| |
Charlotte must have committed some truly heinous acts in a past life. Why else would God be punishing her in such a fashion? The only time she could recall feeling such exasperation was when she was a child bobbing for apples. No matter how widely she opened her mouth, she could never get a grip on their shiny pippin surfaces. Every time she thought she had one, it scooted away, humming a taunting pippin ditty. All she’d achieved was a face soaked with cold water and boiled red with humiliation.
She’d been so close! She’d spent the whole drive back from Bergamo working up the nerve to broach the subject, and his only real objection had been that it would not be good for her! An objection she could have easily overcome, thought Charlotte, if God had not seen fit to assume an ex machina role and contrive a ridiculous and distracting plot twist.
Curse Darrell and her attention-seeking absconding, thought Charlotte. Curse her husband for being so emotionally half-baked as to require counselling. For hours. By the man she had so very nearly persuaded to let her move in with him.
And now, curse Darrell again for her equally dramatic re-entrance, escorted by the man who had assured her that he would leave Darrell alone! Every step forward Charlotte took, Patrick’s family members propelled her nine steps backwards. It was impossible!
Despite her aggravation, Charlotte had to admit that she was intrigued to witness the reunion. It had been decided that this should occur in the garden. Possibly because there were fewer things to break there if a fight erupted.
She hadn’t seen much at the onset because the family had crowded her out of the front row. But being forced to hang back meant she’d been the only one in a position to overhear the brief conversation that occurred when Marcus beckoned to Anselo, and the two men left the group on the lawn and moved closer to the loggia.
Anselo, Charlotte had seen by the rigidity of his posture, resented being summoned with every fibre of his being and was now fully on the defensive. As it turned out, the men’s conversation was brief and entirely one-sided.
Marcus had said, ‘She thinks the breakdown of your marriage is all her fault, which, as you and I both know, is balls. She also wants to make it work with you, which I think is admirable, but not so admirable that I intend to bow out of the picture completely. Just so we’re clear.’
Then he’d added, ‘And if you ever again threaten her with separation from her child, then I will not hesitate to have you killed. Again, just so we’re clear.’
Charlotte had been so sure that Marcus was about to receive a right hook, that her mouth had actually dropped open with surprise when all Anselo did was nod once, curtly, and then walk back to the group. Charlotte had watched him put his hand on Darrell’s shoulder and, in answer to her entreating look, lead her gently back inside.
This had caused a barrage of debate amongst those remaining, which Patrick had quelled by proposing, loudly, that they all bugger off to the pizzeria in the village, where they should proceed to order a mountain of food and a bucket of alcohol. Some in the group had demurred until Patrick had added the magic words, ‘My shout’, and everyone had bundled immediately back into the villa to get ready.
Everyone except Charlotte, who’d decided that if they hadn’t noticed her absence, she did not intend to remind them.
She couldn’t cope with proximity to Patrick right now. She was desperate to re-open their conversation, but she could hardly do that with a dozen flapping ears around them. Frustration, she decided, was currently spelled with two fs, as in Fforbes.
The smell of cigarette smoke brought her attention to the fact she was not alone. Marcus had retreated to the far end of the loggia. He was slouching, one hand shoved in his front trouser pocket, and smoking at speed – all of which suggested to Charlotte that he was not as composed as he’d appeared during his speech to Anselo.
Charlotte’s footfall on the path made his head jerk round, and when he saw who it was, his mouth twitched in a brief, sheepish sort of smile.
‘I’ll have one more cigarette,’ he said, ‘and then I shall ride off into the sunset.’
‘You are far too treacherous to be pegged as the hero,’ said Charlotte. ‘You made me a promise!’
‘I think if you replay our conversation,’ said Marcus, ‘you’ll find I did no such thing. And I think you will also find,’ he added, with heat, ‘that I have been as self-sacrificing a hero as ever graced the pages of legend! I have lain prostrate on the altar and offered myself willingly for the greater good!’
Charlotte watched him tug a rather squashed packet of cigarettes from his back pocket and proceed to light his next with his current one, the butt of which he then dropped on the path and ground under his heel.
‘I have been the very pink of politeness,’ he added, ‘and the pineapple of perfection. I’ve never behaved so bloody well in my life. It’s astonishing what love will make you do.’
Charlotte kept quiet, not trusting herself to comment.
Marcus drew on the cigarette and blew smoke slowly into the evening air before replying.
‘I thought I’d been in love before,’ he said, ‘but on reflection, I suspect it was infatuation rather than the real thing. No better than a schoolboy crush, except with more inventive and proficient sex.’
Charlotte had a sudden vision of amaretti biscuits and had to close her eyes and breathe deeply for a moment or two.
‘This experience has been very different,’ Marcus said. ‘And it’s been sheer hell to boot. My God, the frustration of wanting something that badly and being unable to have it!’
‘Oh, Lord.’ Charlotte could not help herself. ‘Tell me about it.’
Marcus proceeded to take that as literal instruction.
‘For the first time,’ he said, ‘I could see myself as a man with something to offer besides an aptitude for shameless coupling. I could see myself as a provider and a protector – a husband, a father – and for the first time ever in my entire life, I absolutely bloody craved it. Of course,’ he waved the cigarette around, ‘right now I have no home and no visible means of support, but I could see that those would only be temporary obstacles. I could picture it so clearly that I could almost smell it—’
He paused. ‘You’ll laugh at this.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Charlotte. ‘My capacity for mirth is currently at an all-time low.’
‘I could see us all,’ Marcus continued, as if Charlotte had not spoken, ‘Darrell, Cosmo and I, in a little cottage in the country. Darrell upstairs, in a room that looked out over the fields, writing away, and Cosmo and I out in the garden doing . . . well, whatever one does in a garden. I could see a small farm, a few sheep and cows. I could see myself being very happy indeed.’
‘Forgive me for bursting your bucolic bubble,’ said Charlotte, ‘but a few sheep and cows do not constitute a visible means of support, no matter what Beatrix Potter has to say on the matter.’
‘I don’t think she wrote about sheep and cows, did she?’ said Marcus. ‘I thought bunny rabbits and mousekins were more her line?’
‘Probably,’ said Charlotte. ‘My critical faculties are likewise at an all-time low.’
Marcus exhaled a contemplative drift of smoke and stared at her, until Charlotte began to wish that he wouldn’t.
‘I’ve been a bit of a cad with you, haven’t I?’
‘A cad?’ said Charlotte. ‘Does anyone use that term these days?’
‘And a bounder,’ said Marcus, undeterred. ‘I let you clean my flat, when I should have hired a daily weeks back. And I gave you the brush-off that morning I came bearing eggs. I’ve been rude. I apologise.’
‘You were experiencing your first real love’ said Charlotte, ‘and I can attest that it doesn’t do much for one’s ability to care about anyone else.’
‘If I’m to tip the karmic scales in my favour, I need to earn some merit,’ said Marcus. ‘So, hey nonny nonny, no more caddishness for me. Time to have both feet on either sea or shore and be constant to one thing ever.’
Charlotte frowned. ‘Do I interpret that to mean that you’re not giving up on Darrell?’
‘Due to my newly minted desire to behave well, I will back off for the time being,’ said Marcus. ‘However, instinct tells me that this union will continue on shaky ground, so I will keep watch from afar and if I perceive so much as a hairline fracture, I will be in like Flynn to restate my case.’
With one last drag, he dropped the cigarette on the path and stubbed it out with his toe.
‘I’d best go now,’ he said, ‘before the mob returns with the tar and feathers.’
Smiling, Marcus stepped in front her.
‘Thank you for listening, Charlotte Fforbes,’ he said. ‘And take care of yourself. Not that you aren’t doing a sterling job of that already.’
Then he cupped her cheek and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Any distaste Charlotte may have had for the smell of nicotine was overridden by a buzz of desire, sharp as a static shock. But the kiss was over – more’s the pity, thought Charlotte – in a second.
‘You’ll pick those up before you go,’ said a voice behind Marcus.
How did he do that, thought Charlotte, crossly? For such a big man, Ned covered the ground as soundlessly as a tiger.
Ned pointed at the two cigarette butts on the path. ‘Pick those up.’
Marcus stood straight, facing him. ‘And who are you, precisely?’
He glanced enquiringly at Charlotte, who had also moved forward. ‘Who is he? A giant-sized Uncle Bulgaria? Scourge of litterbugs the world over?’
‘This is Ned,’ said Charlotte. ‘He’s the gardener. And I will pick up the butts,’ she added. ‘Don’t start!’ she ordered Ned, who had begun to protest. ‘I’ve had quite enough drama for one day.’
She made a shooing motion with her hand at Marcus. ‘Go!’ she said. ‘Arrivederci!’
Marcus directed a frown at Ned. ‘Is he safe off the leash like this?’
‘Yes!’ Charlotte said. ‘Go! Pronto!’
And to her relief, Marcus went.
‘Must you always clash antlers like that?’ she said to Ned. ‘There is such a thing as a civilised request, you know! It does not have to be accompanied by bellowing and pawing of the ground!’
‘He kissed tha,’ said Ned, put out.
‘He kissed me goodbye!’ said Charlotte. ‘Even Italian men kiss each other goodbye!’
For the first time, she noticed that he was not in his overalls, but in the ochre-coloured trousers and dark-blue shirt – his good clothes, Charlotte observed.
‘Where are you off to?’ she said briskly. ‘Do you have a date?’
‘Course not.’ Ned shook his head, with an irritated frown. ‘Who would I be dating?’
‘Oh, that’s right, holiday season is over.’ Charlotte stooped and picked up the two cigarette butts. She looked around for somewhere to put them and began to walk towards the table on the lawn.
Charlotte dropped the butts on the table and, with a grimace of distaste, wiped her hand on her skirt. The pink dress needed cleaning, anyway. Besides, they’d be back in England in three days, and a London September was unlikely to be anywhere near as balmy.
She felt the touch of Ned’s hand on her arm.
‘Charlotte,’ he said, and something about his tone made her stop and stand very still.
‘Charlotte, I weren’t going t’ say nowt,’ Ned went on, ‘because what can I, what can you possibly—’
He halted. Charlotte could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I can’t get this out.’
Ned had turned his head away, but Charlotte could see his face was tight with stress. She wanted to ask if alcohol would help, as she, personally, had a sudden and strong urge to consume vast amounts of wine. But she had a sense that any comment she made right now would hit a wrong note. So, she kept quiet, and waited.
Ned drew in a breath and turned back. ‘Charlotte, I want you t’ stay. Or I want t’ go wi’ you. I love you.’
Charlotte had always thought the phrase “weak at the knees” was an outmoded Victorianism, akin to clasping a delicate hand to one’s brow before swooning. But it happened – her knees refused to hold her up – and she was forced to grab a chair and sit hastily upon it.
‘Ned,’ was all she managed.
‘I’m sorry!’ he said. ‘I didn’t want t’ spring it on you, but tha’ll be off in only days and . . . and I were afraid that if you’d not had time t’ think about it here wi’ me around, if you went straight away, then you’d think twice, and you’d—’
‘Ned, you can’t love me,’ Charlotte said, with mounting urgency. ‘You can’t.’
‘I can,’ said Ned, bewildered. ‘I do.’
‘You don’t know me!’ Charlotte almost yelled. ‘You said so yourself! You’re mistaking sex for love!’
‘No.’ Ned was shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘Oh, God.’ Charlotte’s voice was muffled as she buried her face in her hands.
Above her, she heard a long, slow and slightly ragged exhalation of breath.
‘Tis all right,’ he said. His voice was dulled with resignation and, Charlotte heard plainly, self-loathing. ‘I had hoped, but . . . seems I were mistaken in that. I don’t blame thee. What do I have that tha could possibly want?’
‘Ned, please don’t,’ said Charlotte in despair. ‘You have so much to offer. That’s not the reason I can’t love you. The reason is that I am in love with someone else.’
Ned gave a sharp hiss.
He was not expecting that, thought Charlotte. And fair enough, too. She’d given him no clue. She’d not given anyone a clue.
‘Why didn’t you say owt before?’ he demanded. ‘Who? Who is it?’
Charlotte hesitated. It would hurt him, badly. But he’d been so brave and so honest that she owed him the same in return.
And with a sense that she was pulling the pin on a grenade, Charlotte told him.