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.