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.