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Claude wasn’t at the café again. But Miss Flaky was.
‘Jesus fuck.’ She slumped into a chair at my table. ‘What happened to mists and mellow fruitiness?’
‘I think Keats was talking about autumn,’ I told her.
‘No shit.’
‘And it’s fruitfulness, by the way.’
‘My version’s better,’ she replied.
I glanced at her properly and did a double take. She was wearing a sleeveless sundress! Admittedly, it was down to her ankles and buttoned high at the neck, and in a red and white gingham pattern that made her look like she should be on a table in an Italian restaurant. But it was most definitely an improvement.
I also noticed that Miss Flaky did not shave her armpits, nor, I caught a glimpse of calf as she sat down, her legs. White blonde hair sprouted out all over. I wondered what obsessively neat Claude would make of that? If he turned up, of course.
‘And why is it—’ Miss Flaky continued ‘—that the English have radiators even in the john, but seem to have never heard of air conditioning? My apartment is like a Turkish prison. I could crawl into the oven and sweat less!’
I grinned. ‘I think the English consider it somehow un-British to be comfortable.’
‘Speaking of which—’ Miss Flaky craned her head towards the entrance. ‘Where’s Lord Fauntleroy?’
I felt a brief clutch of unease. ‘I don’t know.’
But Miss Flaky seemed unconcerned. ‘Most likely can’t come out,’ she sniffed. ‘They haven’t made a suit light enough for this heat.’ She turned back to me. ‘So. Did you tell him?’
It took a second to work out whom she meant. ‘I did,’ I nodded. ‘He said if you came anywhere near, he’d shoot you.’
‘Ha! Right. That’s gonna happen. He’s full of shit. Just like his fucking apartment. But not for long.’ Her mouth tightened determinedly. ‘Oh, no. Not for long.’
‘Do you think,’ I ventured, ‘that it might be better to let him be?’
Miss Flaky regarded me as if I were a stain on a mattress.
‘What kind of lame idea is that?’
‘I think Big Man has the right to choose how he lives.’
Then I realised what I’d said. And cringed.
‘Big Man?’ Miss Flaky’s grin was wide and genuinely amused. She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good name. What do you call me?’
‘Nothing!’ But my voice squeaked treacherously.
‘Right.’
But her knowing grin was quickly overtaken by a scowl. ‘The man needs serious help,’ she announced. ‘He’s just too damn proud to take it. So I intend to give it to him, pride or no pride.’
I felt a pang of envy that she could be so undeterred. Perhaps I had given up too easily?
‘Know any cops?’ she asked unexpectedly.
I shook my head.
‘Pity,’ she said. ‘I would love to get my hands on a Taser.’
I opened my front door to once more hear voices in the courtyard. This time, though, they weren’t raised.
I wandered down to find Anselo flanked by two truly huge men. They were standing, arms akimbo, in such a way that if I hadn’t recognised one of them, I’d have been quietly reaching for the bread knife.
‘Darrell,’ said Patrick. ‘How’s it going?’ He gestured to huge man number two. ‘This is Jenico Herne. Tyso’s dad.’
Jenico Herne had clearly been the origin of his son’s dark red hair. But the rest of him was nothing like Tyso. He was Patrick’s height, at least six five, but with the barrel chest and arms of a grizzly bear. He wore an outfit that was exactly how I’d imagined a Romani should dress. A pineapple yellow shirt, undone at the throat, with a yellow and red patterned kerchief knotted around his tree-trunk neck. His trousers were chocolate brown and made of a soft fabric, roomy but well cut. He wore less jewellery than I expected. Just two gold earrings and one ornately carved gold ring on his little finger, with an engraved red stone that I guessed was a carnelian. His features were broad but not soft, and his eyes a startling hazel-green. Although the rest of his expression was forbiddingly stern, I detected a glint of something else. I really hoped it was amusement.
‘I apologise to you on behalf of my son.’ His voice rumbled like a passing train. ‘He will, of course, also apologise in person.’
I bet he will, I thought. If I were Tyso, I’d want to keep those giant feet well clear of my backside.
‘It was no problem,’ I said. ‘Most of the time, your son is a delight.’
‘And I am sure he will continue to be a delight from now on.’
Amazing how he could make such innocuous words so softly threatening. I glanced at Anselo. His expression was neutral enough, but I sensed he was not entirely enjoying this visit.
‘Jenico’s oldest daughter, Talaitha, is getting married this weekend,’ Patrick informed me, even though he must have known I knew.
‘Congratulations.’ As I met Jenico Herne’s sphinx-like gaze, I felt my smile waver.
‘Why don’t you come?’ Patrick asked.
‘Me?’ I replied, startled.
‘Yeah, why not? Clare’s refusing to move and I don’t blame her. She’s the size of a fucking house now, not that I’d ever say that within earshot. You can come with me instead.’ He looked across at his giant companion. ‘All right?’
‘I would be honoured.’
‘Good,’ said Patrick, ignoring the fact I’d not actually said yes. ‘It’s an evening wedding. Saturday at five. I’ll pick you up at four.’
Then he nodded to Anselo. And the two huge men made their way to the front door. When it shut behind them, it suddenly felt like there was a lot more air in the house.
‘I’m going to your cousin’s wedding,’ I said to Anselo.
‘Well, there’s a coincidence,’ he said. ‘So am I.’
Up in my bedroom, I picked up the phone to ring the publishers, but bottled out before the call was connected. To punish myself, I decided to knuckle down and write. The heat inside the house wasn’t actually as bad as it was outside, but I had to strip off down to my faded Kate singlet and a pair of old shorts before I felt remotely comfortable.
Anselo was hammering away downstairs as if possessed by the god of hardware. I didn’t know how he could exert himself like that in this heat, but sensed that it was probably more to let off steam than for any practical building purpose. I stuck my earbuds in and turned it up just loud enough to drown him out.
It didn’t help much; I just couldn’t get into it. And for the first time, I wondered whether it was more than doubt about my ability stopping me. After all, I could write; I’d written eight published books! God willing, soon to be nine! True, they wouldn’t be earning me a shot at the Pulitzer, but they were competently crafted, enjoyable reads. I knew how to plot and pace and create believable, likeable characters. So why couldn’t I do that now?
It was as if I’d found myself on a path that should have been utterly familiar, but on which, all of a sudden, I recognised nothing. I’d come to a halt, bewildered, unsure not only of where I was but also where I’d been headed. The destination I knew so well, the place my books had always, inevitably, reached was as indistinct as vapour. I could no longer imagine a happy ending . . .
I was startled by a sharp rap on my door. I tugged free the earbuds just as Anselo’s face appeared in the gap. He didn’t look too happy. But then, when did he ever?
‘Someone here to see you,’ he said.
For a split second, my heart leapt. But Anselo knew who Marcus was. He wouldn’t have called him ‘someone’. What he would have called him was probably best left to the imagination.
‘Who?’
He shrugged. ‘Tall? Suit? Sounds like he’s swallowed Burke’s Peerage?’
‘Claude?’
Hurriedly, I shoved back my chair. Anselo stepped back to let me through the door.
‘New boyfriend?’
There was an edge to his voice. From which I gathered Claude had not made the best first impression.
‘Just a friend,’ I replied.
‘Yeah, right,’ I heard him mutter, as I ran on down the stairs.
Claude was by the bookshelf in the living room, flicking through a volume of Dance to the Music of Time. I came up behind him.
‘Anyone you know in there?’ I smiled.
‘No, but I suspect the occasional character may be familiar to my mother.’
He slotted the book back on the shelf and his glance slid in the direction of the kitchen, where Anselo had resumed hammering, louder and more aggressively than before, if that were possible.
Claude offered me an apologetic half-smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind me intruding?’
‘No! It’s lovely to see you!’ I didn’t mention that it was also a big relief.
Then I frowned. He’d begun buttoning and rebuttoning his jacket. It only had two buttons. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes! Yes . . .’
But then he gave a terse, irritated tut. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’ And he pushed past me, heading back towards the door.
‘Claude!’ I followed him, and put my hand on his arm.
He stopped, but kept his face averted.
‘Claude, what’s wrong? Can I help—?’
For a moment, he stared down at me, his face tense with what looked like disgust — for me or for himself, I couldn’t tell. And then he grabbed me roughly behind the neck, pulled me to him and kissed me hard on the mouth.
It was over in a second. He let me go, and I gazed up at him, my mouth and eyes three wide, astonished Os. I wasn’t sure what had shocked me more — that he’d kissed me, or that there had been so much anger in it.
‘Why did you do that?’ I managed to ask him.
‘Oh, you know—’ His voice was flat, distant. ‘Just to see.’
‘To see what?’
His eyes were looking over my shoulder now. ‘Anything.’
He glanced back at me ever so briefly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll go now.’
And he opened and closed the door so swiftly, I didn’t have the chance to say a word.
I wandered down to the kitchen in a bit of a daze. Anselo popped immediately out of the courtyard, almost as if he’d been waiting for me.
‘You all right?’
‘Sort of.’
Anselo scowled. ‘Did he upset you?’
‘No!’ He was starting to irritate me.
I unplugged the kettle in order to fill it, but struggled to get the lid off. I wrenched and wriggled it with growing exasperation. ‘Sod it!’
‘Here—’
Gently, Anselo removed the kettle from my hands and tugged off the lid first go. Then he filled the kettle at the tap, replaced it on the bench and switched it on.
‘So, he didn’t upset you, then?’ he said.
I sank back against the bench and slid my hands up and over my face. My hands were clammy. And now my cheeks felt sticky, too. I craved a bath.
‘I don’t know what he did,’ I replied.
‘But you let him anyway.’
The kettle was building up to its big finale. Steam was cascading from the spout. It didn’t help the atmosphere in the tiny kitchen one bit. Why on earth do we feel compelled to drink tea in times of crisis?
‘I didn’t let him do anything!’ I protested crossly.
Anselo’s expression was challenging, if not outright aggressive. I suspected that he was still smarting from his earlier encounter with his huge male relations — and that I might be a convenient outlet.
‘Why do you do it?’ he demanded. ‘Why do you hang round with arrogant sons of bitches like that? All they do is treat you badly. You’ve looked like hell for days now! Why do it to yourself?’
I was taken aback. ‘I do not look like hell—’
‘You do! You’ve got black bloody rings under your eyes! You wander around like you’re barely in the land of the living!’
‘I’ve got things on my mind!’
‘You’ve got an arrogant bastard boyfriend who thinks he can treat you any way he likes! And then you’ve got that bastard—’ Anselo stabbed a finger towards the front door ‘—who’s just as bloody bad! What the hell? Are they related?’
My face instantly gave him the answer.
‘Oh well, that figures.’ He threw up one hand. ‘The Brothers Arsehole. But that’s OK, isn’t it?’ His voice went all sing-songy with sarcasm. ‘Because they’re posh. And posh people can do whatever the fuck they like to anyone, can’t they?’
Now, I was furious. ‘You don’t know anything about them! Or me!’ I jabbed a finger in his face. ‘Just because you got put in your place by bigger men, don’t take your wounded bloody pride out on me!’
He jerked back as if I’d slapped him. His face flushed briefly red, and then lost every bit of colour. I could see his jaw moving, as if he was testing out words and rejecting them. I regretted being so harsh, but I was still far too furious to apologise.
In the end, he ran a hand over the back of his head and stared off into the courtyard. I saw the corner of his mouth lift in a small, wry smile.
‘Yeah, well,’ he murmured. ‘You’d think I’d know my place by now, wouldn’t you?’
Oh God. I should never have said it.
‘I’m sorry—’ I began.
The look he threw back at me was one of pure, cold hostility. ‘No, you’re not.’
‘Anselo, come on—’
But he held up one hand, as if to ward me off, and strode back into the courtyard. There, he immediately grabbed hold of the circular saw and, without stopping to put on earmuffs, wound it up so that it screeched like a banshee on attack.
I could have stood there and shouted at him. But what was the point?
I made a cup of tea and took it upstairs. Where I sat on my bed and stared into it until it was too cold and nasty to drink.