the previous one with another man, even if the only time I ventured into his bedroom was to vacuum it.

Charlotte had hoped Patrick would have noticed her absence, but when she had arrived home around five, grimy and dusty and smelling faintly of stale ale, the only person who’d said a word was Rosie, and that word was ‘Tea!’ So Charlotte had taken a quick shower, returned downstairs and given the children their tea, all the while trying to quell a mounting resentment that a) no one had noticed she’d gone, which meant b) they clearly did not value any of the work she did. That was why, the following day, Charlotte had deliberately not gone food shopping in the morning. There’d been just enough lemon cordial and biscuits for the children to have a picnic in the garden, and there, for today, Charlotte had thought, my responsibility ends. But then Anselo’s bloody sister and her performing troupe had arrived, and Charlotte’s big point about there being no food had lost all its impact. Curse them, she thought, and the house-bus they rode in on.

This morning, their presence had proved even more of a trial to Charlotte’s self-esteem. Harry and Rosie, who loved Benedict, had clamoured to spend the day with him instead. Even Tom, who usually ignored what anyone else did, had struggled out of Patrick’s arms in order to follow them all out into the garden. Patrick had thrown Charlotte a rather sheepish look, and said, ‘I’d get out while you can. It might not last.’ Charlotte, feeling unwanted in every direction, decided that for her pride’s sake, she would, indeed, get out.

Recalling that it was also Ned’s day off was the first bright spot in a dismal couple of days. He was home, and seemed pleased to see her, which prompted Charlotte, who badly needed to let off steam, to drag him to the bedroom and demand he perform in a manner that was both vigorous and urgent. Since then, he had been engaging in rather subtler and more deliberate foreplay, of which Charlotte had not been as mindful as she ought.

Ned is offering me the welcome distraction of a day filled with energetic sex, Charlotte reminded herself, for which I am supremely grateful. So I’d better stop being rude and start showing it.

She shifted onto her side and applied her fingers to an area midway on Ned’s body that caused him to draw in a sharp breath.

‘And I thought tha were such a nice girl, Charlotte Fforbes,’ he murmured.

‘Good Lord,’ said Charlotte, as she made his breathing more ragged still, ‘whatever gave you that idea?’

At around one, Ned prepared lunch for them, for which Charlotte was also grateful. They ate it, sitting in their smalls on his old sofa, looking out over the treetops to the glimpse of the silver-blue coin of lake far below.

‘It’s astonishingly beautiful here,’ said Charlotte. ‘I can see why you’ve stayed so long.’

‘Can’t stay here forever, though,’ said Ned.

Charlotte swallowed her bite of very good bread, and wondered briefly if Ned had made it himself.

‘Why not?’ she said. ‘I couldn’t think of a nicer place to grow old in. In my opinion, England treats its elderly abominably. As soon as you’re entitled to a pension, you may as well be dead for all you’re noticed or respected. I truly believe that’s why so many old men and women succumb to wearing beige and grey. They’re nothing but living ghosts, anyway, so why pretend otherwise?’

‘That’s fair,’ said Ned. ‘T’ Italians do respect their old folk. And it don’t cost much t’ live well here. Box o’ pasta, tin o’ tomatoes, bit o’ cheese and tha’s a meal — all for no more ’n a couple o’ euros. Back home ’twouldn’t even keep thee in PG Tips.’

‘So why would you want to go back?’ said Charlotte.

Ned set his empty plate on the floor beside the sofa. He shifted around to sit longwise, arm along the back of the sofa, face turned to the window. He was silent for so long, Charlotte thought he must have decided not to answer, and was about to change the subject. But when it became obvious he’d only been mulling over his reply, Charlotte was glad she’d kept quiet. If I’d interrupted him, she thought, that would have been it, and no amount of coaxing on my part would have winkled a confession back out of him.

‘I’ve allus felt I didn’t leave so much as run away,’ he said quietly. ‘I ran from ghost of my dead sister, and from my failure t’ live up t’ my responsibilities, and I’ve spent last twenty-plus bloody year avoiding any situation where I might have t’ be responsible for anyone else again. Because I’m only human, I got into a few relationships wi’ women, but I allus, and quickly, found excuses t’ end them. Last few year, it’s got worse. I only pick women here on holiday, who I know won’t stay, and I’ve not asked one o’ them out for months. If tha’d not asked us, I would’ve held tight until tha’d gone. And then I would have dreamed about thee, and regretted.’

Ned had uttered almost the entire speech while staring out the window. It was only right at the end that he looked at Charlotte, and she saw the expression she was now familiar with — part embarrassed, part aggressive, as if he were inviting you to challenge him.

‘I thought you said yes to me because you wanted to know about Patrick,’ she said.

‘I told mysen that’s why I said yes,’ he said. ‘But I said yes because when I saw you lying asleep on the grass, I thought tha were t’ loveliest thing I’d seen in years.’

Charlotte frowned. ‘Then why did you insist on winding me up so much? And why did you refuse to have sex with me when I kissed you that first time?’

‘I told you why,’ said Ned. ‘I avoid. I find excuses. I keep people at bay.’

‘So if I hadn’t stumbled upon your lair deep in the woods,’ Charlotte said, with a laugh of disbelief, ‘then you would never have said a word?’

‘Most likely not.’ Ned shrugged. ‘Who knows? Like I say, I’m only human.’

Charlotte regarded him for a moment. ‘Patrick’s only human, too,’ she said. ‘You should talk to him.’

Ned’s face hardened immediately. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t.’

‘Might help lay to rest a few ghosts,’ said Charlotte gently.

‘I don’t need help from Patrick King t’ do that,’ he said.

‘You were friends once,’ said Charlotte. ‘You were close.’

Ned shook his head, once and with vehemence. ‘We were never close. We were two lads wi’ more muscle than brain, but that were all we had in common. Patrick didn’t need to be on t’ street. He were there because he wanted t’ be, because he relished it: t’ fighting, t’ law breaking, t’ incessant bloody drinking. I were there because it were either that or my sister and I starved. Patrick King had his family — they were always there for him t’ run to. And he did run, didn’t he?’ Ned spat the words out as though they tasted bad. ‘His family saw him right, set him on his feet. He never had t’ give Julie or us another bloody thought!’

‘He went to jail, Ned!’ Charlotte protested. ‘And from what I gather, when he came out, his family refused to help him. Gave him a firm kick in the pants instead!’

‘They were still there for him,’ said Ned stubbornly. ‘All Julie had were us, and look where that got her.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Charlotte’s tolerance had snapped. ‘I’m sorry your sister died, Ned, truly I am. But I believe you do her memory more of a disservice when you insist on permanently casting her as the helpless victim!’

‘What d’you mean?’

Ned’s scowl, thought Charlotte, makes him look less a noble Michelangelo and more like Bernini’s statue of David, intent on seeing Goliath entirely dead. But he needs to hear this. He really does.

‘Your sister was young, but she was not much younger than you were,’ said Charlotte. ‘And if you were old enough to make your own choices, then so was she. But you chose not to take drugs, didn’t you?’

Ned got to his feet and stood over her, accusing finger out-stretched.

‘My sister were raped! It damaged her! What else could she have done?’

‘Plenty!’ Charlotte refused to be cowed. ‘There were rape crisis centres back then! The Samaritans ran their phone line! Any half-decent GP would have offered her counselling! It was the mid-eighties, for God’s sake, not 1952! Did she ask anyone for help? Or did she simply hightail it to her friendly dealer and start shooting up? Did she run instead of facing up to it, too?’

Ned’s hand shot out, and Charlotte flinched, anticipating a slap. But it was the wall he punched, the stone wall that must have hurt his fist like — what was Marcus’ phrase? thought Charlotte. Oh yes, like a bastard.

Without a word, Ned strode through into the bedroom and slammed the door.

I went too far, thought Charlotte, when her heart had slowed its pounding. I was harsh and unkind. If he had slapped me, I would have deserved it.

And who was she to lecture him? she thought. She’d avoided people and responsibilities all her life. She’d used sex to gain some bodily warmth and some connection without the attendant responsibilities of emotion. She’d avoided emotion, love in particular, because she’d always assumed it to be a sham, a fantasy. Perhaps also because she had no clue how to love — she’d never learned. Or perhaps most truthfully, thought Charlotte, because she’d been afraid. Afraid that no one would love her back.

Charlotte realised then that Patrick was the first man who’d made it seem possible for her to love, and be loved in return. It was because he had a huge heart, Charlotte decided, big enough to let her learn and make mistakes. If she ran away in fear, she would always be able to come back. Patrick’s heart would wrap her up and keep her safe.

Charlotte rested her cheek against the back of the sofa, and imagined its roughened fabric to be the cotton of Patrick’s shirt.

I’d never be afraid with him, she thought. I could open up and live a full life at last.

Longing made a tight ball of her stomach and she felt yet another urge to wail out loud. She’d been so close, she thought, but just when she could feel him within reach, his bloody relations had crashed down between them, like a flaming missile flung from a medieval catapult, damn their eyes! And in just six more days the holiday would be over. Once they were all back in London, she would be there, thought Charlotte bitterly, and all his attention would be on her. If Charlotte didn’t plant a seed in his mind now, she decided, she’d be forced to cultivate the forbearance of Cordelia and the staying power of Penelope, so that she could wait it out until such time as he accepted that his efforts to reconcile with Clare were fruitless.

Six days, thought Charlotte. Nothing for it then, she decided. I will have to be bolder.

The rush of resolve cheered her, and her thoughts turned again to Ned. How he had punished himself, she thought, and for so long. And she’d stuck another knife right into him and twisted it mercilessly. He may well have needed to hear it, but perhaps not from her. And certainly not in the callous manner in which she’d delivered it.

She gazed at the bedroom door, still firmly shut. She could hear no sound beyond it. I owe him, Charlotte thought. He’s given me enormous pleasure, and made me feel beautiful and desirable when I was beginning to doubt I was either. I’m not sure what I can do to repay him, or how I can apologise, but I won’t leave here today without trying.

Ten minutes later, she knocked on the bedroom door. There was no answer, as she’d half-expected, so she opened it anyway. Ned was sitting up on his bed, legs outstretched, arms folded across his chest, back of his head against the wall. The look he gave her was not welcoming.

‘I brought you a cup of tea,’ said Charlotte. ‘It may be close to forty degrees in here, but as we all know, tea is the British elixir for testing times. A cup of tea, and an Englishman can conquer anything.’

She offered him the mug, but his arms stayed folded. So she set it on top of the small chest of drawers, and perched on the corner of the bed, down by his feet.

Even Ned’s feet are heroic, she thought, the perfect strong shape for a Greek warrior’s sandal. Charlotte reached out and ran her thumb around his ankle. He hooked up his knee to shift his foot away from her, so she tucked her hands back in her lap.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that to you. I had no right to judge.’

No reply.

Charlotte suppressed a sigh. She rose and began to gather her dress and sandals, which, having been removed in haste, were now scattered about the floor. I’ll change in the living room, she decided. I’ve done what I can, so best now to leave him be.

But in the doorway, clothes in hand, she paused.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘if I’d had a brother like you, I would have been proud. You were stronger and braver and more moral as a very young man than most men will ever be at any time in their lives. You still are,’ she added, ‘and I think it’s time to acknowledge that, and to accept that you do deserve to be loved.’ Charlotte patted the edge of the door for emphasis. ‘Time to take off that hair shirt and burn it for good.’

In the living room, she slipped into her dress and shoes, and, with one last glance at the bedroom door, left the cottage. She felt some regret that the rest of the afternoon would not be spent in bed, but the resolve of earlier — to be bold, to seize the moment — had filled her with new energy, and she took the path down the hill with springing steps, eager to be back in Patrick’s presence, eager to prove to him that he did not need his ungrateful, cold wife.

I intend to get properly under your skin, Patrick King, she thought, if I have to murder all your relations and feed their bloodied corpses to that damned hairy waste-disposal unit they call a dog.

30

‘You’d better stop him digging,’ said Anselo to Aishe. ‘The gardener here is an ex-crim. Probably got bodies buried under the begonias.’

‘Flea!’ Aishe shouted.

The dog ignored her, and continued to burrow into the softer earth at the foot of the loggia, where the vines were planted.

‘Sod him,’ said Aishe. ‘If he gets a bullet between the eyes, it’ll save me hundreds in bloody dog food and vet’s bills.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be a crack dog trainer?’ Anselo knew his sister had volunteered at an animal shelter when she’d lived in the States.

‘Flea by name,’ Aishe said. ‘Flea-sized brain. I might as well try to train a sea monkey.’

She reached for the jug of iced water they’d brought with them, and refilled her glass. ‘How do you know the gardener’s got form?’

‘Old mate of Patrick’s,’ said Anselo, ‘by the name of Ned. Only not so much of the “mate” any more.’

‘Bad blood?’ said Aishe, with interest. ‘What did Patrick do? Shag his sister?’

‘Got it in one. I heard that second-hand, by the way,’ said Anselo, ‘via the Michelle–Clare grapevine.’

‘Which, of late, has been drastically pruned,’ said Aishe. ‘I heard that first-hand. Through the Jenico Herne phone line.’

‘Did he send you here, like Patrick suspects?’ said Anselo.

‘Jenico knows direct orders never work on me,’ said Aishe. ‘He suggests, and I decide whether I’ll do it or tell him to go fuck himself.’

Anselo gave his sister a sideways look. ‘Have you ever told Jenico to go fuck himself? To his face, I mean.’

‘Once,’ said Aishe. ‘When I was eleven. At Dad’s funeral. Jenico wanted me up the front of the church with Mum and all you lot, and I refused. Couldn’t cope being that close to the coffin. All I wanted to do was beat on the sides of it, and yell at Dad for being such an arsehole and dying.’

‘I don’t remember the funeral service at all,’ said Anselo. ‘Did Jenico make you come and sit with us?’

‘To his credit, no,’ said Aishe. ‘But he did make me come inside the church. He stood with me at the back, by the door. Held my hand …’

‘I wanted to be a pall-bearer,’ said Anselo after a moment. ‘I’d grown heaps that year, but I was still miles too short. With Patrick and Jenico on either corner, I didn’t have a chance.’

‘You were twelve,’ said Aishe. ‘Even our beloved, bone-headed older brothers didn’t get a look-in, and they’d both hit six feet by then.’

A yelp from behind made them turn. Flea the dog was running towards them, tail tucked under. Ned, they saw, was lowering his boot.

‘Bloody dog shouldn’t be here,’ said Ned, voice raised to not quite a shout. ‘No dogs allowed!’

‘We’re visiting, not staying!’ Aishe raised her voice in return. ‘Keep your hair on!’

Ned strode over. He had in one hand a garden fork, which he drove into the lawn beside the table.

‘That bloody animal,’ he said to Aishe, ‘has dug up whole bed of kale seedlings, and uprooted two rose bushes!’

‘Yes, he likes those.’ Aishe bent and fondled the soft ears of the dog that was now cringing under the table.

‘He has also chewed up edges o’ three wooden planter boxes and rowing boat oar that he dragged out o’ shed!’

Aishe tapped Flea lightly on the nose. ‘Bad dog. You’ve upset the nice Yorkshireman, and now he’s got a face like a fat girl’s fanny.’

Anselo tried and failed to suppress a grin.

Ned glanced between the pair of them. ‘You lot,’ he said with quiet venom, ‘you’re all t’ same. Not a decent gene in t’ whole bloody pool.’

On his feet in an instant, Anselo squared up to Ned.

‘What is your problem?’ he said to him.

Ned drew himself up, and Anselo began to rue his lack of inches. You’d imagine six foot one would be an advantage most times, he thought. But I seem destined to run up against fucking giants.

Anselo tensed, in anticipation of Ned making a move, but all the bigger man did was look him up and down, with a shrewd amusement that made Anselo’s blood boil.

‘If I were you, lad, I’d stay put in t’ bosom of your family,’ said Ned, ‘where it’s nice an’ safe.’

With a sharp tug, he extracted the fork from the ground.

‘Keep that dog out of t’ garden,’ he said to Aishe. ‘Or I’ll chuck it in bloody lake.’

‘He can swim!’ Aishe called after him, as he walked back up the lawn. ‘So tough shit!’

Anselo, who was still on his feet, saw her glance up at him, her expression appraising.

‘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.

‘D: text now or I surround villa with crack SAS team,’ she read. ‘Not kidding. Have connections.’

‘I’m OK,’ she texted back hastily. ‘In Como with Michelle.’

The screen was blank for what seemed to Darrell to be at least a century and a half. Michelle had given up struggling with the boots, and had summoned a shop assistant to help her. The assistant was now attempting to get a shoehorn under Michelle’s heel. If he’s not careful, thought Darrell, he’ll lose an eye.

Her phone buzzed and, once more, Darrell leapt as if stung.

‘Where in Como?’

‘No fixed location,’ Darrell texted back. ‘Shopping.’

‘Meet me in one hour. Ticket office. Funicolare.’

‘Can’t! With Michelle!’ she texted frantically.

‘You’ll find a way. One hour. XXX.’

Hell, thought Darrell. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t even be thinking about doing this.

You will, though, said the other voice in her head. Because right now, you’re desperate to talk to someone who’ll actually listen, and who’s positive and warm, and who, quite possibly, cares more about you than anyone else does.

But what if he asks me to leave Anselo again? thought Darrell. What if he demands an answer?

You can’t hide forever, said the voice. Grow a spine and make a decision.

Darrell wondered if other people had similar voices in their heads. For their sakes, she sincerely hoped not.

‘Oh, that’s absurd!’ Michelle tossed the boot onto the floor. ‘Loco!’ she said to the assistant, tapping her temple with her forefinger.

‘I think that’s Spanish,’ said Darrell. ‘What’s up?’

‘The boots won’t go over my calves,’ said Michelle. ‘Stupid stunted Italians and their retarded sizes. At this rate,’ she said, folding her arms, huffily, ‘I’ll be greeting Chad in a pair of thigh-high rubber fishing waders.’

Doing her best to look casual, Darrell checked her watch. Cosmo was still asleep in the car seat, so she couldn’t use him as an excuse. But luckily, Italian opening hours provided one for her.

‘It’s after twelve-thirty,’ she said. ‘They’ve been staying open just for us, I think.’

‘Good.’ Michelle gathered up her sandals and pulled them on. ‘See!’ she said to the assistant. ‘American shoes are normal sizes, not like something you get with a stupido Happy Meal!’

Outside, Michelle said, ‘Let’s go and get pizza and gelato. I can comfort-eat to compensate for being made to feel fat.’

Darrell thought, it should take me no more than fifteen minutes to walk to the funicolare; I know where it is, I saw it before on the map, it’s right along the lakefront. That means I need to make an excuse to leave in about forty minutes. True, I didn’t have the gumption to find an excuse not to come into Como, she acknowledged, but I was at a low ebb this morning. Now, she thought, well, I’m not sure what I feel. My feet are tingling, I do know that. Perhaps that’s a sign that I need to move right now?

‘Um,’ she said, ‘call me crazy, but I have a sudden urge to see the lake. I know, I know, I see it every day!’ she added, when Michelle opened her mouth to protest. ‘But not this bit of it. This bit I’ve never seen, and I may never have the chance again. Cosmo will wake up, and I’ll be stuck. It’s now or never.’

‘But pizza and gelato are that way.’ Michelle hooked her thumb over her shoulder.

‘You go,’ said Darrell. ‘I’ll be half an hour max. Order a pizza for me.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Michelle. ‘But if I order one you don’t like, don’t expect me to pick the yucky bits off it.’

‘Thanks.’ Darrell turned, eager to go. ‘I’ll see you soon!’

I’ll be early, she thought, as she walked, but that’s OK. I’ll sit and wait, and with luck, Cosmo will let me do so in peace.

By the funicolare, Darrell was surprised to see that the small post office next door was still open. There seemed to be some sort of commotion occurring inside. Curious, she poked her head in, and saw a crowd of mostly elderly Italians bunched up around the counter, gesticulating and shouting. They all had in their hands the kind of paper numbers that you’d expect to take from a roll in a deli, so that everyone waiting would be served in their proper turn. Those little slips of paper, Darrell observed, seemed to be the source of their discontent, and the focus of their ire a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit, who was alternately wringing his hands and throwing them up in the air.

‘Scusi, signora,’ came a polite voice from behind her. Darrell turned and tried to not to gape. There was a priest, in full-length black robes and dog collar. Darrell made room for him to pass, and noted that in his hand he had what looked like a small silver flask. To Darrell’s astonishment, he walked up to the gang of disgruntled elderly and began to chant and splash each of them with drips from the flask. The man in the bad suit rushed forward, bobbing his head, his smile a rictus of desperate gratitude, and clasped the priest’s hand. For a second, Darrell was convinced the man was about to kiss it, but the priest lifted his hand from the man’s grasp and made a languid circular gesture that brought to mind the Queen waving to the crowd from her Rolls.

The man in the terrible suit is the manager, Darrell guessed, and he’s called in the priest, like a one-man A-team, to come and calm the old folk, enraged by having to take a number and get in line (a new system, obviously), by dispensing good words and a sprinkling of holy water. They should try that in Waitrose at Christmas, Darrell thought, to defuse the brawls over the last ham.

Darrell put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sudden urge to laugh. It’s the first time I’ve felt like laughing in more weeks than I can count, she thought, but I doubt the giggles of a disrespectful foreigner will help the situation. They might all turn on me. Even the priest. It’ll be worse than being hexed by Granny Herne.

She ducked back out of the post office, and laughed out loud into the safety of the open air. And there was Marcus, coming towards her, smiling with both pleasure and relief. Darrell let him take Cosmo and place him in his seat gently on the ground at their feet, and then she let him gather her tightly into his arms.

32

‘Hate To Say I Told You So’ by The Hives ended on a screech of guitar reverb, and Patrick pulled out the iPod earphones, and handed them back to Gulliver.

‘I was never a punk fan,’ he said. ‘More a classic rocker, me. But I like the energy. Hard to believe they’re Swedish, though. Thought all Sweden ever produced was Eurovision pop, sung by blondes with shapely arses.’

‘The Swedes also do a good line in death metal,’ said Gulliver. ‘Not so many shapely blondes in those bands, though. More big bearded dudes with tats, who probably wouldn’t appreciate it if you checked out their arses.’

Patrick grinned. He and Gulliver were leaning up against the wall outside a church in the Bergamo Alta piazza, waiting for the others, who were off trying to find a bathroom for Harry. Despite insisting he had not needed to go when the toilets were close by, he had, not five minutes later, been clutching at his pants and declaring a pressing urge. Rosie, who was still in nappies, and thus did not need a toilet at all, nevertheless demanded to be taken to one, at a volume that caused a few passers-by to hastily cross themselves. Chad had taken Harry to an amenable-looking café, while Charlotte and Benedict, knowing no café was that amenable and aware that anything to do with Rosie was a two-person job, had retraced their steps to the public toilets at the foot of the citadella. Tom, also still in nappies (yet another thing that made Clare grind her teeth, recalled Patrick) was on the steps that led up to the church, jumping down them, one by one. When he reached the bottom, he’d climb back up and start the whole process again. Patrick, keeping an eye on him, found The Hives’ jangly, jaunty punk declarations merging in his mind with the more menacingly intent lyrics of The Beatles’ ‘Helter Skelter’. Finding that disturbing, his mental jukebox immediately switched records to another Beatles’ song, ‘Yesterday’. Apt, thought Patrick, but depressing as all fucking get out. Sod you, McCartney. If you really accepted your fate gracefully, you’d stop dying your bloody hair.

Patrick had heard nothing from Clare since she’d left. Neither had Michelle. Neither had Patrick’s family back in London, who, on Patrick’s behest, had been going round to his house every day to check. Patrick had even contemplated calling Clare’s parents in Hampstead, but quailed at the prospect of explaining why. Clare’s parents appreciated that their daughter had married a wealthy man, Patrick knew. But he also knew they would have much preferred it if he’d had the additional redeeming qualities of being a scion of an established upper-middle-class family and the graduate of an Oxbridge college (a good one, of course, not one of the ghastly new ones, like Keble). Clare’s mother would answer the phone, Patrick thought, and I don’t want to hear even a hint of hope in her voice that Clare and I might be splitting up. Divorce would be their ideal scenario. Clare would still get the benefit of my money, but her mother would no longer have to make an effort not to cringe when I speak. And she’d finally be able to minimise my influence on Tom’s life, too, he thought. Scrub the Cockney Gypsy out of him like she would the skid-marks out of Clare’s dad’s underpants.

Am I stupid to hope Clare hasn’t left me for good? wondered Patrick. Or is it like being convinced you still might eat that celery in the refrigerator, even though it’s as limp and yellow as an old man’s todger?

He felt an urgent need to change the subject.

‘How’s it working out for you,’ he said to Gulliver, ‘having more family than just your mother around you for the first time in your life?’

Gulliver pursed his mouth and nodded slowly. ‘Interesting,’ he said.

‘Jenico kicked your arse yet?’

‘No need,’ said Gulliver. ‘I’m a model teenager. Unlike some of my cousins.’

‘Jenico will bring them under control,’ said Patrick. ‘If he can do it with me, he can do it with anyone.’

Gulliver circled his thumb to scroll the menu of his iPod. ‘Jenico says what you needed was a father. Says by the time he was old enough to step into that role, it was a bit late. You were off the rails, big time.’

‘Yeah, well, by all accounts, my charming Irish father was also a drunk and a thief, a chory,’ said Patrick. ‘So I doubt his presence would have substantially altered my moral character. And besides,’ Patrick gave Gulliver’s shoulder a quick shake, ‘not having a father around didn’t do you any harm, did it?’

‘That’s because Mum has bigger balls than most men,’ said Gulliver.

‘Yeah, fair call,’ said Patrick. ‘Although that’s really no way to talk about your mother.’

Gulliver gave him a look. ‘Considering what comes out of my mother’s mouth,’ he said, ‘it is a source of amazement to all who know us that my language is as moderate as it is.’

‘How are you getting on with—?’ Patrick hesitated, suddenly unsure if his question was appropriate. I’m the master of the fucking clanger, he thought, and I may have just dropped another.

But Gulliver seemed unfazed. ‘How am I getting on with Benedict?’

When Patrick gave an embarrassed nod, Gulliver said, ‘It’s more like having an older brother than a father. Which, if you ignore the sick, weird picture that conjures up, is actually OK. We get on, we like the same stuff. He diverts Mum’s attention away from me, which is a major bonus, and he has a pretty good strike rate at preventing her getting into scraps with the rest of the family.’

Gulliver shook his head. ‘Sometimes, you know, she’s like one of those dog breeds that people get up petitions to ban.’

Patrick watched his young cousin plug in his earphones and settle back against the church wall. He’s a good kid, Patrick thought. Possibly a bit too smart-arse, but his survival instincts will ensure he never pushes it too far. Lucky young bastard. He’s on a winning path already, at only fifteen, and he knows it. Whereas it was sheer luck that I found my yellow brick road, thought Patrick, and a fucking miracle that I had the brains to follow it.

He glanced at Tom, still jumping down the steps, as intent and focused as if he were in the hurdle race at the Olympics. Sadness dragged on his heart.

Tom and Gulliver have the same hair, he thought, but I’m afraid that’s all they have in common. I’m afraid my little boy’s path will be rough and hard, and there’ll be sod-all I can do to make it easier for him.

A flash of pink caught his eye. Charlotte, in her short bright dress, was crossing the piazza, followed by Benedict, carrying Rosie. Charlotte had driven Patrick and Tom to Bergamo, while Benedict and Gulliver had shared the Lawrences’ rental with Chad, Harry and Rosie. Patrick seemed to remember suggesting that there was room for one of them in his car, so it needn’t be such a squeeze, but somehow, that hadn’t happened. Charlotte had driven well, Patrick admitted, and he was grateful she hadn’t felt a need to make conversation. Every so often, she’d point out a landmark, or a particularly attractive scene, but mainly, they’d driven in silence.

It’s why she is such a bloody good PA, thought Patrick. She always knows exactly when to leave me alone. The other evening, when she’d come to the bedroom, was a rare exception, he thought, and to give her credit, she’d probably been worried he was going to do something brainless, like drink himself into a coma.

Not outside the bounds of possibility, that one, thought Patrick. If I had a quid for every time I’d woken up in pool of my own vomit when I was young, I could reinvigorate the economies of several African nations.

He saw Charlotte stop and have a sharp word with Rosie, who scowled and buried her head in Benedict’s shoulder. That’s another thing Charlotte’s done bloody well, Patrick thought. I wasn’t sure she’d cope, looking after the children, but she’s risen to it with all the cool aplomb of Thatcher telling the Argies to shove it.

She needs a boyfriend, Patrick decided. And if I were to pick one, he thought, I’d pick a bloke exactly like Benedict: good-looking, perfect manners and, despite a public-school education, a genuinely kind heart.

Why Benedict had ended up with Aishe — who could have operated as a one-woman inquisition armed only with her tongue — he had no idea. Then again, Clare and I had been a mismatch on the surface. We’d connected through our ambition and by our appetite for risk and for life. No shrinking violets, we, thought Patrick. And how I loved her for it.

Charlotte and Benedict were almost upon them. It occurred to Patrick that in less than a week, he and Charlotte would both be back at work.

Back to our usual roles, he thought, back to the usual grind. If I’d been finding it hard going before, it could only be worse now.

What’s the point in working if Clare’s not in my life? he thought. What’s the point in anything?

‘The décor of this church,’ said Charlotte as she joined them, ‘appears heavily influenced by pfefferkuchenhaus.’

‘By what?’ Patrick said.

‘Frau Pfefferkuchenhaus is the name the Germans give the witch in Hansel and Gretel,’ said Benedict. ‘You may recall she had a gingerbread house.’

‘She also locked small children up in a cage, and then cooked them,’ said Charlotte with a pointed look at Rosie. ‘I can see the appeal of that as a calling.’

Patrick glanced up at the church. It did look as if someone in charge of a load of marzipan had gone temporarily insane.

‘It’s a riot inside, too,’ he said. ‘Gulliver and I had a quick look, but our eyeballs started to fry. It’s like the painters were threatened with a flaying if they left even a millimetre of wall un-bedecked with frills and furbelows. Not that I’d know a fucking furbelow if it fell on me,’ he added.

Charlotte was turning on her heel, surveying the piazza with a smile on her face. ‘I’m so glad we came here,’ she said. ‘Such a stunning place. A true mediaeval walled citadel, high on a hill.’

‘Cue the lonely goat-herd,’ said Benedict. Catching Charlotte’s expression, he added hastily, ‘No, it’s spectacular, I agree!’

Rosie had been ignored for too long. ‘Drink!’ she yelled, and thumped Benedict on his chest.

‘You are no less a harridan than you were when I first met you!’ said Benedict, grabbing both her fists to prevent any further assaults. ‘And back then you couldn’t even talk!’

Then his eyes slid to Tom, still jumping down the steps, and he blushed. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Patrick. ‘That was tactless.’

‘You don’t have to spare my feelings,’ said Patrick. ‘And I’m pretty sure Tom doesn’t give a shit, either.’

Gulliver pulled out his earphones. ‘So what’s the plan? Are we over Bergamo Alta, or has it got something more to give besides freaky churches and a plus-size stone wall?’

‘You are an uncultured swine,’ said Benedict. ‘The great Donizetti was born here, you know.’

‘You mean the poet guy, who married the red-headed chick who died, and he opened her coffin to find all her hair had kept growing in a totally creep-tacular way?’ said Gulliver.

‘That’s Rosetti,’ said Benedict. ‘Donizetti wrote the opera, Lucia di Lammermoor.’

‘Opera.’ Gulliver shuddered. ‘The only thing worse than a coffin full of a dead chick’s hair.’

Charlotte, who had stationed herself beside Patrick, her arm pressing against his, gave a small cough. ‘There is a science museum here,’ she said, ‘and a botanical gardens.’

‘Wow, kill me now,’ said Gulliver. ‘Then you can check if my hair keeps growing.’

‘I’m not sure Rosie would be the ideal visitor to either of those in her current frame of mind,’ said Benedict apologetically, while keeping a firm hold of Rosie’s fists. ‘I suspect it might be best to head back, or I fear the fortifications here may be put to the test for the first time in many centuries.’

‘I think Chad might agree with you,’ said Patrick, who had caught sight of him striding across the piazza, dragging a protesting, reluctant Harry by the hand.

‘My shorts are scratchy!’ said Harry, grabbing at said item of clothing, as his father, breathing hard, pulled up to a halt.

‘This is due to the fact that he is currently wearing no underwear,’ Chad informed the group. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask for details.’

‘Going commando, dude?’ said Gulliver. ‘Rock on.’

Harry paused, the process of his thoughts evident to all. If Gulliver, his hero, thought no pants was cool, then Harry was not about to argue.

‘Yeah!’ he said. ‘Commando!’

‘And on that high note,’ said Charlotte, ‘I propose we depart. If we make good time, we should be back no later than three.’

She bent down to Tom, who had reached the end of one his jumping rounds, and was now at the bottom of the steps. Patrick observed that Benedict and Chad were desperately trying not to look up her skirt.

She is wearing Alans, he thought. Good thing, too.

‘Tom,’ Charlotte was saying, ‘we’re leaving now. We’re going on the cable car again, so you can watch the big metal rope that you liked so much.’

Tom looked up at her, which meant, Patrick knew, that he’d heard and understood.

I suppose that’s one thing to be grateful for, he thought. Tom does know the words, even if he won’t use them. Means he’s not simple, if that’s a term anyone uses these days. Maybe there is a bit of hope, after all?

They drove back with the same people in each car. Patrick had begun to offer a seat to Gulliver, but Charlotte interrupted with some request about Tom, and by the time Patrick had replied, Gulliver was already in the back seat of the other car, wedged between Rosie and Harry.

Charlotte was even quieter on the return journey, Patrick noted. The first time she spoke was when they were only half a mile or so from the villa.

‘If you need help with Tom,’ she said, ‘when we’re back in London, I’d be more than happy to provide it.’

Patrick looked at her, surprised. ‘Thanks, but I’ll sort something out,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about it.’

‘No, really,’ said Charlotte, her tone more insistent. ‘I’d like to help. I’d even … well, if you needed someone at the house, I could perhaps step in there, too?’

‘Be my PA, my nanny and my housekeeper?’ said Patrick in disbelief. ‘Charlotte, it’s true, I may well be that bloody useless, but that is way beyond the call of duty. You’re young, you have a full and active life. I’m hardly about to let you bugger it up because of me.’

‘Oh, but I—’

Whatever Charlotte was about to say was lost as Patrick caught sight of the villa.

‘What the fuck?’ he said with a frown.

Chad, arriving first, had pulled up as best he could next to the campervan, which had been haphazardly — and that was being kind, thought Patrick — parked in the space provided for the villa’s guests. Benedict was out of the car, hands clasped to his head in a gesture of horrified disbelief, peering at the driver’s side wing mirror, which appeared to have suffered — being kind again, thought Patrick — a little damage.

‘Let me out here,’ Patrick said to Charlotte. ‘Seems we have a situation.’

Charlotte stopped the car and he hopped from it, just as Michelle, Aishe and Anselo bowled out of the villa’s front door. Anselo, Patrick observed, looked tight-lipped and pale, as if he’d narrowly escaped an accident. Michelle, on the other hand, was flushed and animated. Aishe looked her usual self, but she raised an eyebrow at Patrick, an expression that in so many words said, ‘brace yourself’.

‘What’s going on?’ Patrick said. ‘You all have a crash in the campervan?’

‘Is there something wrong with the campervan?’ Michelle gave it no more than a cursory glance. ‘But if that’s your guess, you’re not even close!’

‘Darrell’s run off with her ex,’ said Aishe, before Michelle could continue. ‘She did a bunk in Como today. Sent Michelle a text apologising. Didn’t say if she’d be back.’

Shit, thought Patrick. No wonder Anselo looks like he does. Poor sod. I knew they were having difficulties, but I ignored it. Too wrapped up in my own bloody crisis. What an arsehole.

Patrick reached out and grasped Anselo’s shoulder. ‘What do you want to do?’ he said to him.

‘What can I do?’ said Anselo, dully. ‘I’ve no idea where he lives.’

‘Ah.’ Charlotte was there, holding Tom’s hand. ‘I may be able to help you with that one after all.’

33

The Como–Brunate funicular went, as far as Darrell could tell, entirely vertically up the hill. There’s nary a hint of a slope, she thought. It’s as if you’re being winched up from a sinking ship by a rescue team in a helicopter. Not such an inapposite comparison, Darrell felt, as she tightened her grip on the handle of Cosmo’s car seat. In a way, I have been rescued. What will happen from now on, though, rather terrifyingly, is up to me.

Marcus had parked the Alfa at the top. He bundled them in, and drove off, singing loudly, ‘Funiculi, funicu-la!’

I know that song, thought Darrell. Noël Coward. Mrs Wentworth Brewster, to whom life called and fate beckoned at a bar on the Piccolo Marina. As I recall, all the Italian men flirted shamelessly with her, which she found thrilling, and she refused to come home even when her (in her words) la-di-bloody-da family begged her to.

I wonder if anyone will beg me to come home? thought Darrell.

Marcus said, ‘I’d planned to head straight back to my apartment. Unless you have another preference?’

Darrell’s reply, a shake of her head, prompted Marcus to reach out a hand and gently squeeze hers, which were clasped together on her lap, fingers kneading, as if she were cold.

‘You know, I’m not expecting anything,’ he said to her. ‘I know what I want, but I’m not expecting it. My intention is only to provide a friendly ear and place for you to gather your thoughts. What you choose to do then is wholly up to you. I won’t try to influence you one way or another.’

Darrell looked across and was met by his reassuring smile.

‘Why not?’ she said after a moment.

Marcus’ mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘Well, er,’ he began, ‘because that’s what I’ve always been led to believe a gentleman should do. Not that I’m a … oh, sod it,’ he frowned at her. ‘What are you saying? Do you want me to bend you to my will?’

‘No,’ Darrell said. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I only know that where I am right now, I can’t think straight. I feel like I need something real, concrete, to react to, rather than just a bunch of waffly emotions. I’m sorry,’ she said to him. ‘That sounds as if I’m using you. I don’t want it to be that, either.’

‘In that case, I will tell you what I want,’ said Marcus, ‘because that is as firm as Portland cement in my mind.’

Quickly, he added, ‘And let me restate, just as firmly, that I do not expect anything from you in return. Having no expectations is a most excellent strategy to avoid disappointment and, as an added bonus, it heightens the pleasure of what you do receive. Everything is a nice surprise, you see.’

‘What if isn’t, though?’ said Darrell. ‘What if the surprise is nasty?’

Marcus smiled at her. ‘You’d be amazed at how little that happens to me,’ he said. ‘Recent employment blip excepted, my adult life has thus far been highly entertaining. My theory is that when you have no expectations, the coin is much more likely to fall on the positive side. If you start imagining scenarios, you’re almost duty-bound to imagine negative ones, and if you give any kind of darkness an inch, it takes a mile, and permeates like a noxious fog. Then you are, in the euphonious Hibernian syllables of Private Fraser in Dad’s Army, doomed.’

The buoyancy of his optimism filled Darrell with both gratitude and affection.

That’s why I adore him, she thought. He makes me believe that there’s no reason why everything can’t turn out for the best.

‘Here we are,’ said Marcus, pulling up to the garage gates of the apartment complex. ‘My — thanks to, er, recent events — significantly more sweet home. For a little longer, at least.’

‘Has Gus told you when she’s coming back?’

Marcus lowered his window and pressed a number code on a keypad. ‘No, and she won’t,’ he said as they drove through the slowly opening gates. ‘She’ll turn up when she pleases and, depending on her mood, boot me out or invite me clubbing.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not that fond of your sister,’ said Darrell. ‘Sorry, but if we’re about to bare all, confessionally speaking, then you should probably know that.’

Manoeuvring into the parking space, Marcus was silent, and Darrell winced, worried that he was offended. But the look he gave her, once he’d set the handbrake, was one of wry amusement.

‘I am my sister’s best friend,’ he said, ‘due solely to the fact that no one else can tolerate her for more than five minutes. One of these days, when she is older, less beautiful and lacking the energy for such flagrant promiscuity, she may begin to see an advantage in being less selfish and demanding. But until that day, she will continue to be a prize bitch. I’m not at all surprised that you don’t like her.’

Overtaken by another rush of gratitude, Darrell leaned over and kissed his cheek. With a swift movement, Marcus caught her face with his hand, and kissed her in return, but in this case, fully and firmly on the mouth. The little voice in Darrell’s mind told her that she should not let him, but it was instantly crushed under a stampede of hormones, emitting Zulu-warrior-like ululations of desire. When his tongue touched hers, a hint of the cacophony inside her must have escaped, because Marcus broke the kiss and sat back.

‘Not a good start,’ he said. ‘A pretty clear indication of what I want, but if this is to work, and I am genuinely to help you, then I strongly feel we should be pure as the driven. I’ll consent to patting you on the back if you need consoling, but otherwise, no touching. Not even a friendly hug. Agreed?’

Darrell had to wait until the last of the stampede disappeared over the horizon before she trusted herself to answer.

‘Agreed,’ she said.

‘I may regret that,’ he said with a grimace. ‘But come on, grab the bairn and let us away. You proceed to the couch, and I’ll fetch a notebook and pencil. You’ll have to imagine the round spectacles and goatee beard.’

‘Thank you,’ said Darrell. ‘Really. I’m not sure how I’ll ever repay you.’

Marcus gave a shout of laughter. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is precisely the sort of scenario I do allow myself to imagine!’

When Charlotte handed over the address on a piece of notepaper, Anselo’s first reaction was to crumple it in his hand and throw it, as hard as he could, towards the lake. He stared down the mossy boat ramp at the paper bobbing on the water, his back to everyone, sensing all eyes upon him.

I am judged and found wanting, he thought. And what’s new? She’s done it again, chosen another man over me. I’d better just accept that my fate is to wait at the back, holding up my triangle, until the conductor decides he wants that small, insignificant piece of comedy punctuation.

Anselo felt a hand on his shoulder. Patrick’s.

‘How about you and me go inside and have a bowler?’ the older man said.

A chat with Patrick, Anselo thought. If we were back home, it’d be Jenico sitting me down, telling me why it’s all my fault, listing everything I’ve done wrong. I don’t need to hear any of that spoken out loud. My head is full of it already, a Greek chorus of all my female relatives in righteous uproar, with Granny Herne up front, making the sign of the hex.

‘What’s the point?’ Anselo said. ‘I should just go and pack.’

‘Get out the curvy sword, you mean?’ Aishe had come up on his other side.

‘She—’ Anselo checked himself, ‘Darrell has run off with her ex-boyfriend. My wife has left me for another man. What exactly is ambiguous about my position here?’

‘Do we know that for certain?’ said Aishe. ‘Perhaps she just needed someone to talk to?’

‘Talk,’ Anselo said. ‘Right.’

‘You got a lot off your chest this morning,’ said Aishe. ‘A veritable landslide of crapola. Who’s to say Darrell’s not unburdening as we speak? I mean, it’s not like she could talk to you, is it?’

Anselo was silent.

‘Go inside with Patrick,’ said Aishe. ‘It’s easier to moan about women to another guy. And he’ll let you get away with more macho posturing than I ever would. Who knows? Between you, you might be able to get halfway towards sorting some of this shit.’

‘This study smells like teenage boy,’ said Patrick. ‘And after only two days. Amazing.’

There were only two places to sit in the study: the divan that had recently doubled as Gulliver’s bed, and an old leather office chair. Patrick took the chair.

Good choice, thought Anselo. There’ll be only one reason why Gulliver left the campervan to come here, so I’ll just pull the covers up on this divan and not look too closely at the sheets beneath. Anselo remembered how stealthy he’d been in his own teenage years, but whether that had been to avoid his mother’s recriminations about extra laundry, or because he’d felt ashamed, he could not say.

Shame, he decided. It seems to have been a popular motif throughout my life.

Protesting squeaks told Anselo, without looking, that Patrick was now swivelling in the old chair, slowly, back and forth. Anselo braced himself.

Here it comes, he thought. The unfurling of my scroll of failure.

But Patrick said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been a right elephant.’

Elephant? Anselo had to think. Oh yeah, Elephant and Castle. Arsehole.

‘I should have paid more attention to what was going on with you and Darrell,’ Patrick went on, ‘instead of letting myself get sucked down into the tar pit of self-pity.’

Anselo screwed up his mouth. ‘Can’t say as I’ve been much better. I don’t even recall asking how you were after Clare left.’

The two men stared at each other.

‘Some holiday this has been,’ said Patrick. ‘We’d have had more fun if the plane had fucking crashed.’

Anselo managed a grin, and then propped his elbows on his knees, and briefly hung his head. With a deep breath, he sat up again and looked across at his cousin.

‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop being angry.’

‘Angry at Darrell?’ said Patrick.

Anselo nodded. Then immediately frowned, and shook his head. ‘She’s the focus of it, but I know she’s not the cause. The cause is in me, but every time I look inside, I see something I despise, but which I have no clue how to fix. I don’t like who I am, I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know how to be. And I can’t deal with any of it — simple fact. Which is why I’m always so fucking angry.’

‘That’s honest,’ said Patrick. ‘Being honest with yourself is a good start.’

‘Points for me,’ said Anselo with bitterness. ‘But if that’s as far as I get, then I’ll be out of the game in no time. Relegated all the way down the league tables to Huddersfield and District Works and Combination.’

‘Well, try this,’ said Patrick after a moment. ‘What do you think you want?’

Jesus, thought Anselo. How many times have I asked myself that question?

Anselo got up from the divan and moved to the window. He pressed his fist against the glossy white wooden frame, and stared out, down onto the lake that sparkled blue and silver, serene and barely troubled by waves, as it had since the day they arrived. There was a rowing boat below, bobbing twenty feet from the stone wall that marked the lake edge. In it were two old men and a young boy — perhaps eight years old, thought Anselo. They were threading bait on hooks, the older men showing the boy how to do it, warning him, Anselo imagined, not to prick his fingers. The trio were smiling and relaxed, even the boy, who had a lean wiriness that suggested he was constantly on the move.

They enjoy being together, thought Anselo. They are easy in each other’s company.

What do I want? he thought. I want to be acknowledged — not taken for granted, sidelined or ignored. I want respect. I don’t want to be some two-bit Gypsy pleb who will never amount to anything. I want to be at ease with myself. I want to be able to live and love generously and openly, and be loved that way in return. Above all, Anselo thought, I want feel like I’m a real father to my son. I don’t want to be some shadowy figure forever in the background of his life.

How many times, he thought, have I come up with that answer? And has it, even once, seemed less than impossible to attain?

‘Any thoughts?’ said Patrick.

Anselo gave a short laugh, and turned from the window.

‘Truthfully?’ he said. ‘My main thought is that I’d give anything to be more like you.’

‘You’re fucking kidding,’ said Patrick, astonished. ‘For fuck’s sake — why?’

Anselo felt colour rise in his face. Oh well, he thought, this has been a day of humiliation from start to finish. Why stop now?

‘Because you’re in control,’ he said quickly. ‘You have power. You know how to make people do what you want.’

Patrick stared at him for a beat well past comfort. His expression was hard to read, but Anselo was convinced he saw pity there.

‘Do you still love Darrell?’ Patrick asked.

The question put Anselo immediately on the defensive. What’s that got to do with it? he thought.

‘I’d say it’s pretty clear that she no longer loves me,’ he said.

‘I’m not asking her what she feels,’ said Patrick.

‘What difference does it make?’ Anselo yelled. ‘I have no control over what she does! That’s my whole point! I have no control over anyone!’

The look Patrick gave his younger cousin this time was kind.

‘I can categorically state that I love Clare,’ Patrick said, ‘love her with all my heart. And if I get the chance, I’ll own my part in creating this mess, and I’ll apologise for it. Then it’ll be over to Clare, and if she decides against me, I’ll have to suck it up.’

‘You’d give up?’ Anselo frowned. ‘Just like that?’

‘It’s not a question of giving up!’ said Patrick, exasperated. ‘I’ll be honest; I’ll state my case. I may even fucking beg. It’s a question of acknowledging that Clare is her own person, with her own feelings and her own mind!’

The chair creaked as he sank his head forward and ran a hand over it.

‘My major fuck-up was forgetting that,’ he said. ‘I rode roughshod over Clare for my own ends, my own ego, and I paid the price. And now, no matter what how much I might want it, I can’t force her to be with me. Can’t force her to love me.’

‘Why not?’ Anselo said. ‘You’ve made people do what you want for years.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Patrick sat up straight. ‘What I’ve done is been clear about what I wanted and then held my ground. It was always up to them to decide how they’d react to that. If they’d decided to say no, I could never have forced them to change their minds. Mostly, they didn’t. But that was their choice, not mine.’

He looked Anselo right in the eye. ‘This is my point. The only person I can, and should, have any control over,’ he said, ‘is me.’

Anselo had to look away, back out the window. His heart was beating oddly, and he had a strange sensation of disconnectedness, as if he’d suddenly discovered that he’d been looking at the world upside down all his life.

Patrick’s hand on his shoulder made him jump. He had not heard the older man get up.

‘It took me years to work that out,’ Patrick said to him. ‘Fucking years. When I was young, I thought I could do anything I wanted, and I thought it was perfectly OK to bully people into doing it with me. I figured they agreed because they liked me, or because they were afraid of me, and I didn’t much care which. Took me years to work out they agreed because they were afraid of what others might think of them. They were afraid that if someone else thought they were a pansy or a wimp, then that’s what they were. They didn’t have the bottle to stand their own ground, and decide for themselves what kind of men they ought to be.’

Patrick gave Anselo’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘I lost Clare because I lost sight of the man I’d decided to be. I’m not all that fucking sure I can get him back, to be honest, but I’m prepared to put in the yards.’

‘But I don’t know what kind of man I need to be,’ Anselo said in despair. ‘I have absolutely no fucking idea.’

A rap on the door startled them both. As they turned, Aishe entered.

‘At the risk of sounding like Suzy Smug-Bitch,’ she said, ‘it seems I was right about Darrell. We just got a call from a Marcus Reynolds, who says he’s driving over from Como to bring your wife back home. They’ll be here around seven.’

‘Well, there you go,’ murmured Anselo to Patrick. ‘I’ve got just under an hour to finally get that idea nailed.’

34

Charlotte was convinced she must have committed some truly heinous acts in a past life. Why else would God be punishing me in such a fashion? she thought. The only time I recall feeling such a heightened level of exasperation, she thought, was when I was a child, bobbing for apples — a pointless and sadistic exercise at the best of times, undoubtedly devised by the kind of joker who thinks it’s hilarious to watch people fall downstairs. I remember that no matter how wide I opened my mouth, I could never get a grip on their shiny little Pippin surfaces. Every time I thought I had one, it scooted away from me, humming a taunting little Pippin ditty. All I achieved was a face both soaked with cold water and boiled red with exertion and humiliation.

And I was so close! I’d spent the whole drive working up the nerve to broach the subject, she thought, and when I did, he was surprised, but his only real objection was that it would not be good for me! An objection I could have easily overcome, thought Charlotte, if God had not seen fit to assume an ex machina role and contrive a ridiculous and distracting plot twist.

Curse Darrell and her attention-seeking absconding, thought Charlotte. Curse her husband for being so emotionally half-baked as to require counselling. For hours, thought Charlotte. By the man I had so very nearly persuaded to let me move in with him.

And now, thought Charlotte, curse Darrell again for her equally dramatic re-entrance, escorted by the man who had assured me that he would leave her alone! I suppose I should feel grateful that Darrell and Anselo appear to be reconciling, but I feel that for every step forward I take, circumstances, aka Patrick’s family members, then conspire to propel me nine steps backwards. It is impossible!

Despite feeling aggravated, Charlotte had to admit that she was intrigued to witness the sundered pair’s reunion. It had been decided that this should occur in the garden, possibly, thought Charlotte, because there were fewer things to break there if a fight erupted.

She hadn’t seen much at the onset, because the family had crowded her out of the front row. But being forced to hang back had meant she’d been the only one in a position to overhear the brief conversation that occurred when Marcus beckoned to Anselo, and the two men had left the group on the lawn, and moved closer to the loggia.

Anselo, Charlotte had seen by the rigidity of his posture, resented being summoned with every fibre of his being, and was now fully on the defensive. As it turned out, the men’s conversation had been brief and entirely one-sided.

Marcus had said, ‘She thinks the breakdown of your marriage is all her fault, which, as you and I both know, is balls. She also wants to make it work with you, which I think is admirable, but not so admirable that I intend to bow out of the picture completely. Just so we’re clear.’

Then he’d added, ‘And if you ever again threaten her with separation from her child, then I will not hesitate to have you killed. Again, just so we’re clear.’

Charlotte had been so sure that Marcus was about to receive a slamming right hook to the jaw, that her mouth had actually dropped open with surprise when all Anselo did was nod once, curtly, and then walk away, back to the group. Charlotte had watched him put his hand on Darrell’s shoulder and, in answer to her entreating look, lead her gently back inside.

This had caused a barrage of debate amongst those remaining, which Patrick had quelled by proposing, loudly, that they all bugger off to the pizzeria in the village, where they should proceed to order a mountain of food and a bucket of alcohol. Some in the group had demurred until Patrick had added the magic words, ‘My shout’, and everyone had bundled immediately back into the villa to get ready.

Everyone except Charlotte, who’d decided that if they hadn’t noticed her absence, she did not intend to remind them.

I don’t think I can cope with proximity to Patrick right now, she thought. All I’ll want to do is re-open our conversation, and I can hardly do that with a dozen flapping ears around me. Frustration, she decided, thy name is currently spelled with two fs, as in Fforbes.

The smell of cigarette smoke brought her attention to the fact she was not alone. Marcus had retreated to the far end of the loggia and was leaning against one of the supports. He was slouching, one hand shoved in his front trouser pocket, and smoking at speed — all of which suggested to Charlotte that he was not as composed as he’d appeared during his speech to Anselo.

Charlotte’s footfall on the path made his head jerk around, and when he saw who it was, his mouth twitched in a brief, sheepish sort of smile.

‘I’ll have one more cigarette,’ he said, ‘and then I shall ride off into the sunset.’

‘You are far too treacherous to be pegged as the hero,’ said Charlotte. ‘You made me a promise!’

‘I think if you replay our conversation,’ said Marcus, ‘you’ll find I did no such thing. And I think you will also find,’ he added, with heat, ‘that I have been as self-sacrificing a hero as ever graced the pages of legend! I have lain prostrate on the altar, and offered myself willingly for the greater good!’

Charlotte watched him tug a rather squashed packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, and proceed to light his next with his current one, the butt of which he then dropped on the path and ground, with some force, under his heel.

‘I have been the very pink of politeness,’ he added, ‘and the pineapple of perfection. I’ve never behaved so bloody well in my life. It’s astonishing what love will make you do. Real love, that is.’

Charlotte kept quiet, not trusting herself to comment.

Marcus drew on the cigarette and blew smoke slowly into the evening air before replying.

‘I thought I’d been in love before,’ he said, ‘but on reflection, I suspect it was infatuation rather than the real thing. No better than a gigantic, all-consuming schoolboy crush, except with more inventive and proficient sex.’

Charlotte had a sudden vision of amaretti biscuits and had to close her eyes and breathe deeply for a moment or two.

‘This experience has been very different,’ Marcus said. ‘And it’s been sheer hell to boot. My God, the frustration of wanting something that badly and being unable to have it!’

‘Oh, Lord.’ Charlotte could not help herself. ‘Tell me about it.’

Marcus proceeded to take that as literal instruction. Charlotte, after weighing the options and concluding that she had nothing better to do, resigned herself to being the ear into which Marcus intended to vent.

I might as well be a garden statue for all he cares, she thought, but it’s a rare opportunity to enjoy a little Schadenfreude, so I might as well make the most of it.

‘For the first time,’ said Marcus, ‘I could see myself as a man with something to offer besides an aptitude and willingness for shameless coupling. I could see myself as a provider and a protector — a husband, a father — and for the first time ever in my entire life, I absolutely bloody craved it. Of course,’ he waved the cigarette around, ‘right now I have no home and no visible means of support, but I could see that those would only be temporary obstacles. I could see, and so clearly that I could almost smell it—’

He paused. ‘You’ll laugh at this.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Charlotte. ‘My capacity for mirth is currently at an all-time low.’

‘I could see us all,’ Marcus continued, as if Charlotte had not spoken, ‘Darrell, Cosmo and I, in a little cottage in the country. Darrell upstairs, in a room that looked out over the fields, writing away, and Cosmo and I out in the garden doing … well, whatever one does in a garden. I could see a small farm, a few sheep and cows. I could see myself being very happy indeed.’

‘Forgive me for bursting your bucolic bubble,’ said Charlotte, ‘but a few sheep and cows do not constitute a visible means of support, no matter what Beatrix Potter has to say on the matter.’

‘I don’t think she wrote about sheep and cows, did she?’ said Marcus. ‘I thought bunny rabbits and mousekins were more her line?’

‘Probably,’ said Charlotte heavily. ‘My critical faculties are likewise at an all-time low.’

Marcus exhaled a contemplative drift of smoke and stared at her, until Charlotte began to wish that he wouldn’t.

‘I’ve been a bit of a cad with you, haven’t I?’ he said eventually.

‘A cad?’ said Charlotte. ‘Does anyone use that term in a non-satirical manner these days?’

‘And a bounder,’ said Marcus, undeterred. ‘I let you clean my flat, when I should have hired a daily weeks back. And I gave you the brush-off that morning I came bearing eggs. I’ve been rude. I apologise.’

‘You’ve been experiencing your first real love,’ said Charlotte, ‘and I can attest that it doesn’t do much for one’s ability to care about anyone else except the object.’

‘If I’m to tip the karmic scales in my favour, I need to earn some merit,’ said Marcus. ‘So hey nonny nonny, no more caddishness for me. Time to have both feet on either sea or shore, and be constant to one thing ever.’

Charlotte frowned. ‘Do I interpret that to mean that you’re not giving up on Darrell?’

‘Due to my newly minted desire to behave well, I will back off for the time being,’ said Marcus. ‘However, instinct tells me that this union will continue on shaky ground, so I will keep watch from afar, and if I perceive so much as a hairline fracture, I will be in like Flynn to restate my case and, if necessary, go down on one knee and beg.’

With one last drag, he dropped the second cigarette on the path and stubbed it out with his toe.

‘I’d best go now,’ he said, ‘before the mob returns with the tar and feathers.’

Smiling, Marcus stepped in front her.

‘Thank you for listening, Charlotte Fforbes,’ he said. ‘And take care of yourself. Not that you aren’t doing a sterling job of that already.’

Then he cupped her cheek and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Any distaste Charlotte may have had for the smell of nicotine was overridden by a buzz of desire, sharp as a static shock. But the kiss was over — more’s the pity, thought Charlotte — in a second.

‘You’ll pick those up before you go,’ said a voice behind Marcus.

How does he do that? thought Charlotte crossly. For such a big man, Ned covers the ground as soundlessly as a tiger.

Ned pointed at the two cigarette butts on the path. ‘Pick those up,’ he said.

Marcus was standing straight, facing him. ‘And who are you, precisely?’ He glanced enquiringly at Charlotte, who had also moved forward. ‘Who is he? A giant-sized Uncle Bulgaria? Scourge of litterbugs the world over?’

‘This is Ned,’ said Charlotte. ‘He’s the gardener. And I will pick up the butts,’ she added. ‘Don’t start!’ she ordered Ned, who had begun to protest. ‘I’ve had quite enough drama for one day.’

She made a shooing motion with her hand at Marcus. ‘Go!’ she said. ‘Arrivederci!’

Marcus directed a frown at Ned. ‘Is he safe off the leash like this?’

‘Yes!’ Charlotte said. ‘Go! Pronto!’

And to her relief, Marcus went.

‘Must you always clash antlers like that?’ she said to Ned. ‘There is such a thing as a civilised request, you know! It does not have to be accompanied by bellowing and pawing of the ground!’

‘He kissed tha,’ said Ned, put out.

‘He kissed me goodbye!’ said Charlotte. ‘Even Italian men kiss each other goodbye!’

For the first time, she noticed that he was not in his overalls, but in the ochre-coloured trousers and dark-blue shirt — his good clothes, Charlotte observed.

‘Where are you off to?’ she said briskly. ‘Do you have a date?’

‘Course not.’ Ned shook his head, with an irritated frown. ‘Who in hell would I be dating?’

‘Oh, that’s right, holiday season is over.’ Charlotte stooped and picked up the two cigarette butts. She looked around for somewhere to put them, and began to walk towards the table on the lawn. Charlotte dropped the butts on the table and, with a grimace of distaste, wiped her hand on her skirt. The pink dress needed cleaning anyway, she reasoned. Besides, they’d be back in England in three days, and a London September was unlikely to be anywhere near as balmy.

She felt the touch of Ned’s calloused hand on her arm.

‘Charlotte,’ he said, and something about his tone and his expression made her stop short and stand very still.

‘Charlotte, I weren’t going t’ say nowt,’ Ned went on, ‘because what can I, what can you possibly—’

He halted. Charlotte could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I can’t get this out.’

Ned had turned his head away, but Charlotte could see his face was tight with stress. She wanted to ask if alcohol would help, as she, personally, had a sudden and strong urge to consume vast amounts of wine. But she had a sense that any comment she made right now would hit a wrong note. So she kept quiet, and waited.

Ned drew in a breath, and turned back. ‘Charlotte, I want tha t’ stay. Or I want t’ go wi’ tha. I love you.’

Charlotte had always thought the phrase ‘weak at the knees’ to be an outmoded, borderline hysterical Victorianism, akin to clasping a delicate hand to one’s brow before swooning. But it happened — her knees refused to hold her up — and she was forced to grab a chair and sit hastily upon it.

‘Ned!’ was all she managed.

‘I’m sorry!’ he said. ‘I didn’t want t’ spring it on tha, but tha’ll be off in only days and … and I were afraid that if tha’d not had time t’ think about it here wi’ us around, if tha went straight away, then tha’d think twice, and tha’d—’

‘Ned, you can’t love me,’ Charlotte said, with mounting urgency. ‘You can’t.’

‘I can,’ said Ned, bewildered. ‘I do.’

‘You don’t know me!’ Charlotte almost yelled. ‘You said so yourself! You’re mistaking sex for love!’

‘No.’ Ned was shaking his head. ‘No.’

‘Oh, God.’ Charlotte’s voice was muffled as she buried her face in her hands.

Above her, she heard a long, slow and slightly ragged exhalation of breath.

‘’Tis all right,’ he said. His voice was dulled with resignation and, Charlotte heard plainly, self-loathing. ‘I had hoped, but … seems I were mistaken in that. I don’t blame thee. What do I have that tha could possibly want?’

‘Ned, please don’t,’ said Charlotte in despair. ‘You have so much to offer. That’s not the reason I can’t love you. The reason is that I am in love with someone else.’

Ned gave a sharp hiss.

He was not expecting that, thought Charlotte. And fair enough, too. I gave him no clue. I’ve not given anyone a clue.

‘Why didn’t you say owt before?’ he demanded. ‘Who? Who is it?’

Charlotte hesitated, the consequences of a decision to answer truthfully vivid in her mind. But he’s been so brave, she thought, and so honest that I feel I owe him the same in return.

And with a sense that she was pulling the pin on a grenade that she would be unable to throw away, Charlotte told him.

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. Gulliver 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.

‘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.

‘Where’s Tom?’ she said. ‘Is he not with you?’

Patrick’s stomach did an uneasy flip. ‘No, he isn’t. Last time I saw him, we were watching cartoons after breakfast.’

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing.

‘When did any of us last see him?’ said Benedict.

Darrell stood up, Cosmo in her arms. ‘I saw him in the garden about half an hour ago,’ she said. ‘He was playing with sticks under the loggia. I’m sorry, I saw Charlotte with the other children on the lawn. I assumed she knew he was there.’

‘No, he must have gone out on his own,’ said Charlotte, ‘when everyone was to-ing and fro-ing after breakfast.’ Her hand flew to her heart. ‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry! I thought he’d gone with you!’

‘Let’s not panic,’ said Patrick, sounding calmer than he felt. ‘You know what Tom’s like. He’s probably still there.’

But he didn’t walk — he ran to the loggia, followed closely by Benedict, Anselo and Charlotte. Under the loggia, they found sticks arranged like a railway track, but no Tom.

‘Shit,’ said Patrick. ‘All right, now I am going to fucking panic.’

‘We’ll split up,’ said Anselo. ‘You take that end of the garden,’ he said to Benedict, ‘we’ll cover this side. Charlotte, you go back and get the others to comb the villa. He may well be playing away quietly inside. We’ll meet you back in the kitchen.’

As Charlotte dashed off, Benedict said, ‘Don’t worry. The villa is completely secure. I know because if it weren’t, our bloody dog would already have found a way out.’

‘Tom’s a bit smaller than Flea,’ said Patrick. ‘But I won’t think about that. Come on. Let’s go searching.’

Thirty minutes later, they were back in the kitchen. Charlotte and Benedict’s grim faces told Patrick that they’d had no luck either. Patrick breathed hard, summoning every ounce of effort and will to help him keep it together.

‘Where the fuck can he be?’ he said. ‘Jesus, he couldn’t have climbed the gate to the fucking boat dock, could he?’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Benedict. ‘I checked. The footholds only go halfway up. There’s no way a child of Tom’s size could climb over.’

Darrell, Cosmo in her arms, said, ‘Look I know this is probably not the ideal suggestion, but did you ask Ned?’

Patrick felt a cold clutch of dread. ‘We didn’t see Ned at all. Did you?’ he asked Benedict. Benedict shook his head.

‘That’s strange,’ Darrell frowned. ‘He was in the garden this morning, and he usually works until at least lunchtime.’

All the breath left Patrick’s body. ‘Fuck,’ he managed to say. ‘Oh, fuck. He’s taken him.’

‘No!’ said Charlotte. ‘No, he would never do that!’

‘Charlotte, he fucking threatened me last night!’ Patrick saw her flinch at his sudden shout. ‘He said: “I hope you fucking lose someone you love so you know what it’s like.” He said that!’

‘He did,’ said Benedict. ‘I heard him.’

‘Me, too,’ said Chad.

‘He’s taken him,’ said Patrick in helpless despair. ‘He’s taken Tom.’

‘Well, if he has,’ said Charlotte, setting her jaw, ‘then there’s only one place they can be. We’ll need water,’ she told them. ‘And sturdy shoes.’

‘Seriously … I am going to have … a fucking heart attack.’

Patrick stopped and leaned against a tree. Sweat had already soaked his shirt, and was trickling from his forehead into his eyes. His lungs and legs were burning as if a mediaeval torturer had been inserting hot coals into his person.

‘Don’t go too far off the path,’ said Charlotte. ‘There are poisonous snakes in the rocks.’

‘Death by snake bite,’ said Patrick, between laboured breaths, ‘would mean I didn’t have to climb yet more fucking hill.’

He gazed resentfully at Charlotte, Benedict and Anselo. None of the three young people seemed to have even raised a sweat.

‘Why isn’t there a fucking cable car?’ he said to Charlotte. ‘Or at the very least a bloke renting out pack mules?’

‘I think the people who live up here like being remote,’ she said. ‘It is beautiful. So peaceful.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m deafened by the blood pounding in my ears.’

He saw Benedict and Anselo exchange a quick grin, and pride spurred him on.

‘Right.’ Patrick moved away from the tree. ‘How much further? On second thoughts, don’t tell me. I’ll only make it if I can convince myself it’s just around the next bend.’

Many bends later, Patrick slumped against the stone wall of Ned’s house.

‘After I’ve killed you for taking my son, Ned Marsh,’ he said, ‘I’ll revive you and kill you again for that fucking hike.’

Anselo thumped hard on the front door, and then rattled the handle. ‘It’s locked.’

Charlotte peered in through the tiny kitchen window. ‘I can’t see anyone inside.’ She banged on the window. ‘Ned!’ she shouted, and banged again. ‘Ned!’

‘Is that the only room?’ Benedict cupped his hands to the glass, so he could see more clearly.

‘No, there’s a bedroom at the side,’ said Charlotte.

Patrick saw her throw him a swift glance and then blush. He chose to pretend he hadn’t seen. Charlotte and Ned Marsh, he thought. That’s about as likely as Charlotte and—

Yeah, all right, he thought. Fair point, fate. How you do toy with us, you complete and utter sod.

Anselo came back from round the side of the house. ‘It’s hard to see, but there was no trace of movement, no sound. I’m pretty certain there’s no one home.’

‘Fucking hell,’ said Patrick, and looked at Charlotte. ‘Any other ideas?’

‘None,’ said Charlotte miserably. ‘All I can suggest is that we ask around the village. And then, I suppose, ring the police?’

‘Right.’ Patrick took a long drink from his bottle of water. ‘Let’s get back down as quick as we can. I’ll console myself with the fact that it’ll be at least twenty times quicker than coming up.’

When the path reached the houses, Anselo’s mobile beeped. ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Service!’

He checked the text and gave a grunt of surprise. ‘Hell!’ he said. ‘He’s there! Tom’s there — at the villa! He’s fine!’

Charlotte and Benedict both gasped. The relief hit Patrick like a train. His legs buckled, and he had to sit down on the path.

‘Oh, thank fuck,’ he breathed out, holding his head in his hands.

Anselo bent and gave Patrick’s shoulder a quick, reassuring shake. ‘He’s fine. Don’t you worry.’

‘Where the hell was he?’ said Patrick wearily. ‘How could we all miss him?’

Anselo shook his head. ‘Darrell didn’t say.’ He offered Patrick a hand to pull him up. ‘Let’s go find out.’

Darrell opened the front door. Her expression had a hint of wariness about it, and she held up her hand to halt Patrick as soon as he entered the hall.

‘Ned is in the kitchen,’ she said, ‘and before you say anything, no, he did not take Tom. But Tom was with him. They were in the—’

‘I don’t give a shit.’ Patrick pushed past her, fury surging up in him like magma.

Sitting around the kitchen table were Gulliver, Chad and Aishe. Ned was in a chair on the side opposite the door, and when he saw Patrick stride in, he got to his feet immediately.

‘Patrick!’

Michelle stood in his way, and Patrick was so blinded by the red mist of rage that he very nearly shoved her aside. But then he saw who was in her arms.

‘Jesus! Tom!’

Patrick took his son from Michelle and hugged him tightly to his chest. He could feel tears welling, and to hide them, he buried his face in his son’s dark-red mop of hair.

‘God, I thought I’d lost you,’ he murmured, as he breathed in his son’s precious smell.

‘I would nivver have ta’en him,’ he heard Ned say. ‘He’s tha child, for God’s sake.’

Rage took hold of Patrick’s guts and wrenched them. Only Tom’s presence in his arms prevented him from attempting to wreak bodily harm of the most grievous kind on Ned.

I wouldn’t win a fight with him, thought Patrick. But I’d give him something to be fucking sorry about.

‘But you did take him, didn’t you?’ he said fiercely.

‘No!’ Ned protested. ‘I were in t’ shed and t’ little lad come in! I were tidying up, makin’ a pile of rubbish, old twine and pots and that, and he started t’ help me!’

‘We checked the fucking shed! It was locked!’

‘Door were closed because I had to get t’ shelf above it,’ said Ned. ‘When it’s closed, it’s locked. I heard someone thump on t’ door, but I were up ladder and I had my hands full. When I opened it and looked out, there were no one there. So I went back t’ what I were doing.’

‘Ned brought Tom back about twenty minutes after you left,’ said Darrell. ‘I texted Anselo.’

‘No service in the trees,’ said Anselo, putting an arm around her shoulder. ‘You would have missed us by five minutes max.’

Patrick felt the fury begin to drain from him, but its residue still had some power.

‘If you did anything to him,’ he said to Ned, ‘anything, I will fucking hunt you down and dismember you with a blunt chainsaw.’

Ned met Patrick’s eye, and then dropped his gaze to Tom. To Patrick’s fury, Ned gave his son an affectionate smile.

‘He’s a grand little lad,’ said Ned. ‘Very thoughtful, very orderly. Tha were a great help t’ me, weren’t thee, Tom?’

Tom stared at him with his wide, serious eyes, and then turned to his father.

‘Tom help Ned,’ he said.

Patrick almost dropped him. When he got his breath back, he said, ‘What? Tom! What did you say?’

‘Tom help Ned,’ his son repeated. ‘Tom make piles. Tom get string. Tom carry pots.’

Even with a hand clapped to his mouth, Patrick could not stop the escape of a small inarticulate noise.

‘He’s been telling us all about it ever since he came in with Ned,’ said Darrell.

Darrell was smiling and her eyes, Patrick noticed, when he could drag his own from his son, were moist.

‘Yeah,’ said Gulliver. ‘I tried to get him to stop referring to himself in the third person. But, hey, if he wants to do the “Hulk smash” thing, who am I to rustle his jimmies?’

‘Rustle his jimmies?’ said Benedict. ‘And you’re giving advice on modes of speech?’

As the last of the anger and adrenaline finally left him, Patrick had no choice but to collapse into the nearest chair. He looked across at Ned, who was still standing, still on alert.

‘How’d you do it?’ Patrick said to him. ‘What did you do? We’ve tried fucking everything.’

‘I didn’t do nowt!’ said Ned. ‘I spoke t’ him, and he spoke back.’ He shrugged. ‘Happen ’twere just his time? He were finally ready.’

Patrick turned and grinned at his son, who was sitting facing him on his lap, horsey-style.

‘Frankly,’ said Patrick, ‘I do not fucking care. Whatever caused it, it’s a beautiful thing.’

And he kissed his son on the cheek and hugged him tight.

‘Dad smell.’ Tom’s voice was muffled by his father’s chest.

Patrick laughed. ‘Yeah, Dad reeks like a costermonger’s left gumboot, and he is completely bloody cream crackered.’

‘I see that Harry and Rosie are in the living room watching The Powerpuff Girls,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you joined them.’

‘As long as you don’t teach Rosie any more swear words,’ said Michelle. ‘The ones she has already are freaking fruity-fresh enough, thank you.’

‘Mitch, you don’t know that Patrick taught her those,’ said Chad.

‘Of course he fucking did,’ said Aishe. ‘Tom’ll be swearing like he has Tourette’s in no time.’

From under the table came a bark.

‘Even Flea agrees with me,’ said Aishe, ‘and he has no brain. I’d better give him some exercise before he eats this table.’ She glanced around at the group. ‘Who’s up for a walk?’

37

Charlotte decided she must be the only sane person on the planet. Not one of the other adults around her seemed to share one whit of her sense of urgency.

For goodness’ sake! thought Charlotte. We have only this morning to pack our suitcases, tidy the villa and meet the agent to get our bond back, and then we have to get all seven of us, plus our luggage, into two laughably small vehicles, drive to the airport and catch our respective flights. The Lawrences would be going home a month early, Michelle had informed her, because they’d run out of money, and, as their house was still being rented, they’d have to bunk down with Chad’s parents — which, Charlotte recalled, Michelle was not looking forward to, her relationship with her mother-in-law being on somewhat the same footing as that between slugs and salt.

Thank God that Benedict, Aishe and Gulliver are making their own travel arrangements, thought Charlotte. They’re the most disorganised of the lot. Well, not Benedict, she amended. He’s been chivvying the other two since breakfast, and with scant result. Then Aishe and Gulliver had the audacity to persuade everyone else to go into the village for gelato! They insisted they’d only be half an hour, Charlotte fumed, and that was forty-five minutes ago. Benedict and I met in the hallway just before, both lugging other people’s suitcases. Neither of us had the energy to do anything except roll our eyes at each other.

Part of Charlotte had to admit that she was glad of the distraction. Despite being urged to stay, Ned had left immediately after Patrick had taken Tom into the living room and Charlotte had not seen him since.

I suppose that’s only to be expected, she thought, given that I’ve not had a chance to tell him what happened at the pizzeria — which is that my dreams were shattered, popped like so many soap bubbles by a Marigold-glove-clad finger.

That night, when Charlotte had gone to bed, she’d cried and cried, shedding countless tears of disappointment and rejection and humiliation. But in the morning, lying in her bed, with the sun making a glowing wand of the gap in her curtains, Charlotte had found she was nowhere near as unhappy as she’d expected to be.

It was like when you’ve been thrown from a horse, she thought, and you’re flat on the grass, convinced that the impact has broken every bone in your body. But then you move your arms and legs and realise the only thing that’s been damaged is your pride and the riding crop that you fell on top of.

Has only my pride been hurt? wondered Charlotte. I suspect it goes a bit deeper than that. But I’ll live. And Patrick apparently bears me no ill will. He has been nothing but kind, and generous enough to say that if I still want my job, he’ll be happy for me to stay. It’s up to me, he said. He is a very good man.

Ned is a good man, too, she thought, with a pang of sadness. I really wish I could have the opportunity to say goodbye.

Charlotte glanced at her watch and experienced a small flutter of panic. What do I need to do now? she thought. She ran through a mental checklist, and decided it would be sensible to take one last look around the grounds to see if the children had left any toys or items of clothing. Because, sure as eggs are eggs, whatever is left will be the one thing that child simply must have, and they will raise creation until it’s returned.

Outside, she could hear frantic barking. Typical, she thought. Aishe has left the dog to its own devices, unsupervised.

Flea had managed to jump up on the stone wall that separated the villa grounds from the lake, just by the gate that led down to the boat dock. The wall was not too high, Charlotte thought, for moronic Labradors.

‘What are you barking at, you stupid animal?’ she said as she approached.

Charlotte reached the wall and leaned over. ‘Ducks. Wonderful. Surely you have seen a duck before?’

The ducks in question were paying no heed to the clamour above them, and were circling lazily, giving the occasional quack.

‘Come on!’ said Charlotte to Flea, pointing at the ground. ‘Down!’

The dog ignored her, and in the next instant, to Charlotte’s horror, made a flying leap off the wall and landed with a great splash amid a cacophony of quacking in the water below.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

Charlotte looked over, and there was the dog, head up, swimming merrily after the one duck that had decided not to fly away. The duck, Charlotte observed, was paddling without apparent haste but fast enough to keep a constant distance between it and its pursuer.

Duck and dog were both heading away from the wall, towards the deeper water of the lake. That idiotic dog is going to follow that duck until it exhausts itself, was Charlotte’s realisation. And then the stupid thing will drown!

Charlotte ran back to the villa, and yelled for Benedict. He did not appear.

Curse him, thought Charlotte. He’s probably gone to hustle the others back from the village. Now what?

She dashed back to the wall and peered over again. The dog was even further out, still precisely the same distance behind the duck.

Curse everyone, thought Charlotte. Duck, dog, absent humans! What on earth can I do? I can’t let it drown.

Glancing to her left, she spied the rowing boat, tied up at the dock.

Oh, Lord, she thought. I suppose I’ll have to. With luck, the oars will be locked in the shed.

The gate to the boat dock was locked as always, but Charlotte could climb over it. She made her way down to the rowing boat. The oars, she saw with dismay, were lying in the bottom.

Left probably by Chad, Charlotte thought, who should have known better. Now, thanks to his negligence, I have no excuse whatsoever.

She peered out over the lake, to see if there were any handy old men fishing close by, but for once there were no boats within shouting distance.

Sod, she thought, and gingerly stepped into the boat. Then she untied it from its mooring, slotted the oars into the rowlocks, and began to row away.

It had been many years since Charlotte had rowed, but she was pleased to find she had not lost the knack. She caught up with the swimming dog with relative ease. However, Flea was still intent on chasing the duck, and ignored Charlotte’s orders for him to come towards the boat.

‘You beyond stupid animal!’ she said, resisting the urge to shake her fist at it.

Charlotte manoeuvred the boat around in front of the dog’s path, cutting off his line of sight to the duck. It had the desired effect. Flea gazed up at the boat with an expression of doggie puzzlement and began to swim alongside it. Which was when Charlotte realised that there was no way he could climb aboard without her help.

‘God save us,’ she said. ‘I shall have to haul you in bodily.’

And setting the oars inside the boat, she reached down and managed to grab hold of the dog’s collar. She gave a heave that lifted the dog out of the water enough for him to place his front legs over the side. Flea scrabbled his paws on the wood, but he could not gain purchase.

‘Come on!’ Charlotte gave another haul on the collar, her arm muscles straining with the effort. ‘Jump!’

At her command, Flea lunged forward, and the movement and his extra weight combined to tip the small boat sharply towards him. Flea took advantage of the lowered boat to scramble in. The momentum of his effort sent him skidding to a halt against the far side, causing the boat to rock violently. And Charlotte, off balance, her hold on the dog lost, was tipped suddenly and ungracefully over the side.

The lake was cold and, as she surfaced, Charlotte spluttered with shock as well as indignation. Her cotton sundress offered no protection, and its full skirt, now waterlogged, was dragging her down. Flea, she saw, was standing up in the boat, looking at her, his tail wagging. He gave her a doggie grin, and barked.

The boat had started to drift, Charlotte observed. I won’t waste my energy yelling at the imbecile animal, thought Charlotte, and she began to swim, as best she could in the heavy dress, towards boat and dog.

From the lakefront came what sounded like a splash, but as the swim required all her effort, she did not turn her head to look. The rowing boat, she saw to her frustration, was drifting slowly but inexorably away from her. It’s become the duck, she thought, and I am now forced into the role of the idiot canine.

Panic began to swirl in the pit of her stomach but Charlotte suppressed it firmly.

If I panic, I’m done for, she told herself.

She became aware of more splashing behind her, and to her astonishment, a head suddenly emerged from the water right next to her, and an arm grabbed hold around her waist.

‘’Tis all right,’ said Ned. ‘I’ve got thee.’

The relief of being held up out of the water was immense, and Charlotte found herself clinging to Ned, who seemed to be treading water with ease. He also seemed to be entirely naked, but Charlotte had no time to confirm this. She could see that the boat was still drifting.

‘Stupid dog,’ she said, and pointed.

‘I’ll have t’ put thee on tha back,’ said Ned. ‘That OK?’

‘Can’t be any more humiliated,’ said Charlotte.

Her teeth were beginning to chatter from the cold and shock. Ned didn’t delay; he slipped one arm under her, hand on her chest, and used his other arm to swim towards the boat.

He’s strong and fast, thought Charlotte. Thank God for that.

Ned was so strong that he almost threw Charlotte into the boat. She tumbled over the side and became wedged between the seats in a pike position — rear down, feet up. As she lay there, momentarily stuck and gasping for breath, Flea licked her face. My degradation is complete, thought Charlotte, as she pulled herself up and onto the damp wooden seat. The holy prankster has tossed his banana skin and I have prat-falled right on cue. At this moment, I have hit the absolute nadir.

Ned, she observed a mite resentfully, lifted himself into the boat with seemingly effortless grace. The boat rocked hard, nonetheless, and Charlotte clutched onto the sides, cursing under her breath. As Ned took the rower’s seat, she could see that he was not, in fact, naked, but wearing a pair of underpants, made, Charlotte observed, ironically, by Superdry.

Despite the heat of the sun and the relief of being out of the water, Charlotte’s teeth were still chattering.

‘I hate rowing boats,’ she managed to say.

Ned, rowing steadily, said, ‘Tha were brave, taking off after t’ dog like that. We were watching thee from shore.’

‘My, how entertaining that must have been,’ said Charlotte bitterly.

Then she remembered her manners. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for undertaking a rescue effort that was considerably more successful than mine.’

Ned gave her a quick glance and looked away. ‘Could hardly let tha drown.’

There was no shortage of helpers on the boat dock. Chad gave Charlotte a hand to get out of the boat, while Aishe grabbed Flea by the collar and hauled him out, whereupon he shook himself, vigorously, showering everyone with droplets of cold lake water. Darrell had thought to bring two towels, and she wrapped Charlotte in one, and handed the other to Ned, who had tied the boat to the mooring, and was now standing on the dock, apart from the group, looking almost as if he’d prefer to dive back into the water.

‘Come on.’ Darrell placed her arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. ‘Let’s get you changed out of those wet clothes.’

The gate was unlocked, and Charlotte saw that everyone else was gathered on the terrace, waiting for them. Chad, and Aishe, after she’d sent Flea running into the garden with a slap on his rump, rejoined the group. When Ned stepped through the gate, Charlotte saw Michelle’s eyes widen.

‘Honey?’ she said to Chad. ‘How come you don’t look like that when you take your shirt off?’

Benedict said, ‘Who does? My entire torso is about the width of his calf!’

‘No wonder you got a pounding,’ said Aishe to Patrick. ‘He looks like Atlas.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Patrick, scowling. ‘Carrying supplies every day ten miles up a vertical fucking slope will do that for you.’

Charlotte, who had paused, felt Darrell’s hand on her back.

‘You shouldn’t let yourself get any colder,’ Darrell said.

‘I’m all right,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’ll come inside in a minute.’

And she walked to where Ned was standing by the gate, holding the towel as if he’d forgotten it was in his hand. He had an expression of militant embarrassment on his face, which intensified as Charlotte approached.

‘I’m afraid if I go and get changed, you’ll vanish,’ she said to him. ‘And I would very much like to say goodbye.’

‘Tha’s soaked,’ he said. ‘Tha needs t’ get changed.’

‘Will you wait?’

‘Aye,’ he said, after a fractional hesitation. ‘I’ll meet thee by loggia.’

And he scooped his overalls from the wall where he’d obviously flung them, and walked off, Charlotte supposed, to the shed.

Back inside the villa, Charlotte grabbed clothes from her suitcase, not caring that she was disrupting her orderly packing, and showered and changed with haste. The letting agent had arrived to inspect the villa, and she did not care about that, either. She was only pleased that his arrival had distracted everyone else, most of whom were, she saw with added satisfaction, scurrying around doing last-minute tidying.

She half-expected the loggia to be empty, but there was Ned, back in his overalls, waiting for her. Charlotte ran up to him and went on tiptoe to kiss him, but he ducked his head to avoid her.

‘Don’t,’ he said, and added, ‘please.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlotte, crestfallen. ‘I just wanted to thank you.’

‘Hard enough t’ say goodbye,’ said Ned. ‘Almost changed my mind about meeting thee here.’

‘I’m so glad you didn’t,’ said Charlotte. ‘That would have made me very sad indeed.’

Ned’s expression of combative embarrassment returned. ‘Tha’ll forget about us soon enough,’ he said. ‘Back t’ your home, and job, and … well, tha knows who.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Him.’

She looked Ned straight in the eye. ‘I’d better confess that I’ve been very foolish about all that.’

‘That so?’ Ned’s tone was cautious.

‘I knew he didn’t love me,’ said Charlotte, ‘but I had hoped that I might be able to sway his affections. But Patrick is very much in love with his wife, and that is unlikely to change any time soon.’

‘And how’d tha feel about that?’ said Ned.

‘Chastened,’ admitted Charlotte. ‘I thought I was smart, and for that hubris fate has punished me soundly.’

Ned scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. ‘D’ thee think it’s impossible t’ make someone love thee, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Charlotte truthfully. ‘I suppose it depends on the people involved, and the circumstances.’

‘If t’ people were tha and us,’ said Ned, after a moment, ‘and t’ circumstances were that I came back and got job in England, what would thee think then?’

Charlotte’s heart leapt, but it would not do to be anything less than scrupulously honest.

‘I would admire your bravery,’ she said. ‘I’d also add that I’ve always believed in going after what you want, because one can never know until one tries.’

‘No promises, though?’

‘Well, I warn you that my life hasn’t exactly been filled with raging successes where love’s concerned,’ said Charlotte. ‘But I can promise to be open to the idea. Is that enough?’

Ned’s half-smile appeared, directed at first at his feet, and then at Charlotte.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘’Tis enough.’

He scuffed his toe in the dirt again. ‘Haven’t had much success, neither. Suspect I need to learn t’ play better wi’ others.’ He smiled at her, properly this time. ‘Less pawing and bellowing.’

‘Quite possibly,’ said Charlotte. ‘Will you let me kiss you now?’

‘I will,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘But I might have t’ carry thee off t’ shed if it gets too much for us.’

‘That’s perfectly acceptable,’ said Charlotte with a smile. ‘After all, it has just been cleaned.’

38

Patrick heard the front door bell, and decided, with sinking heart, that at six o’clock in the evening, teatime, it could only be one of his relatives.

Jenico had done his best to contain the spread of the news of Clare leaving, but with my family, thought Patrick, that’s like trying to contain jelly in a string bag. Leakage is unavoidable.

Since he and Tom had arrived back in the country a week ago, Patrick had been obliged to tolerate daily visits from his mother — who brought with her all the cheery optimism of a hanging judge, thought Patrick. He’d also had visits from his Aunt Adi, Anselo and Aishe’s mother — another laugh-a-minute riot — and numerous cousins whom Patrick hadn’t seen since they’d been excluded from the Christmas dinner Clare had arranged at his house, a slight not one of them failed to remind him of. Jenico had paid Patrick and Tom one visit, and then, wisely, left them alone to get used to their new two-person routine. Darrell had kindly offered to look after Tom until a full-time nanny could be found. Patrick had rung the bureau, and was not looking forward to the interviews. But what can I do? he thought. I’m not ready to leave the business to Anselo just yet.

The front doorbell pealed again, and Patrick checked that Tom was safe.

‘I’ll be half a tick,’ he said to his son. ‘You stay right there and don’t move.’

Tom regarded him for a brief moment. ‘Tom stay,’ he said, and turned back to The Wiggles.

Patrick didn’t bother to look through the peephole. I can guarantee that whoever it is, it’s someone I wish would go away again, he thought.

He opened the door.

‘Jesus!’ he said.

‘No,’ said Clare. ‘He has a little more beard.’

Patrick found he had to lean against the doorframe. He also found he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

‘Are you … are you back?’ he was only just able to say.

Clare’s face was pinched and pale. ‘I suspect that depends on you,’ she said. After a brief pause, she added, ‘Can I come in?’

‘Shit.’ Patrick recollected himself. ‘Of course!’ And he opened wide the door.

She stepped through into the hallway and stood beside the Georgian card table, fingering the old Doulton bowl as if she were seeing it for the first time.

Patrick closed the door and made a move towards her, and she put up her hands.

‘No,’ she said, ‘don’t. Just stay there, or I’ll never get this out.’

‘OK—’

‘And shut up, too,’ Clare said. ‘Please.’

Patrick’s nerves brought a mindless quip to the tip of his tongue, something like ‘Mum’s the word’, and it was with great effort that he managed only to nod.

‘All right.’ Clare was taking deep breaths. ‘All right, OK, I can do this.’

Then in a rush, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. No!’ She held up her hand again, as Patrick opened his mouth. ‘Shut it! You promised!’

Patrick shut his mouth.

‘I’m sorry,’ Clare said again, after she was sure he wouldn’t speak, ‘for completely losing my cool, and for being too gutless and ashamed to apologise. I have no excuse. I’d just got to a point where I was feeling like the worst mother in the world, and we all know how much I love to fail, don’t we? I felt like no matter what I did or how hard I worked, it made sod-all difference. I mean, even the teenage mothers on the estate in frigging pyjama bottoms and Ugg boots were doing better than me! Their kids could talk! They might never be able to read, but at least they could bloody well talk!’

Clare paused to catch her breath, and Patrick held his, every nerve on alert, waiting.

‘I started to hate myself,’ she said, ‘and then, worst of all, I started to hate you and Tom. No, not hate,’ she amended, ‘but certainly resent. I resented you for having your work, when I suspected that I’d effectively flushed my own career down the toilet. Climbing the ladder requires staying on it, and the thought of having to start again from the bottom — no need to point out how gracefully I’d accept that. I resented you for going to the pub when you felt like it. And I resented Tom for being the only child within two thousand miles who refused to be normal.’

His wife met his eye. Her expression was primarily one of shame, but Patrick could detect a hint of her usual challenge.

Apologies are not Clare’s forte, he thought, but I have to admit, she’s making a bloody good fist of this one. I’m still not at all sure where it’s leading, though.

He decided to keep quiet and let her get on with it.

‘When you told me I couldn’t go back to work,’ she said, ‘I felt like you’d punched me in the solar plexus. Up until then, you see, I thought you’d basically been on my side. I know, I know!’ she said, as if he’d objected, ‘I didn’t let you do a damn thing! But I did feel as if you’d generally supported me, even when I was so clearly a useless mother and, at best, a half-arsed wife. And then, there you were, confirming how much of a failure I’d been, and condemning me to more of the same. I know that’s not what you meant, but at the time, it was all I heard. So I lost it, and I legged it. And since then, I’ve been hiding out, laying low as they say in cowboy movies, trying to work up the courage to stand in front of you and tell you how sorry I am.’

Patrick hesitated, unsure if he was now free to speak.

‘Yes, I’m done now,’ said Clare with an irritated frown. ‘For what it’s worth.’

‘Did you just come here to apologise?’ said Patrick, dreading the answer. ‘Or have you come home?’

Clare shoved her hands into the pocket of her coat. London’s not Italy, was Patrick’s inconsequential thought. We don’t live here for the weather.

‘Do you want me home?’ said his wife.

Patrick heard the catch in her voice and this time, he did not hesitate. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her as tight as he could.

‘Oh, my fucking Lord, I’ve missed you,’ he said, mouth pressed into her hair. ‘If I promise not to be such an idiot, can you promise never, ever, to do that to me again? I love you so much. I died a thousand bloody deaths every fucking minute you were gone.’

Clare lifted her head. Her face was still pale, but she was smiling.

‘You’re quite a romantic, aren’t you? And yes, I love you, too, you old fool. But now, if you’ll excuse me.’ The smile faded, and she pushed herself out of his embrace. ‘I desperately need to see my son.’

‘Come with me,’ said Patrick, and he took her hand and led her down to the kitchen.

‘Look who’s here!’ he said to Tom.

Tom stared up at his parents, with his usual serious expression.

‘Tom’s mum,’ he said, entirely matter-of-fact. Then he frowned. ‘Where Tom’s mum been?’

Clare gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth.

Patrick laughed. ‘Don’t ask me how,’ he said to her, ‘because I have no idea. I think we’d just do best to accept that our boy is going to do things his way, and in his own sweet fucking time.’

Clare burst into tears, and as Patrick cradled his sobbing wife against his chest, he could not think of a moment when he’d been happier.

Darrell kissed her husband, as the pair lay tangled together, spent and drowsy, in their bed.

‘I’m so glad we’re at it again,’ she said. ‘It was always good with us, right from the start, wasn’t it?’

Anselo rolled over onto his back. ‘Yeah,’ he said shortly, and to Darrell’s surprise, slid immediately out of bed.

‘Sorry,’ he said as he hurried out the door. ‘Nature calls.’

He was in the bathroom so long that Darrell began to wonder if he was ill. But then she heard the flush, and the sound of taps running, and soon enough, the bedroom door was reopened.

But instead of coming back to bed, Anselo stood in the doorway, staring at her.

‘What’s up?’ she said, and offered him a grin. ‘Is it my dodgy cooking?’

Anselo did not smile. He walked slowly over to the bed, and sat on the edge, beside her.

‘I have something to tell you,’ he said.

Darrell picked up the morning post from the mat. Amongst the bills was a postcard. She recognised it, because it was the third such that she’d received in as many weeks. On the front was an illustration of a cattle beast of the dairy variety, Darrell noted.

On the back, there was writing. It was quite neat, displaying what Darrell’s father would refer to as ‘able penmanship’.

Darrell read the writing. It said:

Here is a cow. It is a myth that they go ‘moo’. They, in fact, issue damp, stentorian bellows that remind me of my mother’s ancient ex-army acquaintances attempting to make conversation. I am a week into this degree and I suspect my next lesson is that sheep are not as white and fluffy as they are portrayed in all the picture books. A pox on children’s authors and their blatant falsehoods. Speaking of children, I am surrounded by thousands of them, all radiating tireless zeal and the aromas of Clearasil and cheap Scrumpy. I would prefer to be surrounded by you, but then you know that. Yours, ever, the aspiring Farmer Giles aka M.

The last two postcards Darrell had thrown away. But this one she took upstairs and slipped into her desk drawer, between the scrapbooks she used to compile ideas for her novels. Then she closed the drawer carefully, and went into Cosmo’s room to see if her son had woken from his morning nap.

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About the Author

Catherine Robertson was born in Wellington. She left for a while to work in San Francisco and Buckinghamshire, but is now back home. She lives in a house by the sea with her husband who sheds bicycle bits, a tan bitzer who sheds hair, a cat who sheds bits of whatever it’s just eaten and two sons who shed all of the above. Her first two novels were The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid, which has been published in German and Italian, and The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence, which has also been published in German.

Copyright

A BLACK SWAN BOOK published by Random House New Zealand, 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand

For more information about our titles go to www.randomhouse.co.nz

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand

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First published 2013

© 2013 Catherine Robertson

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN 978 1 77553 300 9

eISBN 978 1 77553 301 6

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Design: Carla Sy

Cover illustration: Andreas Koerner/STOCK4B/Getty Images

Printed in New Zealand by Printlink

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