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.’