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The Como–Brunate funicular went, as far as Darrell could tell, entirely vertically up the hill. There was nary a hint of an incline. It was as if you were being winched up from a sinking ship by a rescue team in a helicopter. Not such an inapposite comparison, Darrell felt, as she tightened her grip on the handle of Cosmo’s car seat. In a way, she had been rescued. But what would happen from then on, rather terrifyingly, was up to her.
Marcus had parked the Alfa at the top. He bundled them in and drove off, singing loudly, ‘Funiculi, funicu-la!’
Darrell knew that song. Noel Coward’s Mrs Wentworth Brewster, to whom life called and fate beckoned at a bar on the Piccolo Marina. All the Italian men flirted shamelessly with Mrs Brewster, which she found thrilling, and she refused to come home even when her la-di-bloody-da family begged her to.
Darrell wondered if anyone would beg her to come home.
Marcus said, ‘I’d planned to head straight back to my apartment. Unless you have another preference?’
Darrell’s reply, a shake of her head, prompted Marcus to reach out a hand and gently squeeze hers, which were clasped together on her lap, fingers kneading, as if she were cold.
‘You know, I’m not expecting anything,’ he said to her. ‘I know what I want, but I’m not expecting it. My intention is only to provide a friendly ear and place for you to gather your thoughts. What you choose to do then is wholly up to you. I won’t try to influence you one way or another.’
Darrell looked across and was met by his reassuring smile.
‘Why not?’ she said.
Marcus’ mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘Well, er,’ he began, ‘because that’s what I’ve always been led to believe a gentleman should do. Not that I’m a . . . oh, sod it,’ he frowned at her. ‘What are you saying? Do you want me to bend you to my will?’
‘No,’ Darrell said. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I only know that where I am right now, I can’t think straight. I feel like I need something real, concrete, to react to, rather than just a bunch of waffly emotions. I’m sorry,’ she said to him. ‘That sounds as if I’m using you. I don’t want it to be that, either.’
‘In that case, I will tell you what I want,’ said Marcus, ‘because that is as firm as Portland cement in my mind.’
Quickly, he added, ‘And let me restate that I do not expect anything from you in return. Having no expectations is a most excellent strategy to avoid disappointment and, as an added bonus, it heightens the pleasure of what you do receive. Everything is a nice surprise, you see.’
‘What if isn’t, though?’ said Darrell. ‘What if the surprise is nasty?’
Marcus smiled at her. ‘You’d be amazed at how little that happens to me,’ he said. ‘Barring my recent employment blip, my adult life has been highly entertaining. My theory is that when you have no expectations, the coin is much more likely to fall on the positive side. If you start imagining scenarios, you’re almost duty bound to imagine negative ones, and if you give any kind of darkness an inch, it takes a mile. Then you are, in the euphonious Hibernian syllables of Private Fraser in Dad’s Army, doomed.’
The buoyancy of his optimism filled Darrell with both gratitude and affection.
That’s why she adored him. He made her believe there was no reason why everything couldn’t turn out for the best.
‘Here we are.’ Marcus pulled up to the garage gates of the apartment complex. ‘My sweet home. For a little longer, at least.’
‘Has Gus told you when she’s coming back?’
Marcus lowered his window and pressed a number code on a keypad. ‘No, and she won’t,’ he said as they drove through the slowly opening gates. ‘She’ll turn up when she pleases and, depending on her mood, boot me out or invite me clubbing.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not that fond of your sister,’ said Darrell. ‘Sorry, but if we’re about to bare all, confessionally speaking, then you should probably know that.’
Manoeuvring into the parking space, Marcus was silent and Darrell worried that he was offended. But the look he gave her was one of wry amusement.
‘I am my sister’s best friend,’ he said, ‘due solely to the fact that no one else can tolerate her for more than five minutes. One of these days, when she is older, less beautiful and lacking the energy for such flagrant promiscuity, she may begin to see an advantage in being less selfish and demanding. But until that day, she will continue to be a prize bitch. I’m not at all surprised that you don’t like her.’
Overtaken by another rush of gratitude, Darrell leaned over and kissed his cheek. With a swift movement, Marcus caught her face with his hand and kissed her in return, but in this case, fully and firmly on the mouth. The little voice in Darrell’s mind told her that she should not let him, but it was instantly crushed under a stampede of hormones, emitting Zulu-warrior-like ululations of desire. When his tongue touched hers, a hint of the cacophony inside her must have escaped, because Marcus broke the kiss and sat back.
‘Not a good start,’ he said. ‘A pretty clear indication of what I want, but if this is to work, and I am genuinely to help you, then I strongly feel we should be pure as the driven. I’ll consent to patting you on the back if you need consoling, but otherwise no touching. Not even a friendly hug. Agreed?’
Darrell had to wait until the last of the stampede disappeared over the horizon before she trusted herself to answer.
‘Agreed.’
‘I may regret that,’ he said, with a grimace. ‘But come on, grab the bairn and let us away. You proceed to the couch and I’ll fetch a notebook and pencil. You’ll have to imagine the round spectacles and goatee beard.’
‘Thank you,’ said Darrell. ‘Really. I’m not sure how I’ll ever repay you.’
Marcus gave a shout of laughter. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is precisely the sort of scenario I do allow myself to imagine!’
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WHEN CHARLOTTE HANDED over the address on a piece of notepaper, Anselo’s first reaction was to crumple it in his hand and throw it hard as he could towards the lake. He stared down the mossy boat ramp at the paper bobbing on the water, his back to everyone, sensing all eyes upon him.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘How about you and I go inside and have a bowler?’ said Patrick.
If they were back home, Anselo thought, it’d be Jenico sitting him down to tell him why it was all his fault. He didn’t need to hear any of that spoken out loud. His head was full of it already.
‘What’s the point?’ Anselo said. ‘I should just go and pack.’
‘Get out the curvy sword, you mean?’ Aishe had come up on his other side.
‘She—’ Anselo checked himself. ‘Darrell has run off with her ex-boyfriend. My wife has left me for another man. What exactly is ambiguous about my position here?’
‘Do we know that for certain?’ said Aishe. ‘Perhaps she just needed someone to talk to?’
‘Talk,’ Anselo said. ‘Right.’
‘You got a lot off your chest this morning,’ said Aishe. ‘A veritable landslide of crap. Who’s to say Darrell’s not unburdening as we speak? I mean, it’s not like she could talk to you, is it?’
Anselo was silent.
‘Go inside with Patrick,’ said Aishe. ‘It’s easier to moan about women to another guy. And he’ll let you get away with more macho posturing than I ever would. Who knows? Between you, you might be able to get halfway towards sorting this out.’
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‘THIS STUDY SMELLS LIKE teenage boy,’ said Patrick. ‘And after only two days. Amazing.’
There were only two places to sit in the study – the divan that had recently doubled as Gulliver’s bed and an old leather office chair. Patrick took the chair.
Good choice, thought Anselo. There’d be only one reason why Gulliver had left the campervan. Anselo pulled the covers up on the divan and avoided looking at the sheets beneath.
Anselo remembered how stealthy he’d been in his own teenage years. But whether that had been to avoid his mother’s recriminations about extra laundry or because he’d felt ashamed, he could not say.
Shame, he decided. It seemed to have been a popular motif throughout his life.
Protesting squeaks told Anselo, without looking, that Patrick was now swivelling in the old chair, slowly, back and forth. Anselo braced himself.
But Patrick said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been a right elephant.’
Anselo had to think. Oh yeah, Elephant and Castle. Arsehole.
‘I should have paid more attention to what was going on with you and Darrell,’ Patrick went on, ‘instead of letting myself get sucked down into the tar pit of self-pity.’
Anselo screwed up his mouth. ‘Can’t say as I’ve been much better. I don’t even recall asking how you were after Clare left.’
The two men stared at each other.
‘Some holiday this has been,’ said Patrick. ‘We’d have had more fun if the plane had fucking crashed.’
Anselo managed a grin, and then propped his elbows on his knees and briefly hung his head. With a deep breath, he sat up again and looked across at his cousin.
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop being angry.’
‘Angry at Darrell?’ said Patrick.
Anselo nodded. Then immediately frowned and shook his head.
‘She’s the focus of it, but I know she’s not the cause. The cause is in me, but every time I look inside, I see something I despise and which I have no clue how to fix. I don’t like who I am, I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know how to be. And I can’t deal with any of it – simple fact. Which is why I’m always so fucking angry.’
‘That’s honest,’ said Patrick. ‘Being honest with yourself is a good start.’
‘Points for me,’ said Anselo, with bitterness. ‘But if that’s as far as I get, then I’ll be out of the game in no time. Relegated all the way down the league tables to Huddersfield and District Works and Combination.’
‘Well, try this,’ said Patrick after a moment. ‘What do you think you want?’
Jesus, thought Anselo. How many times had he asked himself that question?
Anselo got up from the divan and moved to the window. He pressed his fist against the glossy white wooden frame and stared out, down onto the lake that sparkled blue and silver, serene and barely troubled by waves, as it had since the day they arrived. There was a rowboat below, bobbing twenty feet from the stone wall that marked the lake edge. In it were two old men and a young boy, perhaps eight years old. They were threading bait on hooks, the older men showing the boy how to do it. The trio were smiling and relaxed, even the boy, who had a lean wiriness that suggested he was constantly on the move.
They enjoyed being together, thought Anselo. They were easy in each other’s company.
What did he want? He wanted to be acknowledged – not taken for granted, side-lined or ignored. He wanted respect. He didn’t want to be some two-bit Roma pleb who would never amount to anything. He wanted to be at ease with himself, to live and love generously and openly and be loved that way in return. Above all, Anselo wanted to feel like he was a real father to his son. Not some shadowy figure forever in the background of his life.
‘Any thoughts?’ said Patrick.
Anselo gave a short laugh and turned from the window.
‘Truthfully?’ he said. ‘My main thought is that I’d give anything to be more like you.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Patrick, astonished. ‘For fuck’s sake – why?’
Anselo felt colour rise in his face. Oh well, this had been a day of humiliation from start to finish. Why stop now?
‘Because you’re in control,’ he said, quickly. ‘You have power. You know how to make people do what you want.’
Patrick stared at him for a beat well past comfort. His expression was hard to read, but Anselo was convinced he saw pity there.
‘Do you still love Darrell?’ Patrick asked.
The question put Anselo immediately on the defensive. What did that have to do with it?
‘I’d say it’s pretty clear that she no longer loves me,’ he said.
‘I’m not asking her what she feels,’ said Patrick.
‘What difference does it make?’ Anselo yelled. ‘I have no control over what she does! That’s my whole point! I have no control over anyone!’
The look Patrick gave his younger cousin this time was kind.
‘I can categorically state that I love Clare,’ Patrick said, ‘love her with all my heart. And if I get the chance, I’ll own my part in creating this mess and I’ll apologise for it. Then it’ll be over to Clare, and if she decides against me, I’ll have to suck it up.’
‘You’d give up?’ Anselo frowned. ‘Just like that?’
‘It’s not a question of giving up!’ said Patrick, exasperated. ‘I’ll be honest with her! I’ll state my case! I may even fucking beg. It’s a question of acknowledging that Clare is her own person, with her own feelings and her own mind!’
The chair creaked as he leaned forward.
‘My major fuck-up was forgetting that,’ Patrick said. ‘I rode roughshod over Clare for my own ends, my own ego, and I paid the price. And now, no matter what how much I might want it, I can’t force her to be with me. Can’t force her to love me.’
‘Why not?’ Anselo said. ‘You’ve made people do what you want for years.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Patrick sat up straight. ‘What I’ve done is been clear about what I wanted and then held my ground. It was always up to them to decide how they’d react to that. If they’d decided to say no, I could never have forced them to change their minds. Mostly, they said yes. But that was their choice, not mine.’
He looked Anselo right in the eye. ‘This is my point. The only person I can and should have any control over,’ he said, ‘is me.’
Anselo had to look away, back out the window. His heart was beating oddly and he had a strange sensation of disconnectedness, as if he’d suddenly discovered that he’d been looking at the world upside down all his life.
Patrick’s hand on his shoulder made him jump. He’d not heard the older man get up.
‘It took me years to work that out,’ Patrick said to him. ‘Fucking years. When I was young, I thought I could do anything I wanted, and I thought it was perfectly OK to bully people into doing it with me. I figured they agreed because they liked me or because they were afraid of me, and I didn’t much care which. Took me years to work out they agreed because they were afraid of what others might think of them. They were afraid that if someone else thought they were a pansy or a wimp, then that’s what they were. They didn’t have the bottle to stand their own ground and decide for themselves what kind of men they ought to be.’
Patrick gave Anselo’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘I lost Clare because I lost sight of the man I’d decided to be. I’m not all that fucking sure I can get him back, to be honest, but I’m prepared to put in the yards.’
‘But I don’t know what kind of man I need to be,’ Anselo said in despair. ‘I have absolutely no fucking idea.’
A rap on the door startled them both. As they turned, Aishe entered.
‘At the risk of sounding like Suzy Smug-bitch,’ she said, ‘seems I was right about Darrell. We just got a call from a Marcus Reynolds, who says he’s driving over from Como to bring your wife back home. They’ll be here around seven.’
‘Well, there you go,’ murmured Anselo to Patrick. ‘I’ve got just under an hour to finally get that idea nailed.’