The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  Other than the holiday there was no respite in sight: Jessica, as reported by an increasingly desperate Maureen, was sticking to her guns. The remaining months of the pregnancy stretched ahead like a path no one wished to tread, with the unimaginable prospect of the baby at the end of it – their son's baby, their grandchild. It was due in January, they had calculated, with some wretchedness, in the same week that Cassie and Stephen were getting married. The one good thing on the horizon – and now that would be ruined too, Charlie had thundered, just as Ed's life would be ruined and theirs, too, through having to pick up the pieces.

  Serena remained incapable of seeing everything quite so bleakly, not just because of her continuing joy at Ed's safe return and a knee-jerk compulsion to provide some sort of ballast to her husband's negativity, but also because it seemed inherently wrong to bewail the prospect of a newborn baby, no matter how dire the circumstances of its conception. They would have to find the funds to help provide for it until Ed was old enough to assume the responsibility. It was a terrifying prospect but one that Serena believed could be okay, if they handled it right. It might even be… but here Serena stopped herself, not wanting to nurture the tendril of fear that Charlie's most hurtful accusation contained an element of truth. Was that nerve still too raw? Was there a gap still at the heart of her? Was her compassion for the hapless Jessica's position connected to it?

  ‘Cream?’

  ‘Oh, no, thanks, Helen, I've got my own… Boots' special offer,’ she added, producing a cumbersome orange plastic bottle and waving it to attract the attention of her son and daughter, whose skin was as porcelain pale as her own.

  ‘In a minute,’ shouted Clem, who had been diverted from her underwater swimming to pose with Roland as a marauding crocodile.

  ‘Clem looks so well,’ said Helen, kindly, following Serena's gaze as it lingered on her still skinny but radiant daughter. ‘Whatever she's getting up to in London clearly suits her. And have you heard about Theo's film plans, with her as the lead? It's really very sweet, if you think about it – all their childhood games blossoming into grand projects… and with Clem, too, who was always the shy one, wasn't she? Talking of which, is Maisie still having a lovely time?’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ replied Serena, cowering under so much questioning and rather wishing she had parked her sun-bed a little further away. During visits to Ashley House Helen was rarely so keen to talk, her discomfort at being a visitor in the family home often evident to the point of embarrassment. Being on holiday had put her in a different frame of mind, no doubt because the idea and planning of the venture had been hers and Peter's. That her brother- and sister-in-law were the uncontested masters of the villa had been obvious from the moment they all crossed the threshold. When they had parked their bags in the biggest bedroom with the best view she and Charlie had agreed without so much as an exchanged glance. Peter and Helen's suggestions ever since, about sleeping arrangements, food, the pattern of the day, already had the weight of an authority that Serena felt little inclination to resist. In fact, after all the subtle power-play overshadowing the management of Ashley House, it was almost a relief to let them take charge.

  ‘We haven't heard from her for a while, which is a sure sign she's enjoying herself,’ she replied. ‘We've not yet told her about the Ed business, by the way. She'll hear it all soon enough and we didn't see any point in ruining her last few weeks. She's due to head back soon – via a friend in Seattle and another in New York – so we're not expecting her home until the middle of September when, of course, she'll have to start getting ready for Bristol.’

  ‘I know Theo would have liked Maisie here.’

  ‘We would all have liked Maisie here,’ murmured Serena, glancing at Ed who was lying on his stomach on the diving-board, trailing his arms in the water.

  ‘I just wish Ed would forgive Theo, or at least talk to him.’

  ‘He's not really talking to anyone at the moment.’ Serena turned on to her side with her head towards Charlie, wishing he would lower his thriller so that she could see his face.

  ‘No change, then, on the Jessica front?’ pressed Helen.

  Serena shook her head absently, her focus still on the peppered mop of her husband's bowed head. Normally he would have plunged into the pool with the children, raced with Ed and been a crocodile for Genevieve. He looked too hot and wasn't enjoying his book, she could tell, from the way he was tugging at his ear-lobe and chewing his lip. ‘She's determined to have the baby,’ she continued, wresting her eyes away from Charlie, suddenly disliking how well she knew him, how impossible it made it not to care. ‘We're just going to have to find a way of dealing with it… a way of helping Ed through, financially and emotionally. I'm still just so glad he's safe.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Helen squinted into the distance beyond the olive groves where the dome and the cluster of buildings surrounding it had turned a blue-grey in the heat-haze of the afternoon. She had looked up the cathedral in her guidebook. It had taken a hundred and fifty years to build and cost the lives of scores of local craftsmen. ‘What about a trip to Todi this week? We could leave the men in charge.’

  ‘I'd like that, Helen.’ Serena's patience with the interrogation was at breaking-point. She made a big production of opening her book: a hilarious account of a woman trying to have it all, the blurb said – career, family, husband – and struggling on all fronts. She started to read, with a fake frown of concentration, wondering how trying to ‘have it all' could be hilarious, when in reality it was heartrending and hard even for women like her, whose nod at work had never got beyond misshapen pieces of pottery and padded picture frames.

  ‘It goes without saying,’ continued Helen, ‘that if there is anything further Peter and I can do – anything – you and Charlie have only to ask.’

  Serena stopped this last outburst with a hasty, desperate expression of gratitude, then hid her face behind her novel. Worse than being pitied was the underlying note of smugness in her sister-in-law's tone. Life in Barnes had always run like a well-oiled machine, all the cogs interlocking smoothly. Chloe had yet to test either of her parents while Theo would never have slept with a girl like Jessica in a million years, let alone without taking precautions. The way he had behaved in bringing the details of the crisis to their attention summed it all up. She and Charlie remained indebted to him, just as they did to Peter, for his willingness to offer advice and be involved. Yet it irked Serena, too, to feel they had given her husband's brother yet another opportunity to parade his superiority, to tell them how things should be done, in exactly the manner that he liked to interfere with Ashley House. Charlie couldn't see it, of course. But at the moment Charlie couldn't see anything.

  Elizabeth arrived at the top of the steps in a turquoise bikini, which fitted well but left no room for charitable guesses as to the extent of her stomach, and hesitated at the sight of her family scattered before her round the pool. She was recovering from a mildly embarrassing encounter with the housekeeper, whom she had run into in the kitchen while on a quest to make Pamela a cup of tea. The woman, whose name was Maria, had been busy at a chopping-board, her knife flashing through onions and tomatoes the size of cooking apples and aubergines with skins as glossy as polished mahogany. Clearly of a similar age, but attired in a sensible grey dress and white apron, the sight of her had made Elizabeth feel both large and exposed. Clasping her towel to her chest, she had explained, in rusty O-level Italian, about the tea, then backed out with as much dignity as the circumstances allowed.

  Standing on the terrace now, she attempted to tie the towel in something pertaining to elegance round her chest but then thought, What the hell?, and slung it over one shoulder before setting off down the steps. She loved the bikini in a way she would have found hard to explain. It was fashioned with large bows at the cleavage and the sides of the bottoms and had cost an amount of money entirely disproportionate to its size, even though it was in the sale. Staring at her reflection in the cramped chang
ing room of the department store, Elizabeth had been unable to see beyond the bold display of her ample stomach and the bulge of her thighs. Then she had thought of Keith, recalling the eager affection with which he had explored the same terrain, and the beauty of the bikini had come into her sights at last – the magnificent way its lavish colour cupped her curves – and the purchase had become irresistible.

  After the drama of her nephew's reappearance Elizabeth had broken her word and phoned Keith on his mobile. He had told her off – and not to do it again – but sounded pleased. She had jabbered like a teenager, loving the sound of his deep voice, full of common sense, loving the simple verification of his existence. He was still job-hunting but seeing a lot of his boys, he said. He was thinking of doing a computer course. He missed her but he was fine. She had promised not to call again, then longed to break her word the moment their conversation ended.

  He is with me, she thought happily, as she trotted towards the pool. Loving him has changed me and made me strong. I have a guiding light at last, no less vivid for being invisible.

  ‘Elizabeth… everything okay?’

  ‘Oh, everything's wonderful. I've met our slave – she's called Maria and she's making Mum a cup of tea and all of us some ratatouille for supper. Make way, you lot, I'm coming in.’ Dropping her towel, she strode over to the diving-board, bounced once with one leg raised, then swallow-dived into the pool.

  ‘Go for it, Lizzy,’ yelled Peter, clapping his hands. ‘I'd forgotten she was so good, hadn't you, Charlie?’

  His younger brother, who had lowered his book to watch, nodded and smiled, then let his gaze drift towards the valley. He didn't have to put on a show. He was preoccupied and had every reason to be. His siblings understood that better, apparently, than Serena, who had spent half the day shooting scolding glances at him for being miserable. As if she really believed that changing the geography of their surroundings could change other things too. Move from the drizzling greys of England to the sultry pastels of Umbria, spread around them like a banquet, and hey presto! All would be well.

  Except, of course, it wouldn't. It was only a view, after all, and had no power to change anything, least of all the increasingly bleak landscape of his marriage and the future now facing his son. How could Ed be a father? That such a thing was possible struck Charlie more and more as some kind of biological joke. The boy could barely tie his own shoelaces. He liked kicking a ball and watching television. During his first driving lesson he had, apparently, come close to colliding with a lorry. He was an unformed bundle of irresponsibility. Just the thought of this beloved, hopeless creature entering even the most removed version of parenthood made Charlie want to weep. It made him feel, too, that all Serena's panic-induced talk of failure during their recent terrible row had been spot on. She was right: they had failed as parents, as a family. So doggedly upbeat now, with a new, unacknowledged agenda of her own, Serena refused to admit it. But, looking ahead, Charlie could not see beyond the fact that everything he had fought for and believed seemed to be slipping from his grasp.

  Closing his book and pretending to sleep, Charlie let his thoughts drift to the increasingly appealing option of handing back the title deeds of the family home to his elder brother. His and Serena's stewardship of Ashley House had brought nothing but unhappiness on all sides. His wife, he reflected fiercely, had been right to accuse his brother of being superior. Peter was superior – in every way. Far better to step back and let him take over, as their father had originally planned. The house, which was eating into their savings, would be better cared for, Pamela would almost certainly be happier, and it would allow him and Serena to concentrate on the mess that had overtaken their own lives, a mess that Charlie was sure they would have a far better chance of sorting out if they were beyond the spotlight of family attention, instead of living at its heart.

  Long after everyone had gone to bed Pamela lay awake, listening to the whir of the air-conditioning and wishing, every time she rolled over, that she had had the foresight to bring a pillow from her bed at home. The coolness of the air was too sharp, yet if she pulled the covers up to her chin she quickly grew too hot. She longed to turn off the machine and throw open the shutters to the night air. At Ashley House she always slept with a window open, but here she felt too intimidated by the panel of buttons responsible for controlling the cooling system and the worry that every passing insect might spot the chink in the sealed armoury of the villa and swarm into her room to celebrate. As it happened, Pamela was good with insects. She rather liked fishing leggy spiders out of showerheads and plug-holes to deposit them on windowsills. Moths held no fear for her either – they were always fluttering in and out of her bedroom window at home. Even when John was alive it had been her duty to chase them round the lampshades and cup them in her palms to release them into the night. With the lake being so near, they always had more than their fair share of mosquitoes too; quite often in the summer she would light a coil and place it on the windowsill to keep them at bay. The smell didn't bother her and she liked staring at its red torch-tip burning a hole in the dark.

  Twisting and turning in the unfamiliar bed, Pamela became aware that she was worn out less from the journey – which, in spite of the attentive concern of her family, had been arduous – than from being so surrounded by her loved ones. Dear though they all were, their endless talking and plans, the complications of their lives, the sheer noise they made was exhausting. At Ashley House it was easier to withdraw, to dip in and out, according to her energy levels; but here with only her bedroom – soon, apparently, to be shared with Elizabeth – to retreat to, with no Poppy to walk or telephone to pick up, and the heat so imprisoning, the pressure was already, even after one day, quite draining.

  I've rather had enough of them all, she confessed to John, moving her lips round the words but making no sound. I think I'm ready for something else… not to come to you, dear, not yet, but to find a space that is more my own. You know how I love them and, goodness knows, they need loving, with the mess they're in… Dear Edward, it's still hard to believe, but what can I do, after all, other than watch it unfold? And I'm beginning to think I'd prefer to watch from a greater distance. Marjorie says Crayshott Manor takes dogs. I know that, to anyone else, that might sound a silly consideration, but you will understand that I couldn't think of leaving Poppy. And she'd like it there too – the grounds are so large, plenty of new places for her to explore, and so long as I was there I know she'd be happy. As for leaving Ashley House… well, even a few months ago I couldn't have imagined it, but now it seems not only possible but also rather appealing. I lived there with you, didn't I, my darling? It was our home. Now it is Charlie and Serena's, and with me gone they might feel that rather more than they do at the moment. They are at such sixes and sevens, the poor loves, tying themselves in knots because of Ed and this baby, which no one can bring themselves to imagine. They'll find a way through, I know they will. There's always a way through, if one looks, isn't there, my sweet? I will become a great-grandmother – can you imagine? An honour I had not thought could possibly be mine, what with the independence of all the young ones today, girls wanting careers before families and so on… I'm sure it will be years before either of the twins gets round to it, or Theo, for that matter… though he is coming along nicely, that one, so self-assured and hand-ssome, not at all the gawky creature with bumps on his face that you knew. Anyway… where was I? Oh, yes… hardly ideal circumstances, of course, but there we are, a baby is a baby, and I can't help feeling a little bit curious about getting to know this one in spite of the pitiful Jessica being its mother. I can't say that to them, of course. They all think the world has ended and must conclude for themselves that it hasn't.

  If there is a God and He's with you, could you say hello? Could you say, too, that some of the Harrisons could do with a helping hand? Could you ask Him to be ready for me when I come? Oh, and thank Him for pushing Marjorie my way – she's such a solid jolly creature, so exactly
what I needed. It's largely thanks to her that I realised my world hadn't ended either. Funny business, living, isn't it? Complicated to the end…

  As Pamela's eyes grew heavy an Umbrian relative of a May-bug appeared from nowhere and began to bounce noisily against the ceiling. ‘Shoo, silly thing, you don't scare me,’ she murmured, batting one hand in its direction as she turned and sank her head into a cool fresh section of her pillow, knowing as she closed her eyes that they wouldn't open again until morning.

  A week later, Stephen and Cassie arrived at Rome airport and lugged their bags to the car-rental desk only to find there had been a cock-up over their booking. Instead of the economy five-door they had been promised the only available vehicles were a seven-seater Ford Galaxy or something in the luxury sports-car range and, no, a discount wouldn't be available on either.

  ‘For Christ's sake, look – our booking's here. We booked this car,’ insisted Stephen, waving the documentation he had printed off the Internet.

  ‘I know, Mr Smith, and I am most sorry for the inconvenience, but this is our holiday season so we are very busy at this time.’

  ‘Don't tell me it's the holiday season, I know it is. That is precisely why we are visiting your country.’

  ‘A sports car might be nice,’ ventured Cassie, tired of the wait, and the debate, which was clearly going nowhere.

  ‘Yes, but that's not the point, is it?’ Stephen waved his piece of paper again, earning a glare from the weary-faced couple who were standing in the queue behind them, knee-deep in luggage and small children.

  It was quite clear to whom the Ford Galaxy should go, Cassie mused, offering a tight smile of apology to the couple, then grinning at the smallest child, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sucking disconsolately at the beak of a fluffy orange duck and several strands of her own hair. She had a tangle of corkscrew curls, matted so badly across the crown that Cassie wondered how on earth a comb would ever tease it free. When she was little her hair had performed similar feats of rebellion. Pamela would lift her on to her dressing-table stool to attend to it, promising a rummage through her jewel-box if she withstood the eye-watering pain without too much yelping. After the ordeal, hair shining, scalp tingling, Cassie would plunge her hands into the trinkets, draping herself in necklaces and bangles and trying clip-on earrings till her ear-lobes throbbed. ‘I am a princess,’ she would say, swivelling her head and swinging her arms.