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.