The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  Elizabeth glanced again at Serena's pallid face, recognizing how impossible it would have been to tell her about the little Pakistani girl. Keith had been right there too. It was too pertinent, too dreadful, especially now with her sister-in-law so haunted again, drowning in this new, equally dreadful bereavement.

  Elizabeth eased her grip on her cutlery and began to eat steadily, taking dainty sips of her wine as she tried to do these days, so that sometimes the cork went back into the bottle instead of being lobbed straight into the bin. She liked it that Keith had been right. She liked loving someone who was right. ‘I thought we could go for a drive after this,’ she suggested cheerfully, ‘to Chichester – maybe stop at a few hostels and ask some questions. I've got a picture all ready to show them. Look.’ She reached behind her for a brown envelope and pulled out a photograph of Ed sitting on the bench in the cloisters at Ashley House, looking towards the camera as if he hoped it might take him more seriously than the rest of the world. ‘It's the one Theo took last year when he was doing stills of all the family. Do you remember? Trying out one of his endless lenses… Oh dear, oh, Serena, don't cry, please don't cry.’ Elizabeth hurried round the table to comfort her. As she did so Roland, still half asleep and dressed only in his boxers, appeared in the doorway. At a nod from his mother, he grabbed the box of tissues that lived by the toaster and put them on the table next to his aunt's plate of untouched food.

  ‘A girl at my school ran away this term,’ he ventured, after Serena had blown her nose. ‘Turned out she was camping in a shed at the bottom of the garden. She was scared of her A levels, apparently. They've said she doesn't have to do them. She's going to train to be a nanny instead. You only need a few GCSEs for that.’

  ‘There, you see?’ exclaimed Elizabeth, smoothing a strand of hair off Serena's forehead. ‘Exam pressure, the poor loves, that's all it is.’

  ‘I should get my GCSE results just before Italy,’ added Roland, momentarily diverted from the effort of consolation.

  ‘We might not be going to Italy,’ countered Elizabeth, quickly. ‘If Ed isn't back, we're holidaying at Ashley House instead, remember?’

  ‘If Ed isn't back,’ said Serena, quietly, plucking shreds off her tissue as if they were petals on a flower, ‘I'm not going anywhere either. I would rather die than go to Umbria still not knowing if he's safe.’

  After Serena had left for her lunch with Elizabeth, Pamela put on her wellingtons and took Poppy down the lane. The dog trotted at her heels for a few yards, then darted off in pursuit of a squirrel, emerging from the undergrowth a few minutes later with a fat muddy stick between her teeth.

  ‘I'm not throwing that for you,’ said Pamela, crossly, stepping over the stick when the dog, with irrepressible optimism, dropped it at her feet. ‘You'll have to find one a lot smaller – and cleaner, come to that, silly girl.’ Undeterred, Poppy retrieved the stick and bounded on ahead, tail high. Pamela slowed her pace, her feet uncomfortably hot in the wellingtons she had worn because of the still muddy state of the lane, thinking how wonderfully simple pets were, how beyond upsetting or taking offence, how loyal. How unlike human beings, she mused wistfully, as her thoughts turned to her grandson and she began to scour the hedgerows and thickets of brambles, as if Ed might pop out, like a conjuror's rabbit from a hat. In running away, loyalty had been the last thing on the child's mind. Nor would he have paused to contemplate the catastrophic effect on his family of his behaviour. He couldn't have: one glimpse into the parlous state of affairs he had evoked at Ashley House would surely have persuaded him to return. Being privy to the agonies that Serena and Charlie were going through – the endless laments and tail-chasing conversations, the ugly recriminations – was so painful that Pamela had withdrawn to the fringes of the life they shared, busying herself with domestic matters, the ones she could manage, like ironing, polishing the banisters and cleaning the silver. The girl Serena used was nothing like as good as her own dear Betty had been, and always crying off for some reason. There were a million things to do, Pamela had discovered, once one started looking.

  She had taken to reserving her own very real anxiety about her missing grandson for Marjorie, whom she had met for lunch a couple of times since their encounter at the hairdresser's and with whom she now conversed regularly on the telephone, usually from within the sealed sanctuary of the study. There was a pragmatism about her friend, which Pamela greatly admired and which, she could see now, she had disregarded during the days when their acquaintance had been enmeshed in their marriages. Sharing fears about Ed's whereabouts with such a sympathetic outsider had the immediate effect of defusing the worst. Ed was almost certainly all right, they had agreed, merely testing boundaries and steeling himself to turn up soon enough like a bad penny. Pamela had found herself admitting how much this particular grandson reminded her of Eric, John's elder brother, who had been a lovable rogue and lived life dangerously, appearing on doorsteps with gifts and smiles just when everyone had given up on him. She had even told Marjorie about the affair she had had with Eric early in her marriage, how passionate they had felt but how right it had been to give each other up. Marjorie had said Geoffrey had fallen for someone else too and how forgiving him had been the hardest – and best – thing she had ever done. It was new to Pamela to engage in such confidences. A long, strong, self-sufficient marriage, such as hers and John's, had, she saw now, largely precluded the possibility of such friendships. It made her understand how lonely widowhood had made her, how desperately in need she had been of like-minded company. It made her begin, too, to comprehend the madness that had reached its crescendo five months before and – a little bit anyway – to forgive it.

  ‘We're going back now,’ she called to the dog, when they were still only half-way down the lane. ‘I've got things to do. Come on.’ Ignoring Poppy's imploring look, Pamela turned on her heel and began to pick her way back, avoiding the worst of the mud in spite of her footwear. Brisk walking was good for her back she had discovered, but it was too hot to enjoy it. And at her age, she was discovering, one could start in small ways to do as one wanted, without the nagging fear of letting people – or animals – down. Poppy would love her, no matter what, just as Serena and Charlie would love Ed, in whatever state he returned to them, she reflected. Maybe animals and humans weren't so different after all, at least not the ones who loved each other. Love was all that mattered in the end, she mused, pausing to stroke the gnarled ridges of the old oak that arched across the entrance to the drive, its branches reaching over and round her like welcoming arms.

  Two days later, just when everyone had got used to its presence, begun even to take it for granted, the sun withdrew behind a wall of thunderous cloud and the rain resumed its domination of the summer. On TV weather presenters' satellite maps, the entire British Isles appeared as a swirling smudge of black and grey.

  In Hull that Sunday Keith went to Toys ‘Я’ Us and spent money he could not spare on a Subbuteo game, so that he and his sons could enjoy the delights of football sprawled on his sister's living-room floor. Parked stony-faced in the sidelines on an armchair, wearing a thick jumper she had hoped not to see again until October, Irene announced that when she returned from a now imminent two-week holiday in Skiathos she would like to have her place to herself again. Perhaps Keith would bear that in mind, not that she wanted to be unfriendly.

  Arriving in Camberwell, Theo told Clem it was too wet to film outside and too dark to do interiors, so why didn't they hope the skies would clear and go to the pub instead? His mother, on the other side of London, hearing the rain on the new extension roof and wondering about the safety and whereabouts of her nephew, decided it would be a good morning to attend church and try out the power of prayer. On hearing her plan, Peter turned his head gratefully into the pillows to think about the physiotherapist, whose naked body he had imagined so many times now he felt he knew it better than his own.

  In Camden Stephen left Cassie sleeping and went downstairs to prepare a breakfa
st tray of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, camomile tea, wholemeal toast with honey and, by way of a finishing touch, a single rose, plucked from a bunch he had given her the day before.

  ‘Surprise,’ he exclaimed, balancing the tray on the end of the bed and crossing the room to open the curtains. Outside the drizzle was flecking the view of sky and terraced houses in a way that made it resemble a grainy old photograph. ‘I want to spoil you, make you glad you met me.’

  ‘Of course I'm glad I met you,' replied Cassie, keeping a wary eye on the tray as she eased herself upright, aware through the blear of sleep that such responses to him had become automatic. She wondered if it mattered. It would have been more honest to say that she was mostly glad she had met him, but sometimes, increasingly, she wasn't so sure. However, that, Cassie knew, would lead to trouble and she'd had a hard week, what with work being manic and worrying about dear Ed, not to mention the period that had started and not ended, which the doctor had said could be down to stress or, worse still, the earliest signs of the menopause. Cassie had found herself blurting out a tearful confession about her desperation to become a mother, about Stephen not wanting to go for tests, about the little machine that told her when she was fertile but so far with no result. The doctor had given her a plastic cup of water and sat back in his chair while she talked, his face such a mask of patience and understanding that, for a while, Cassie had forgotten about the crowded waiting room outside.

  Afterwards, although the doctor had said nothing except to come back if her next period was the same and that stress was bad for conception, Cassie had felt a lot better – a lot more philosophical. Her predicament was simple enough: She (mostly) loved a difficult man who did not share her need to have a child; it was hardly a life-threatening equation – certainly nothing like as bad as having a child and losing it as poor Charlie and Serena had done, first with Tina and now – albeit in a milder way – with the wretched Ed. God alone knew what the boy was up to. And no wonder that in attempting to deal with the situation Serena hadn't got round to replying to her plea for help. Cassie felt bad for having left the message in the first place, imposing such a demand when her sister-in-law had so much else to worry about.

  The tray wobbled and Stephen picked it up. He waited for Cassie to lever herself upright so that he could place it on her lap. ‘Damn, I forgot the napkin – do you want one?’

  ‘No, this is great. Thank you, darling, so much.’ Cassie kissed his cheek, trying not to mind how he was hovering, hungry for approval. ‘Are you not having anything?’

  ‘Just tea. I left that downstairs too, stupid bastard that I am.’ Stephen hurried off, aware as he did so that his words had been too harsh, too revelatory of his real state of mind; aware, too, that ‘bastard' was the word Keith had used when he had thrown Stephen's plea for help back in his face. Lucky bastard. Stunned by the response, Stephen had sat in the garden for a long time afterwards, heedless of the sun curling the edges of his notes and burning his nose and cheeks. You are on your own, he had told himself. You always were, you always will be. Every man for himself. That's how it is. He had decided in the same instant that he would trust no one's vigilance but his own, that in spite of the detrimental effect on progress with his manuscript, he would continue to keep track of Cassie. Keith was wrong to call it spying. He simply needed to be sure of her, to feel safe, to erase all shadows of doubt before they got married. Any normal man would feel the same – would want to know whether his lover truly loved him, whether there was someone else, whether having a baby was all she really cared about.

  On returning with his mug of tea to find that Cassie had abandoned the tray with the toast only half eaten and tunnelled back under the covers, Stephen felt a small, familiar sting of rejection. He took off his dressing-gown and got in beside her. ‘Hey, babe…’ He stroked her hair, her neck, the smooth mounds of her shoulders, then the top of her chest, at which point Cassie changed her position, rolling over, bunching up her knees and tucking her arms together. Like a little fortress. A fortress against him. ‘Cass…’ He started to touch her with more determination, running his fingers up the back of her thigh and along the soft cleft in her bottom.

  ‘Hmm… sleepy.’

  ‘That's nice, being sleepy… Let me wake you up…’ He began to kiss the downy nape of her neck, licking gently in the way that she had once, many months before, described as inducing a state of ecstasy. Ecstasy. That was what he wanted, for his woman to feel ecstatic about him. Nothing else, nothing less, would do.

  ‘Stephen, please.’ Cassie slithered further away, and tugged her nightdress down round her hips. ‘Been a long week… need sleep… maybe later.’

  Not ecstatic, then, not even close. ‘I want to make you happy.’

  ‘You do,’ Cassie muttered, wading now, with monumental effort, through all the thoughts that had been preoccupying her – her still tender belly, her missing nephew, the long list of things waiting for her on the pad in the kitchen. ‘You do make me happy,’ she repeated, unfolding her limbs and turning towards him with a sigh, wondering, as she began to return his attentions, kissing the peeling tip of his sunburnt nose, whether it was her failing or his that his relentless, innumerable displays of kindness should feel so controlling, so like demands for his happiness rather than hers.

  ‘Ohmygod, Roland,’ exclaimed Clem, rushing up to Theo just as he had fought his way through the crush at the bar. ‘I can't believe I forgot. He's arriving today… now, she wailed, looking at her watch. ‘He's coming by train, bringing his paintings. I said I'd show them to – I'm sorry, Theo, but we've got to go.’

  ‘Flopsy and Mopsy can let him in, can't they?’ replied Theo, mildly, referring to Clem's flatmates, whom they had left curled up on the sofa in their dressing-gowns nursing bowls of cereal. ‘Half an hour won't make any difference,’ he added, suppressing a surge of impatience at the way the day was turning out – not a single shot of anything and Clem too distracted even to have a proper look at the script.

  ‘It will. Sorry, Theo, it'll make a lot of difference. Poor Roland, it'll look dreadful if I'm not there, like I don't care. And what with Ed… Imagine if Flora and Daisy have gone out and Roland arrives, wanders off and gets lost.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Theo sighed heavily and put away the ten-pound note he had been waving at the barman. They'd already done the Ed conundrum to death, Theo managing during the course of their discussions to be bland and supportive rather than expressing his parents' – and his own – fears about hard drugs. In all the years he had known Ed, Theo had never witnessed his younger cousin do anything but puff – rather inexpertly – at a joint, but Ed had exactly the sort of reckless, reactionary spirit that he had seen drive other less close acquaintances to the treadmill of addiction. ‘Showing Roland's paintings to someone, eh? That's nice of you. Who exactly are you going to show them to? It wouldn't be this Nathan person, would it?’ he pressed slyly, opening his umbrella for her to share once they were out in the street.

  ‘It might be,’ muttered Clem, walking so quickly that Theo had to reach out to keep the umbrella over her head.

  ‘Does that mean we all get to meet him?’

  ‘No, it doesn't.’

  ‘Is he a great painter or something?’

  ‘He's… I don't know about great but he's an artist, yes. He's been drawing me, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Drawing you? Blimey, why didn't you say so before?’ exclaimed Theo, delighted to have stumbled on this small verification of his cousin's dramatic talents. She was posing for an artist and he had asked her to star in his film: it all linked up, made sense.

  ‘He's finished the drawing stage and moved on to paints now, but it's no big deal,’ added Clem, cursing herself for having said too much, wondering what her cousin – or any of her family – would have said if he had seen her lying on Nathan's sofa the previous afternoon, naked apart from the blue satin throw he had arranged under and around her, its folds highlighting the whiteness of her skin. ‘
Show me yourself,’ he had said, moving an arm to expose more of her chest. ‘You trust me now. Show me that trust.’ He had tweaked the satin so that it covered one foot and pressed her knee to straighten it, removing Clem's last small hope of masking the neat dark triangle between her legs. Clem had burned and breathed, wondering that he did not remark on the heat of her skin, wondering too what she would do when he began – as he surely would – to touch her differently. The expectation was blissful; so blissful that she had felt a momentary shame to experience such exaltation with all the hell that had broken loose in the now peripheral world of her home-life: Ed on a park bench, for all they knew; her mother, by all accounts, in pieces; her father sounding so angry and unhappy on the phone, telling her on no account to bother Maisie with messages about what had happened, that he was sure her brother would resurface when he was good and ready. Without Nathan immediately to hand, she had found herself stumbling from that first revelation of the news into the arms of Daisy and Flora, telling them not just about Ed but about the death of her little sister and being anorexic and falling out with Maisie over Jonny Cottrall. The pair had responded generously and sweetly, with soft bosomy embraces, Pringles and so much wine that Clem had only just managed to refrain from blurting out everything about her feelings for Nathan too. She was glad she hadn't, especially when Nathan not only hadn't touched her but had turned his back while she got dressed, firing kind inquiries about Ed while he cleaned his brushes, as if nothing had happened except that… well, except that he had painted her. Clem was still puzzling over it, wondering how he could hold himself back, whether the next session – the last, he said – was what he was waiting for.