| |
Anselo sat at the kitchen table, watching Charlotte tidy away the children’s breakfast things and wondering how he could trick her into telling him what his wife had been up to during the two days he’d spent in Milan.
He couldn’t ask Charlotte outright because that would make him look like an idiot-loser, and if his suspicions were indeed correct, a cuckold. One marriage on the rocks was probably enough for now. Anselo didn’t need to make it a double.
Ironically, he thought, it was this morning’s argument between Patrick and Clare that had led he and Darrell to have their first exchange in days of more than two or three words.
Anselo had been in the ensuite when Clare had yelled at Patrick that he was an arsehole. He’d popped his head out and caught the eye of Darrell, sitting up in bed, looking shocked. They’d stared at each other while the yelling continued, and Anselo had seen Darrell’s expression change from shock to a kind of puzzled pain, as if she’d just overheard a good friend say something nasty about her. She’d flinched when Clare had slammed the front door and when they’d heard the car drive off, she’d looked down to her hands, which Anselo could see she’d cupped together, fingers twisted, nails digging into her palms.
‘I guess we’ll be sharing the Peugeot with Patrick and Tom,’ she’d said.
‘You don’t think she’ll be back?’
Darrell had looked up at Anselo again. ‘Clare doesn’t like to fail.’
‘So, she’ll expect Patrick to go after her, and make him beg and grovel for forgiveness. Typical.’
Darrell had frowned. ‘I’m not so sure, given how he acted yesterday, sending Charlotte off like that, making Clare look after Tom. Don’t you think that’s what the argument was about? That he’s not prepared to compromise?’
‘What are you saying?’ Anselo found her whole attitude intensely irritating. ‘That’s it for them? Next stop, divorce? What about Tom?’
‘Are children still used as an excuse to hold failing marriages together?’
Anselo had graduated to pissed off. ‘One argument is hardly a failed marriage. Jesus, you can be a fucking doom merchant sometimes.’
Darrell’s eyes had widened, but all she did was blink a couple of times and then look back down at her fingers, digging her nails in some more. Anselo had had enough. He’d dressed and left the bedroom fast as possible.
And now he was in the kitchen trying to figure out a way to get intel on Darrell, his own wife, because apart from that unsatisfactory conversation, they hadn’t talked in weeks.
He was right in saying one argument didn’t make a failed marriage. It was the thousand tiny slights and stored-up resentments that did the real damage.
‘May I offer you a cup of coffee?’
Charlotte had finished tidying and was now smiling at him. She was looking especially radiant this morning, thought Anselo. Her prettiness was distinctively English. It brought to mind fruit puddings and the mellow luminosity of the countryside on a perfect crisp autumn day. She had on a fifties-style full-skirted cotton dress, with a print of pink and red roses on a white background. Anselo could not recall ever seeing Charlotte wear trousers. Dresses and cardigans, that was Charlotte’s style. Feminine and pretty and sexy. Which was ironic, considering her personality was more like the kind of woman who breeds terriers and wears scratchy tweed.
Perhaps that was a lesson for him – that he shouldn’t worry so much about how people judged his appearance, that people actually cared more about what was inside. Trouble was that the ninth circle of hell could not churn any more noxiously than Anselo’s insides right now.
Charlotte was waiting. With an effort, Anselo returned her smile.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Coffee would be great.’
As she busied herself with the stovetop espresso maker, Anselo knew that if he wanted information out of her, then it was now or never. His suspicions had been simmering away for so long, he could almost convince himself that it’d be a relief to have them confirmed.
‘So, what did you get up to yesterday?’ he forced himself to say. ‘On your day off?’
Charlotte paused, a spoonful of ground coffee in her hand. ‘As it happens, I went for a walk. Up in the hills behind the village.’
‘A walk?’
She gave him a look. ‘It’s an activity in which you put one foot in front of the other, and eventually, depending on your stamina, reach a destination.’
‘Thanks, yeah, I got it,’ said Anselo. ‘How was it?’
Charlotte’s smile was almost secretive, as if she was remembering a private pleasure. Anselo felt a pang of envy.
‘Energetic but highly enjoyable,’ she said. ‘I achieved quite dizzying heights. It’s a beautiful walk,’ she added, placing the espresso maker on the gas. ‘If you ever feel a need to stretch your legs, I can highly recommend it.’
Stretch them? Anselo wanted to run and run until they refused to take him one step further.
‘Got any other ideas for stuff to do?’ He cast a lure and hoped. ‘You and Darrell seem to have the kid-friendly expeditions nailed.’
The espresso maker bubbled, and Anselo had to wait as Charlotte lifted it from the element and poured the coffee into two cups. When she handed him his and pulled out a chair opposite, her expression was thoughtful.
‘I’m not sure I’d have been keen to take a baby on such a long drive,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have the tolerance to remain cooped up in a car with the older children for more than fifteen minutes.’
Charlotte paused to sip her coffee. Anselo held his breath.
‘However, I suspect,’ she pursed her mouth, ‘that our Mr Reynolds’ standards are more relaxed than most.’
Bingo, thought Anselo. Fucking bingo.
But his quick hot burst of triumph was smothered as the noxiousness rose from his gut and filled him up, dark and relentless, until he could hardly see.
Fuck, he thought. His wife had taken a long drive with douchebag Reynolds and hadn’t thought to mention it once. Not that he’d asked, but still – it was a pretty fucking big omission.
Whose idea had it been? It had to be the douchebag’s, Anselo decided, but how the fuck had he persuaded her? Darrell had balked at taking Cosmo in a cab to London Bridge to get the train to Gatwick, and that was a ride of no more than forty minutes. What had Marcus fucking Reynolds said to Darrell that made her OK about taking a long drive – how fucking long, exactly – on Italian roads? What had he offered her? A quick grope in a lay-by while Cosmo was asleep—?
Anselo became aware that Charlotte was giving him an odd look. His own expression must have turned murderous. And for good reason. If Marcus Reynolds walked in right now, he’d punch him to the floor and kick him to death. And then he’d would revive him by stabbing an adrenaline injection right in his heart and kick him to death all over again.
He took a deep breath.
‘You know what?’ he said to Charlotte. ‘That walk sounds like a good idea.’
But he wasn’t about to walk up any hill. Anselo headed straight to the garden to find his wife.
Charlotte was rather thankful when Anselo left the kitchen. He’d looked to be on the brink of an aneurism. She’d taken a risk telling him about Darrell’s day trip with Marcus, but as long as Anselo blood vessels didn’t fatally burst, it was all part of the plan.
Last night, she’d slept surprisingly soundly – well, perhaps not so surprisingly, considering – and had woken clear headed and filled with resolve. The best way to get back into Patrick’s favour, she decided, was to reconcile Darrell and Anselo. And the best way to do that was to make very sure the pernicious influence of Marcus Reynolds was eradicated. By telling Anselo what his wife had been up to, Charlotte intended to provoke a showdown between the two men. She did not have complete faith that Anselo would come out the winner, but she assumed that Patrick would always side with family, which would make it two against one. And to make the plan absolutely watertight, she intended to visit Marcus herself and sleep with him. Charlotte had no doubt he’d agree – the man was an inveterate fanny-hound – and then she would have all she needed to dash any hopes Darrell might foolishly be harbouring about the man’s commitment and integrity.
It was a perfect plan and until seven-twenty that morning, Charlotte had been humming with smugness about it. But now, all of her – brain and body – was alive with the prospect of an additional plan. The one for Anselo and Darrell would still play out but it would be secondary to this new plan, which had implications almost too tremendous to contemplate.
Even from down in the kitchen, she’d heard the argument. As had everyone else in the villa, small children included, which she could confirm because Rosie had immediately grabbed her piece of toast and yelled ‘Toas! Arsehole!’ Fortunately, neither of her parents had been there to hear her.
When Clare had stormed past the kitchen door, carrying a suitcase and wearing nothing but an oversize man’s T-shirt, Charlotte had been too surprised to do or say a thing. And it wasn’t until the car started up that Charlotte realised Tom may have just seen his mother walk out on him. With some trepidation, she’d glanced at the boy, and been relieved to see that he was concentrating on spooning cereal into his mouth. With luck, he hadn’t seen her at all.
That was when the full import of the situation had hit her – Clare had walked out on Patrick. They’d had a serious, no-holds-barred, ding-dong argument and she’d walked out. With a packed suitcase. Which meant she was unlikely to be coming back any time soon. Patrick’s wife, Charlotte realised, had left him.
Ambivalence had flooded through her with as much speed and force as the Severn Bore. One wave carried pity and concern. Poor Patrick, how awful he must feel. But the other wave had borne pure, unadulterated glee. Patrick’s wife had left him! Finally, life had arranged itself more conveniently in her favour! If she couldn’t capitalise on an opportunity as perfect as this, she would crawl back to England in shame and devote the rest of her life to espaliered fruit.
But as she sat in the now empty kitchen, her conscience broke through the glittery layers of excitement. A wife walking out is still a wife, it said. Patrick and Clare had not suddenly become unmarried. Did Charlotte really have the right to leap directly into the breach, clutching a wedge and hammer?
Her conscience had a good point, though possibly not the point it had intended to make. She could not, must not, rush things. She did want to be a consolation prize for Patrick on the rebound. He had to genuinely want her, which meant Charlotte needed to win him over time. And for that, she would need subtlety, empathy and a great deal of patience.
She needed to be more like Chad. All he did when he’d first seen Patrick that morning was clasp him briefly by the shoulder. That simple gesture said everything, and Charlotte could see how much Patrick appreciated it. Charlotte found this made her rather envious of Chad. If she were a man, she’d be able to bond with Patrick much more easily.
An image of Ned Marsh flitted through her head. Thank God for Ned, she thought. If she was forced to be patient with Patrick, at least she’d be able to work out her sexual frustrations in Ned’s cosy, if somewhat cramped, single bed.
They’d used up all Ned’s condoms, Charlotte recalled with a smile. She’d been very glad that he’d walked her down the hill in the evening, partly because she felt less of an easy mark for perilous vipers, but mostly because her legs were not entirely steady, and she was grateful to be able to lean on him for support.
She heard Chad’s calm voice in the living room, and then Harry’s cheerful reply overlaying Rosie’s screech of protest. They were on the move, so she quickly rinsed her cup and placed it in the dishwasher. Harry ran into the kitchen, followed by Chad, Rosie scowling in his arms, and then Patrick with Tom in his.
‘We’re going to get Mommy!’ Harry informed Charlotte. ‘And gelato!’
Harry was always most excited by the prospect of food. You could offer him his choice of a ride at Disneyland and he would almost certainly opt to sit quietly in a restaurant and eat waffles shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head.
‘I assume you want me with you?’ she said to Chad.
‘You’re more than welcome,’ he said.
Which didn’t really answer her question, thought Charlotte, but no matter. Even if he’d said no, she’d still be going with them.
‘We’ll need to take the Lawrences’ car as well as ours,’ she said directly to Patrick. ‘I’ll drive if you like.’
His brow creased, as if the subject was unfamiliar.
‘Right. Yeah,’ he said.
‘I’ll go upstairs and grab a few spare clothes for Tom,’ she said. ‘In my experience, he makes gelato defy the laws of physics in its ability to cover any given area.’
‘Right,’ said Patrick.
‘Do you need anything?’ she said, softly.
For one terrible moment, she thought he was about to cry. But then Chad reached out – are men secretly trained in this, wondered Charlotte – and touched Patrick lightly on the arm.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Kids are champing at the bit. We’ll meet Charlotte out by the cars.’
With a laboured effort that Charlotte found hard to witness, Patrick gathered himself.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Yeah.’
And he followed Chad out of the kitchen.
If only she could touch him, Charlotte thought, as she hurried up the stairs. She could touch him in ways that would make him forget he had any troubles at all.
Charlotte opened Patrick’s bedroom door and drew up short. The room was a shambles. The bed was rumpled and unmade. Women’s shoes and clothes – Clare’s obviously – were lying strewn in a corner, as if someone had thrown them with force. Other items were hanging off the nearby chair or still dangling from the half-open drawers. It would explain why Clare was only half-dressed. She’d wasted no time getting out of there.
Charlotte opened the drawer that contained Tom’s clothes. Clare usually laid out a set for Charlotte the night before. But there had been none outside his door this morning. Charlotte wondered if Clare’s departure had not been entirely spontaneous, but dismissed the thought, given the obvious haste in which she’d left.
Rummaging through Tom’s clothes to find something suitable, Charlotte felt a sudden unexpected burst of anger at Clare. How could she? How could she leave him – leave them? What does she expect? That a better husband and son will now turn up? Life didn’t work that way. She hoped Clare was already regretting what she’d done.
Then again, if she did have regrets and decided to come back, Charlotte thought, as she jogged down the stairs, then it was her mission to ensure Clare would be entirely too late.