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He shouldn’t be drinking, Patrick thought. It wasn’t even mid-afternoon and he was on his fourth beer.
He shouldn’t be drinking around the kids, either. Not that they’d know beer from Dr Winklethwaite’s Colonic Tonic. But still, not ideal to be caught drunk in charge of minors.
Four beers weren’t enough to make him drunk. But beer four had followed beer three without him thinking too hard about it, and he imagined beer five would appear in his hand with minimal input from his grey matter, too. Beer five would take him close to drunk. Beers six and seven would push him over. There were eight beers in the fridge. He’d counted them.
If he did take that old man’s nap, he could almost be sober by the time Clare came home. If she came home. She and Michelle had been talking with some enthusiasm about the Milan nightlife, which meant Chad and young Harry might be the only ones back here for dinner. And Anselo. Maybe . . .
Fuck it. He drained the bottle. Time for beer five.
Rosie saw him get up off the couch. She’d demanded to sit on his lap, but Patrick had told her he wouldn’t stay in the room unless she sat on the floor with Tom. Her eyes had flashed – storm-warning blue like her mother’s – but she’d obeyed him. She and Tom were watching The Powerpuff Girls. Patrick knew Clare would not approve, but personally, he was enjoying it. Buttercup, he decided, was Rosie – short, black hair in a bob and an arse-kicker of the highest order. Buttercup was even dressed in Rosie’s favourite colour, green. No pink for Rosie, thought Patrick. Unless you counted the colour of her latest scalp.
‘Drink!’ yelled Rosie as Patrick stood up. ‘Bikkit!’
On his feet, Patrick suddenly felt the effect of four beers in quick succession, and had to stand still for a moment, hand on the back of the couch.
‘Say please,’ he said to Rosie, ‘or there’ll be no bloody bikkit for you.’
‘BIKKIT!’ yelled Rosie.
‘Please,’ said Patrick.
Rosie glared at him and clamped her lips together. Great, he thought. He was having an argument with an eighteen-month-old and losing. Just think what would happen if he tried to put his foot down with his wife.
‘Everything all right in here?’
Charlotte was at his side. She looked a little flushed, as if she’d been walking fast. It suited her, a bit of colour. Gave her a peachy glow all over, like one of Renoir’s naked bathers.
Shit, that was a four-beer thought, he warned himself. He had to stop drinking.
‘Rosie wants a biscuit,’ he said. ‘But she needs to say please. Don’t you, Rosie?’
‘Rosie?’ Charlotte’s tone was firm.
‘Bikkit!’ Rosie pouted. ‘Bloody bikkit! Plee!’
‘I’ll be in the fucking dog box,’ said Patrick to Charlotte, when they were out of earshot in the kitchen. ‘That’s the third swear word I’ve taught her in as many hours.’
‘I wouldn’t worry.’ Charlotte lifted the packet of biscotti from the cupboard. Since the night with Marcus, she had been unable to buy amaretti, which she personally preferred. But the children had neither noticed nor cared, so biscotti it was.
‘Rosie yelled the word “cun” yesterday,’ Charlotte continued. ‘And as I heard her mother and your wife using it just the other day, I can safely put you in the clear.’
Patrick had one hand on the fridge door. In his other hand, there was a beer bottle.
‘I told myself I shouldn’t have this,’ he said. ‘Yet, somehow, here it fucking is.’
Charlotte said, ‘Are you drinking for a reason?’
Patrick stared at her. More accurately, he stared at her profile, as she kept to her task of arranging biscotti on a plastic plate. She was his PA, he thought. And for a few weeks more, his child’s nanny. He employed her. He had a duty to be professional, to keep his distance. And she was only being polite, he told himself. She didn’t really want to know.
But who else was there? He supposed he could have talked to Darrell this morning, but he suspected she had problems of her own. Which she was keeping private. Like he should.
‘I’m having a mid-life crisis, Charlotte,’ said Patrick. ‘I used to think the whole concept was a gimmick, invented by the makers of Porsche convertibles and hair plugs. But turns out I was wrong. No idea why I’m surprised about that. I’ve been wrong about so many fucking things in my life, I’ve lost count.’
Charlotte filled the second plastic sipper cup with milk. She propped both cups on the plate next to the biscotti so she could carry them all together and faced Patrick.
‘I’m going to give these to the children,’ she said, ‘and put on another cartoon, which will keep Rosie happy. Tom will probably fall asleep on the cushions. In either case, by my estimate, we’ll have half an hour to ourselves.’
‘What about Darrell?’ Patrick said.
He thought Charlotte’s expression flickered for an instant, but when she spoke, it was in her usual measured way.
‘Darrell won’t bother us,’ said Charlotte. ‘She is otherwise occupied.’
Her gaze travelled to the doorway and back to Patrick. ‘I think we’ll go to the study on the top floor. It has a very fine view of the lake.’
Patrick looked down at the beer bottle in his hand. ‘I don’t need this,’ he said. ‘I really don’t.’
‘That’s entirely up to you,’ said Charlotte. ‘As far as I’m concerned, when you’re with me, you can do what you like.’
If any other woman had said that to him, thought Patrick, as he followed Charlotte up the stairs, he might have taken it as a come-on. But this was Charlotte. Cool, efficient, unflappable Charlotte. Beautiful Charlotte, who could have any man she wanted. Who could have no interest in her ageing, beer-breathed boss and had probably offered to listen to him moan out of some misplaced sense of employee obligation.
He paused to take a swig from beer five, which he had somehow failed to leave behind, and watched Charlotte ascend the steep stairs that led to the top floor of the villa. Her skirt was really quite short, he realised. Patrick could have sworn that she’d been wearing a different dress in the morning, a fifties-style full-skirted yellow sundress that he’d rather liked. But now, she was wearing a short sleeveless pink linen number, so he must have been mistaken. And he must stop staring right now, because if she got any further above him, he’d know if she was wearing Alans or not.
Alan Whickers. A phrase he hadn’t used since his youth. Since he was Charlotte’s age.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Spilling his guts to his young PA. He was going to bore her out of her fucking mind, poor bird, and he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.
He took another swig of beer and found the bottle was now empty. He’d thought five beers would put him only close to drunk, as he paused before attempting the rest of the stairs. Seemed he’d been wrong about that as well.
––––––––
‘YOU CAN PUT HIM DOWN on the blanket,’ Darrell said to Marcus. ‘Babies are like hot-water bottles. Great on a cold night. Which this isn’t.’
‘I’m quite comfortable.’ Marcus smiled at the sleeping baby whose downy dark head lay in the crook of his left arm. ‘He’s a beautiful boy. Takes after you.’
‘Flattery,’ said Darrell. ‘Otherwise known as lies.’
‘No,’ said Marcus. ‘You should know I only ever say what I mean. Not always at the appropriate time, but that’s by the by.’
Darrell had to concede that this was, in her experience, true. As far as she knew, Marcus had no shame and no fear of being judged, which gave him no reason to lie.
She wasn’t sure that meant he put everything out in the open. But as she’d never asked him what else he had going on in his life besides her, she never knew if he’d held anything back. Darrell suspected that if she had asked him who else he was sleeping with besides her, he would have told her. Undoubtedly the reason she never asked.
And they only had slept together a few times. Three, as she recalled. Vividly. They’d never been in a proper relationship. They hadn’t been in love.
Well, she might have been a little in love, Darrell admitted. She’d certainly idolised him. He’d brought such energy and joy into her life, right when she’d needed it. He’d pulled her back from the abyss that grief had opened up after Tom’s death, and into which she was in danger of falling forever. Darrell had ended it when she realised that Marcus could have piled in his whole store of humour and warmth and affection and sex and she would have consumed it all, like Rosie and Harry’s favourite caterpillar, like the sea creature in Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories that eats all of Suleiman bin Daoud’s food, which he intended for the whole world. And the gap inside her would have stayed wide as ever. She’d ended it with Marcus and made a vow to fill the gap herself, to make herself whole and strong again under her own steam. And straight after that she’d fallen in love with Anselo.
Darrell suddenly felt a strong urge to inject some lightness into the conversation. ‘How are the palm trees and busty blondes?’ she said to Marcus.
It had been his joke, the appeal of Hollywood to one who was, as he put it, ‘both sybaritic and shallow’.
He looked at her for a moment before answering. ‘Done and gone.’
‘You mean – you’ve quit Hollywood?’
‘It would be more accurate to say that Hollywood has quit me.’
He was half-smiling, but Darrell could see how much it bothered him. She wondered why. Marcus always appeared to be one of the lucky ones who breeze through life as they please, falling into success, whether they plan it or not.
‘Is that why you’re here? In Italy?’
‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘It’s why I am sponging off my sister, living in one of her flats and spending all the money she’s kindly lent me.’
Darrell did not like Marcus’ sister. Gus, in her opinion, was rude and spoiled. She was also extremely beautiful, and Marcus thought the sun shone out her rear. So many reasons to hate her, thought Darrell, and now she could add to them the fact that Gus was rich.
‘Is there that much money in art?’ she said.
‘No money in art whatsoever,’ said Marcus, ‘unless you are Damien Hirst, or a black-market dealer in old masters looted by the Nazis.’
He gave Darrell a brief, appraising glance. ‘You remembered why my father gave up his title. Did you forget that I was the only one of my siblings not favoured by his will?’
‘I didn’t forget,’ said Darrell. ‘You don’t get anything until you’re sixty.’
‘Sixty-five,’ said Marcus. ‘My father considered me an indolent, self-indulgent spendthrift. So far I’ve managed to prove him one hundred per cent correct.’
He bent his head over Cosmo again.
‘Whereas you,’ he said, lightly stroking the baby’s cheek, ‘will be like your father – a strapping earnest toiler.’
‘Hey,’ said Darrell. ‘None of that.’
Marcus made a face. ‘I can’t believe you married him,’ he said. ‘He has as much personality as a telegraph pole.’
‘He’s a good man,’ said Darrell.
She sounded certain, but she wasn’t. When Anselo said he loved her, Darrell believed her short time with Marcus had shown her what was right – who was right for her. But perhaps she’d leapt into a relationship with Anselo for exactly the same reason she’d leapt into one with Marcus? To fill a gap in her life that she was unable to fill on her own?
‘Heart of oak, head of teak,’ muttered Marcus. ‘Let’s change the subject. Are you still writing those erotic little fripperies?’
‘I’m not sure that subject is any more suitable,’ said Darrell, with a smile. ‘But, yes, I am. My latest is called Taken by the Tycoon.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Marcus grinning. ‘Where does he take her? And in how many different positions?’
‘Buy it and read it,’ said Darrell. ‘It will set you back all of a quid.’
‘A quid that technically isn’t mine,’ said Marcus, subdued again. ‘Christ. I suppose this means I’ll have to get a real job.’
‘How long is Gus funding you for?’
‘I daren’t ask,’ he said. ‘I suspect I’m good for another month or two.’
‘And Claude won’t give you anything?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Marcus. ‘He has to spend everything on stockpiling grain and ammo.’
‘Are they happy?’ said Darrell. ‘He and Ruth? In their cabin?’
‘Cosy as two rats honeymooning in a wool sock. I learned that from a Texan friend of mine,’ Marcus added. ‘He was a stunt rider. Kicked in the head once too often, but I’m not sure that you could tell the difference when he spoke.’
Cosmo, Darrell noticed, was stirring in Marcus’s lap. Soon, he’d be awake.
‘Do Claude and Ruth think they’ll have children?’ said Darrell.
‘Definitely not,’ said Marcus. ‘Ruth doesn’t believe in them.’
Darrell laughed. ‘What do you mean she doesn’t believe in them? They’re not fairies!’
‘The world is already grossly overpopulated, according to Ruth,’ said Marcus. ‘I suspect it’s a good thing. If he were ever confronted by a full nappy, Claude’s heart might stop from the shock.’
He bent and sniffed. ‘Speaking of which, I think this might be an opportune time to hand little Cosmo back to his mother.’
‘Terrific.’ Darrell reached out to take her child, who blinked, still not fully awake, but submitted to being passed across without protest. ‘Oh, yes. Ripe. Excellent.’
But she didn’t mind. For the first time in forever, she felt happy to take her child. She felt happy, full stop. It was almost alarming.
Marcus turned in his chair as Darrell laid Cosmo on the changing mat on the lawn.
‘You don’t have to watch,’ she said to him.
‘Oh, I do,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel like the world’s a better place. That simple joys, such as shitting in your pants, are still possible. And I like to watch you,’ he added. ‘I always did.’
‘I was cute then,’ said Darrell, glad he couldn’t see her face. ‘I’m a bovine monstrosity now.’
‘Say that again and I’ll slap you,’ he said. ‘I’m sure your heroines have sense slapped into them with monotonous regularity.’
‘The world has moved on since the century before last,’ said Darrell. ‘Slapping is not good form. On the face, anyway.’
She risked a glance over her shoulder. Marcus’s brown eyes were alight with amusement and affection. Darrell felt her stomach lurch, as if she had skidded to a halt right before the edge of a very tall cliff.
‘Last night, you told Michelle you had plans for today,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘My plan happened. My plan was to see you,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I make the same plan for tomorrow?’
It was a question Darrell wasn’t at all sure how to answer.