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Hate To Say I Told You So by The Hives ended on a screech of guitar reverb, and Patrick pulled out the earphones and handed them back to Gulliver.
‘I was never a punk fan,’ he said. ‘More a classic rocker, me. But I like the energy. Hard to believe they’re Swedish, though. Thought all Sweden ever produced was Eurovision pop, sung by shapely blondes.’
‘The Swedes also do a good line in death metal,’ said Gulliver. ‘Not so many shapely blondes in those bands, though. More big, bearded dudes with tatts, who probably wouldn’t appreciate it if you checked them out.’
Patrick grinned. He and Gulliver were leaning up against the wall outside a church in the Bergamo Alta piazza, waiting for the others, who were off trying to find a bathroom for Harry. Despite insisting he had not needed to go when the toilets were close by, he had, not five minutes later, been clutching at his pants and declaring a pressing urge. Rosie was still in nappies but nevertheless demanded to be taken to a toilet, too, at a volume that caused a few passers-by to hastily cross themselves. Chad had taken Harry to an amenable-looking café, while Charlotte and Benedict, knowing no café was that amenable and that anything to do with Rosie was a two-person job, had retraced their steps to the public toilets at the foot of the citadella. Tom, also still in nappies (another thing that made Clare grind her teeth) was on the steps that led up to the church, jumping down them, one by one. When he reached the bottom, he’d climb back up and start the whole process again.
Patrick had heard nothing from Clare since she’d left. Neither had Michelle. Neither had Patrick’s family back in London, who, on Patrick’s behest, had been going round to his house every day to check. Patrick had even contemplated calling Clare’s parents in Hampstead but quailed at the prospect of explaining why. Clare’s parents appreciated that their daughter had married a wealthy man, Patrick knew. But he also knew they would have much preferred it if he’d had the additional redeeming qualities of being a scion of an established upper middle-class family and the graduate of an Oxbridge college. Clare’s mother would answer the phone, and Patrick didn’t want to hear even a hint of hope in her voice that he and Clare might be splitting up. Divorce would be their ideal scenario. Clare would still get the benefit of his money, but her mother would no longer have to make an effort not to cringe when he spoke. And she’d finally be able to minimise my influence on Tom’s life, too, he thought. Scrub the Cockney Gyppo out of him like she would the skid-marks out of Clare’s dad’s underpants.
Was he stupid to hope Clare hadn’t left him for good? Or was it like being convinced you still might eat that celery in the refrigerator, even though it was as limp and yellow as an old man’s todger?
He felt an urgent need to change the subject.
‘How’s it working out for you,’ he said to Gulliver, ‘having more family than just your mother around you for the first time in your life?’
Gulliver pursed his mouth and nodded slowly. ‘Interesting.’
‘Jenico kicked your arse yet?’
‘No need,’ said Gulliver. ‘I’m a model teenager. Unlike some of my cousins.’
‘Jenico will bring them under control,’ said Patrick. ‘If he can do it with me, he can do it with anyone.’
Gulliver’s thumb scrolled the screen on his phone. ‘Jenico says what you needed was a father. Says by the time he was old enough to step into that role, it was a bit late. You were off the rails, big time.’
‘Yeah, well, by all accounts, my charming Irish father was also a drunk and a thief, a chory,’ said Patrick. ‘So, I doubt his presence would have substantially altered my moral character. And besides,’ Patrick gave Gulliver’s shoulder a quick shake, ‘not having a father around didn’t do you any harm, did it?’
‘That’s because Mum has bigger balls than most men,’ said Gulliver.
‘Yeah, fair call,’ said Patrick. ‘Although that’s really no way to talk about your mother.’
Gulliver gave him a look. ‘Considering what comes out of my mother’s mouth,’ he said, ‘it is a source of amazement to all who know us that my language is as moderate as it is.’
‘How are you getting on with—?’ Patrick hesitated, suddenly unsure if his question was appropriate.
Gulliver seemed unfazed. ‘With Benedict?’
When Patrick gave an embarrassed nod, Gulliver said, ‘It’s more like having an older brother than a father. Which, if you ignore the sick, weird picture that conjures up, is actually OK. We get on, we like the same stuff. He diverts Mum’s attention away from me, which is a major bonus, and he has a pretty good strike rate at preventing her getting into scraps with the rest of the family.’
Gulliver shook his head. ‘Sometimes, she’s like one of those dog breeds that people get up petitions to ban.’
Patrick watched his young cousin plug in his earphones and settle back against the church wall. Gulliver was a good kid. Possibly a bit too smart-arsed, but his survival instincts would ensure he never pushed it too far. Lucky young bastard. He was on a winning path already, at only fifteen.
He glanced at Tom, still jumping down the steps, as intent and focused as if he was in the hurdle race at the Olympics. Sadness dragged on Patrick’s heart.
Tom and Gulliver had the same hair, he thought, but he was afraid that was all they had in common. He was afraid his little boy’s path would be rough and hard, and there’d be sod all Patrick could do to make it easier for him.
A flash of pink caught his eye. Charlotte, in her short bright dress, was crossing the piazza, followed by Benedict, carrying Rosie. Charlotte had driven Patrick and Tom to Bergamo, while Benedict and Gulliver had shared the Lawrences’ rental with Chad, Harry and Rosie. Patrick seemed to remember suggesting that there was room for one of them in his car, so it needn’t be such a squeeze, but somehow, that hadn’t happened. Charlotte had driven well, Patrick admitted, and he was grateful she hadn’t felt a need to make conversation. Every so often, she’d point out a landmark or a particularly attractive scene, but mainly, they’d driven in silence.
That was why she was such a bloody good PA, thought Patrick. She always knew exactly when to leave him alone. The other evening when she’d come to the bedroom was a rare exception, and to give her credit, she’d probably been worried he was going to do something brainless, like drink himself into a coma.
Not outside the bounds of possibility, thought Patrick. If he had a quid for every time he’d woken up in pool of his own vomit when he was young, he could to reinvigorate the economies of several African nations.
He saw Charlotte stop and have a sharp word with Rosie, who scowled and buried her head in Benedict’s shoulder. That was another thing Charlotte had done bloody well. Patrick had not been at all sure she’d cope looking after the children, but she’d risen to it with all the cool aplomb of Thatcher telling the Argies to shove it.
She needed a boyfriend, Patrick decided. And if he were to pick one, he’d pick a bloke exactly like Benedict: good-looking, perfect manners and, despite a public school education, a genuinely kind heart.
Why Benedict was with Aishe, Patrick had no idea. Then again, he and Clare had been a mismatch on the surface. They’d connected through their ambition and by their appetite for life.
No shrinking violets them, thought Patrick. And how he’d loved her for it.
Charlotte and Benedict were almost upon them. It occurred to Patrick that in less than a week, he and Charlotte would both be back at work. Back to their usual roles, the usual grind. If he’d been finding it hard going before, it could only be worse now.
What was the point in working if Clare wasn’t in his life? What was the point in anything?
‘The décor of this church,’ said Charlotte as she joined them, ‘appears heavily influenced by pfefferkuchenhaus.’
‘By what?’ Patrick said.
‘Frau Pfefferkuchenhaus is the name the Germans give the witch in Hansel and Gretel,’ said Benedict. ‘You may recall she had a gingerbread house.’
‘She also locked small children up in a cage and then cooked them,’ said Charlotte, with a pointed look at Rosie. ‘I can see the appeal of that.’
Patrick glanced up at the church. It did look as if someone in charge of a load of marzipan had gone temporarily insane.
‘It’s a riot inside, too,’ he said. ‘Gulliver and I had a quick look, but our eyeballs started to fry. It’s like the painters were threatened with a flaying if they left even a millimetre of wall un-bedecked with frills and furbelows. Not that I’d know a fucking furbelow if it fell on me,’ he added.
Charlotte was turning on her heel, surveying the piazza with a smile on her face. ‘I’m so glad we came here,’ she said. ‘Such a stunning place. A true mediaeval walled citadel, high on a hill.’
‘Cue the lonely goat-herd,’ said Benedict. Catching Charlotte’s expression, he added hastily, ‘No, it’s spectacular, I agree!’
Rosie had been ignored for too long. ‘Drink!’ she yelled, and thumped Benedict on his chest.
‘You are no less a harridan than you were when I first met you!’ said Benedict, grabbing both her fists to prevent any further assaults. ‘And back then, you couldn’t even talk!’
Then his eyes slid to Tom, still jumping down the steps, and he blushed. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Patrick. ‘That was tactless.’
‘You don’t have to spare my feelings,’ said Patrick. ‘And I’m pretty sure Tom doesn’t give a shit, either.’
Gulliver pulled out his earphones. ‘So, what’s the plan? Are we over Bergamo Alta, or has it got something more to give besides freaky churches and a plus-size stone wall?’
‘You are an uncultured swine,’ said Benedict. ‘The great Donizetti was born here, you know.’
‘You mean the poet guy, who married the red-headed chick who died, and he opened her coffin to find all her hair had kept growing in a totally creep-tacular way?’ said Gulliver.
‘That’s Rosetti,’ said Benedict. ‘Donizetti wrote the opera, Lucia di Lammermoor.’
‘Opera.’ Gulliver shuddered. ‘The only thing worse than a coffin full of a dead chick’s hair.’
Charlotte, who had stationed herself beside Patrick, her arm pressing against his, gave a small cough. ‘There is a science museum here,’ she said, ‘and botanical gardens.’
‘Wow. Kill me now,’ said Gulliver. ‘Then you can check if my hair keeps growing.’
‘I’m not sure Rosie would be the ideal visitor to either of those in her current frame of mind,’ said Benedict, still keeping a firm hold on Rosie’s fists. ‘I suspect it might be best to head back, or I fear the fortifications here may be put to the test for the first time in many centuries.’
‘I think Chad might agree with you,’ said Patrick, who had caught sight of him striding across the piazza, dragging a protesting Harry by the hand.
‘My shorts are scratchy!’ said Harry, grabbing at said item of clothing, as his father, breathing hard, pulled up to a halt.
‘This is due to the fact that he is currently wearing no underwear,’ Chad informed the group. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask for details.’
‘Going commando, dude?’ said Gulliver. ‘Rock on.’
Harry paused, the process of his thoughts evident to all. If Gulliver, his hero, thought no pants was cool, then Harry was not about to argue.
‘Yeah!’ he said. ‘Commando!’
‘And on that high note,’ said Charlotte, ‘I propose we depart. If we make good time, we should be back no later than three.’
She bent down to Tom, who had reached the end of one his jumping rounds and was now at the bottom of the steps. Patrick observed that Benedict and Chad were desperately trying not to look up her skirt.
She was wearing Alans, he thought. Good thing, too.
‘Tom,’ Charlotte was saying, ‘we’re leaving now. We’re going on the cable car again, so you can watch the big metal rope that you liked so much.’
Tom looked up at her, which meant that he’d heard and understood.
That was one thing to be grateful for, Patrick supposed. Tom did know the words, even if he wouldn’t use them. Meant he wasn’t simple, if that was a term anyone used these days. Maybe there was a bit of hope, after all?
They drove back with the same people in each car. Patrick had begun to offer a seat to Gulliver, but Charlotte interrupted with some request about Tom, and by the time Patrick had replied, Gulliver was already in the back seat of the other car, wedged between Rosie and Harry.
Charlotte was even quieter on the return journey, Patrick noted. The first time she spoke was when they were only half a mile or so from the villa.
‘If you need help with Tom,’ she said, ‘when we’re back in London, I’d be more than happy to provide it.’
Patrick looked at her, surprised. ‘Thanks, but I’ll sort something out,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about it.’
‘No, really,’ said Charlotte, her tone more insistent. ‘I’d like to help. I’d even . . . well, if you needed someone at the house, I could perhaps step in there, too?’
‘Be my PA, my nanny and my housekeeper?’ said Patrick in disbelief. ‘Charlotte, it’s true, I may well be bloody useless, but that is way beyond the call of duty. You’re young, you have a full and active life. I’m hardly about to let you bugger it up because of me.’
‘Oh, but I—’
Whatever Charlotte was about to say was lost as Patrick caught sight of the villa.
‘What the fuck?’ he said with a frown.
Chad, arriving first, had pulled up as best he could next to the campervan, which had been haphazardly – and that was being kind, thought Patrick – parked in the space provided for the villa’s guests. Benedict was out of the car, hands clasped to his head in a gesture of horrified disbelief, peering at the driver’s side wing mirror, which appeared to have suffered – being kind again – a little damage.
‘Let me out here,’ Patrick said to Charlotte, ‘seems we have a situation.’
Charlotte stopped the car and he hopped from it, just as Michelle, Aishe and Anselo bowled out of the villa’s front door. Anselo, Patrick observed, looked tight-lipped and pale, as if he’d narrowly escaped an accident. Michelle, on the other hand, was flushed and animated. Aishe looked her usual self, but she raised an eyebrow at Patrick, an expression that said, ‘Brace yourself’.
‘What’s going on?’ Patrick said. ‘You all have a crash in the campervan?’
‘Is there something wrong with the campervan?’ Michelle gave it no more than a cursory glance. ‘But if that’s your guess, you’re not even close!’
‘Darrell’s run off with her ex,’ said Aishe, before Michelle could continue. ‘She did a bunk in Como today. Sent Michelle a text apologising. Didn’t say if she’d be back.’
Shit, thought Patrick. No wonder Anselo looked like he did, poor sod. Patrick knew they’d been having difficulties, but he’d ignored it. Too wrapped up in his own bloody crisis.
Patrick reached out and grasped Anselo’s shoulder. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘What can I do?’ said Anselo, dully. ‘I’ve no idea where he lives.’
‘Ah.’ Charlotte was holding Tom’s hand. ‘I may be able to help you with that one after all.’