The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  Stephen hesitated, wanting to do justice to the extraordinary business of meeting Cassie Harrison and the certain knowledge that such a task would be impossible. Explaining love at first sight was a tough call at the best of times, let alone to someone with whom he felt so out of touch, who was clearly down on his luck and who, Stephen thought, should have stayed in the box of the past to which he had hitherto confined him. Though he was on Christmas-card terms with his parents, these days, cutting loose from the first eighteen years of his life had been as fundamental and deliberate as a snake shedding a dead skin. ‘I was doing some research on Cassie's uncle for a book – my first – about unrecognized heroes of the Second World War. I went to interview Cassie's parents about him at their place in Sussex.’ Stephen paused, as an image of Ashley House shimmered in his mind, with its frothing ivied walls, and chimney-stacks rising like periscopes out of the angled sea of its grey slate roof. ‘And, well, Cassie was there too. I ended up staying for supper. We played Scrabble and…’

  ‘Scrabble?’

  Stephen looked away quickly, cursing himself for even beginning to attempt to lead his friend on to such hallowed ground. How could Keith or anyone else understand what had happened to him that day? A bachelor and a cynic, he had fallen in love so instantly and deeply that even now, six years on, he trembled to remember it. A long period of mad pursuit had followed, while Cassie had remained indifferent, going through her own private tortures over a married man who had promised to leave his wife but never quite managed it.

  ‘Scrabble?’ Keith repeated with an irreverent guffaw, thinking for no good reason of Stephen's sister, Claire, whom he had screwed once, really quickly, standing up in the little alleyway that ran alongside their house, leaning against the cold wall for support. She'd never given him a second glance after that, though personally Keith would have been happy to keep the thing going. She was in Canada now, Stephen had said, with teenaged kids and a husband who spoke French.

  Stephen was searching for a way to change the subject when Elizabeth, frumpy in spite of a glittering black dress and crimson lipstick, bounced up to him. ‘The house is lovely, Stephen, just lovely. I've been having a snoop upstairs, I hope you don't mind.’

  ‘Not at all. This is Keith Holmes, a very old friend from my dim and distant youth. Keith, this is Elizabeth, Cassie's elder sister. She lives in Sussex too, very near Cassie's mother. And now, if you'll excuse me…’ Stephen edged away. Cassie chose that moment to catch his eye. She smiled and the rest of the room melted away. Stephen mouthed, ‘I love you,’ and held up ten fingers, silently pronouncing the words ‘Ten months to go.’ He had to do it twice before she laughed in happy recognition, mouthing ‘I love you too,’ as she manoeuvred her way to Pamela, who was sitting alone on a high-backed chair, staring about her with the air of a bemused child.

  ‘Your mother doesn't seem too good,’ whispered Helen, perching on the arm of Peter's chair. She touched his shoulder briefly, wondering whether to inquire after the back muscles he had strained exercising the day before. Since his aunt's funeral – maybe even because of it, Helen mused – he seemed to have cranked up his fitness regime to a new level. If he didn't get to the gym from chambers he had taken to punishing himself for an hour in the evening, alternating between the bike and the rowing machine now installed in the games room of their new extension. ‘Definitely worse than at the funeral.’

  ‘Do you think so? I think she looks rather well.’ Peter glanced across the room, relieved to see that Charlie was taking his turn at Pamela's side. ‘In fact, she's done bloody well to come. Managing these things without Dad must still be hard for her.’ He ran his hand across his forehead, briefly fingering his eyebrows – so bushy, these days – and the contrastingly smooth small circle of his bald patch. As one got older, hair grew in all the least desired places, he was discovering, while simultaneously absenting itself from where it was most needed. ‘Would you go ga-ga if I died?’ he asked after a pause, making a ghoulish face.

  Helen chuckled. ‘I hope not. What a horrible thought. And, anyway, I didn't mean to suggest for a moment that your mother is remotely ga-ga.’ She hesitated, twisting her rope of pearls round her index finger as she pondered her mother-in-law, whom she had always found tricky – one of those quiet but immensely strong characters, who dominated a room, or an atmosphere, by saying nothing at all. ‘She just sort of floats sometimes and… well, she is repeating herself more, isn't she? She must have asked after Genevieve at least three times tonight.’

  Peter flexed his shoulders, grimacing at the knots of resistance that had taken root inside. ‘At seventy-nine a little absent-mindedness should be perfectly allowable,’ he growled, feeling as if he was defending something beyond the mental agility of his mother. ‘For years your dear parents couldn't find a butter-dish without each other's help. And of course she's going to ask a lot about Genevieve because she adores Genevieve and having lost one little granddaughter she probably wishes she saw more of this one.’

  ‘Talking of which…’ Helen tapped a fingernail on the face of her wristwatch. She was in no mood to have her spirits dampened by references to the tragedy of their niece; neither did she want Peter to tell her, for the umpteenth time, that they didn't spend enough weekends with his family in the country. Ashley House was lovely, of course – rather like a grand hotel – but Genevieve was just as happy playing with her little friends in their own substantial house and garden in Barnes, while Chloe had netball matches, parties and increasing piles of homework to get through. More crucially, Peter often returned from the place in a fractious mood. After his funeral stop-over he had been positively stormy – from a hangover, he claimed, but Helen suspected that something more was going on, some fracas with Charlie, who was a dear but could also be maddeningly bumbling and indecisive. Probing had got her nowhere. The only good result of the visit, as far as she could see, was that her idea about the Italian villa had apparently received rapturous approval. She had confirmed the booking just that morning, emailing credit-card details and contact phone numbers, then gone to another website to reserve five very reasonably priced return tickets to Rome. Afterwards Helen had felt elated. They had spent far too many precious summer breaks making do with patchy sunshine and Ashley House's sludgy lake, reserving escapes to warmer climes for snatched weeks in the autumn. Working for years against Peter's obstinacy, Helen had been nothing short of ecstatic at his acceptance of her new plan. The rest of the Harrison clan accompanying them, while not ideal, was an easy price to pay. She was fond of her husband's family, and would feel even fonder, she was sure, under blue Umbrian skies, surrounded by olive groves, with a swimming-pool, not to mention a maid, who would shop for essentials, provide fresh towels and wipe their wet footprints from the villa's spectacular marble floors. ‘I told Rita we'd be back by eleven,’ she said now, her mind leaping from track to track as it always did – as it had to – to stay on top of things. ‘It wouldn't be fair on either of them if Genny wakes for any reason – you know what she's like.’

  ‘Indeed I do, and it's not yet ten,’ Peter replied, wearily noting his wife's capacity to worry about arrangements to leave a place just minutes after she had crossed its threshold. He was weary, too, of the pain firing like electric shocks across his upper back, making hard work of what should have been an enjoyable occasion. But they had done the long trek from Barnes to Camden and he was determined not to let the demands of their delightful but exhausting four-year-old interrupt it prematurely.

  Helen got off the arm of the chair and impatiently smoothed out the lap of her blue silk dress, which showed off her skinny figure but creased at the slightest ruffling. ‘And there's Chloe too. We've got to collect her from her sleepover at eight tomorrow morning, so a late night wouldn't be a good idea.’

  ‘Really, Helen, stop fussing.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, in such an uncharacteristic and sudden change of tack that he glanced at her in surprise. Helen looked away quickly, fiddling with the
clasp on her evening bag, wishing they were leaving for Umbria the next day instead of in five months' time. Peter was right, she was always fussing. It was like a reflex she couldn't control. She hadn't always been like that. When she was pregnant with Genevieve a wonderful tranquillity had descended from nowhere, making her feel unworried, powerful and at peace. Filling her, unbidden, like some holy grace, it had ebbed away again, leaving her as she was now – as she had been when Theo and Chloe were small – whirling like a dervish between appointments and commitments, dragging anxiety and maternal guilt behind her like a ball and chain.

  ‘Hello, you two. Are you all right over here? Peter, someone said you'd hurt your neck.’

  ‘It was my shoulder, but it's fine, Cassie, thank you.’ Peter heaved himself out of his chair with as much agility as he could muster and kissed his sister on both cheeks. ‘Congratulations again. We're so happy for the pair of you, aren't we, Helen?’

  ‘Delighted,’ said Helen, smoothly. ‘Though I gather we've all got to wait until January for the happy day.’

  ‘It's not ideal, is it?’ gushed Cassie, too happy with the evening and life in general to mind the dryness of her sister-in-law's tone. ‘But there's so much to factor in, what with our work commitments and so on. What it does mean is that we have heaps of time to organize the thing properly. Charlie and Serena are being fantastic, saying Ashley House will be at our disposal. We're looking at marquees already; it turns out you can get special ones for the winter and in all sorts of exotic shapes too – Stephen's current favourite is like a cross between Tower Bridge and the Taj Mahal.’ Cassie paused for breath, aware amid her exuberance of a faint temptation to disclose the possibility of another momentous event on the horizon, an event connected to the fact that as of that morning her period was officially three days overdue. Three whole days! It had been one day late before – two once, but never three. Stephen, still wary of the whole concept of parenthood, insisted it was far too early to make plans, but Cassie couldn't help thinking that if she was pregnant they might have to rush the wedding and maybe focus a big Ashley House gathering on a christening instead. ‘So, all in all it'll be a bit like your fiftieth, Peter,’ she continued gaily, ‘a big tent on the lawn, slap-up food, and probably a jazz band because Stephen's mad about jazz.’

  ‘How super,’ murmured Helen, unmoved by her sister-in-law's girlish enthusiasm. To her a big white wedding seemed faintly ridiculous for a woman of almost forty-three, even if it was the first time down the aisle for both parties. There was something theatrical about Peter's younger sister that never failed to annoy her, as if she lived for display rather than substance, perhaps from having spent too many years focusing on wallpapers and carpet swatches, Helen decided, casting a beady look at Cassie but saying sweetly, ‘How lovely for your mother to have another family wedding to look forward to, and at St Margaret's, too, where she and John married all those years ago.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mum is pleased.’ Cassie cast an affectionate glance at the upright figure perched alone now on a high-backed chair. ‘I'm so glad she came tonight – I'm so glad all of you came – it means the world to me, and to Stephen, not having a family of his own to speak of… at least, not like ours. His sister lives in Canada and he's on such poor terms with his parents that he says he doesn't want me to meet them before the wedding. He isn't even sure he's going to invite them, which is so sad, don't you think? Mum does seem frail, though, doesn't she?’ she added, gazing wistfully at Pamela. ‘All I can say is, thank God she's got darling Charlie and Serena to look after her. It takes the worry from all of us.’

  ‘Thank God indeed,’ murmured Helen. Without Peter's extraordinarily bold decision to pass the inheritance of the family home to his younger brother, such a fate might have been hers. She wasn't good with frailty. Even when the children were ill she felt a sort of deep impatience with it all – the sticky plastic spoons, the waiting, the endless uncontrollability of their recovery, perky one minute and floppy the next, just when you'd got your hopes up. Attempting to look after Pamela would have driven her mad. All her set ways and naps and cups of tea, and with no end in sight other than increasing fragility and death. It made her shudder just to think of it. At least with a child's soaring temperature or one of Peter's awful fluey colds, when she often wanted to shake the self-pity out of him as much as the illness, one could hold on to the cheering thought that it was finite. Remembering his strained shoulder suddenly, fearing it might be the start of some lingering malaise, she reached up and rubbed her palm tenderly across his upper back. ‘And as for you, a visit to the physio might be in order.’

  Peter flinched. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I know a brilliant one,’ put in Cassie, brightly. ‘She's not far from you either, in Richmond. She works from home – it's a beautiful house, right on the river. I tell you, decorating the place was pure heaven. Her husband's a corporate lawyer or something – loads of money. She sorted out my clicky ankle, and Stephen's been to her a couple of times for his neck, which seizes up from sitting at his computer all day. I'll give you her number, Peter – don't let me forget, will you? Now I'd better circulate. Catch you later.’

  ‘Sometimes I think I preferred your sister when she was single and subdued,’ muttered Helen, darkly.

  ‘Now, now,’ scolded Peter, but with a twinkle in his eye because he knew exactly what she meant. ‘Come on, we'll circulate too – for twenty more minutes before we get out of here.’ He began to move, then grimaced, gripping his sore shoulder.

  ‘I'll get that number off Cassie,’ said Helen, alarmed at the pain on her husband's face. He was fifty-five, after all, she reminded herself, just three years older than her. People might well boast that fifty was the new forty, but it was meaningless if one didn't hang on to one's health.

  Sitting on her chair with her handbag on her lap, Pamela kept her eyes down. Everybody, she felt, was watching her. She was watching herself. It was hateful. It made her feel unsafe, on constant red alert for a slip of memory, tongue or digestive system. Everything was worse if you worried about it, she knew, but it was impossible not to worry, especially being away from Ashley House in a place where nothing was familiar. Just the thrum of the London traffic that evening, the sirens, the car radios, the rumble of buses, had made her draw away from the window, reluctant even to peer out at such an imposing, alien world. And then, arriving at the party, she had been bursting for the loo, as she had known she would be, even though she had restricted herself to one cup of tea all afternoon. It was ridiculous to need the loo after so little, and all down to worry, of course – much more to do with her head than her waterworks – but what good was it to know that when the worry wouldn't stop and the ache in her bladder was as keen as a twisting knife? ‘Cassie, dear, I need to go,’ she had whispered, as soon as they were in the hall and being offered drinks.

  ‘But you must use our en suite,’ her daughter had insisted kindly, delivering hasty instructions about going up the stairs and turning right and left and second and third doors, then leaping away to let in more guests. Arriving on the landing, panting from the long flight of stairs, Pamela stared about her blankly. She tried various doors, tentatively at first and then with real urgency as the ache in her stomach grew unspeakable and a dreadful sensation of clammy wetness seeped into her pants. Stumbling at last on the main bedroom and its handsome en suite, she closed the door only to find there was no lock. Precious seconds were wasted while Pamela absorbed this unsettling fact, pitting her mounting desperation against visions of her soon-to-be son-in-law barging in to find her straddled on the loo, wad of paper in hand, every remaining shred lost of her already crumbling dignity. Desperation had won in the end, though the vision of Stephen opening the door remained throughout, rushing her unpleasantly as she relieved and cleaned herself as best she could. Afterwards, looking at her reflection in their mirrored wall above the basin, Pamela had held up her hands and watched them tremble. ‘Hopeless old woman,’ she had scolded herself, digging courage f
rom her anger and squeezing her hands into fists. ‘Stop being such a fool.’ She had felt better after that, even humming a little as she powdered the shine from her forehead and filled the thinning line of her mouth with lipstick.

  Walking back through the bedroom, she was able to take more notice of her surroundings – the forget-me-not blue curtains, the pretty trellises of flowers on the wallpaper, the long soft pile of the new cream carpet, the creaseless white duvet and pillows as plump as ripe fruit. Like the proverbial clean sheet, Pamela had thought wistfully, pressing a dimple into the duvet with one fingertip and remembering all the wonder of new love and the rich, complicated map of marriage that followed.

  Going out on to the landing she almost bumped into Roland. ‘Hello, darling, are you looking for the loo?’

  ‘No, Gran,’ mumbled her grandson, blushing. ‘Stephen said if I was bored I could come up to his study and play on his computer. He's got loads of games apparently – says he prefers them to writing his books.’ Roland glanced over the banisters, aware that if his mother saw him he'd be hauled downstairs again.