The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  ‘Ed seems to be doing okay,’ ventured Cassie, a few minutes later, seizing on her first opportunity to refer to the crisis.

  ‘Oh, he's fine,’ said Serena, her voice hollow and bright, ‘living in the moment, as they do at that age, not thinking ahead. His A-level results are being phoned through tomorrow – I truly think he's more worried about those.’

  ‘He's sweet with Genny,’ put in Helen.

  ‘Maybe,’ suggested Cassie, in a small voice, ‘that means he'll be a good father…’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Serena, grimly. ‘I find it hard to think about. I mean it's all just going to happen, so there's nothing any of us can do about it, is there? Actually – and don't take this the wrong way – just for today I'd rather like to stick to the glories of the Renaissance… an Ed-free zone.’ She laughed sharply. ‘Would you two mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ they muttered, exchanging a glance of mutual compassion in the rear-view mirror while Serena pressed the creases out of the road map.

  ‘We want the next left, second right, and then it will be a question of finding somewhere to park.’

  ‘Well, that sounds easy enough,’ said Helen.

  ‘A piece of cake,’ agreed Serena, privately wishing she had a set of comparably easy instructions for negotiating the months ahead.

  An hour later, sipping cold drinks at a café on the edge of Todi's main square (the Palazzo del Popolo, Helen had informed them, putting on her glasses for yet another forage in her guidebook), Serena recalled that she had never got round to responding to Cassie's phone message. ‘I'm so sorry, I've been so distracted,’ she said. ‘I expect it was something about the wedding, wasn't it? I can't tell you how much we're looking forward to it – the one bright spot on the horizon, frankly.’

  ‘Oh, no… It wasn't about the wedding. It was…’ Cassie sucked at the straw in her Diet Coke, struggling, with the sun-burnished beauty of their surroundings – given a sharp blue tinge by her sunglasses – and the pleasant pulse of heat on her bare shoulders, to recall the particular misery of that rain-soaked June day: how pinched she had felt in her wedding dress, how the sight of the chubby-limbed Noah had reached out to her and strangled her heart. ‘Stephen and I were going through a bit of a bad patch… It was getting me down. I needed to talk to someone… but I – we – are fine now,’ she added, seeing the stricken expression on Serena's face. ‘Please, don't feel bad. You've had plenty of other far more important things to worry about and, anyway, every couple has bad patches, don't they?’ she urged, curiosity seeping into her tone. These women were the wives of her brothers after all, with over forty years of marriage between them.

  Helen, aware of this and rather taken with the licence it gave her to impart wisdom, lowered the guidebook and took off her sunglasses. ‘I think we'd agree with that, wouldn't we, Serena?’ She laughed with a confidence born of her own husband's recent ebullience and keenness to please. They had had their hard times, all right, most notably when it dawned on her that having Genevieve hadn't caused a seismic shift in the balance of things, as Peter had promised, that it would be up to her – as it always had been – to keep the show on the road. She had been very tense then, resentful, even. But now… it was a doddle. ‘Ups and downs, for better for worse and so on – it's all true.’

  ‘And you just have to stick with it,’ put in Serena, fiercely, talking as much to herself as to Cassie. ‘You have to listen and forgive, then listen and forgive again and grope your way along, and sometimes it seems bloody hard, so hard it's almost like a faith, like trying to believe in a God you can't see but whom you have to take on trust, who you know will appear in some form when you need Him most… not that I believe in God,’ she faltered, picking up her glass and rattling what remained of the ice-cubes, ‘but I think they're similar – marriage and faith – believing when sometimes there seems no reason to.’

  ‘I've had a go at believing in God recently,’ remarked Helen, as if referring to a sample one might pick up at a supermarket. ‘It's been going rather well, actually.’

  ‘Right.’ Cassie looked from one to the other, at a loss as to how to respond. Serena was clearly feeling too emotional to talk sensibly about anything, and she had no desire to engage the formidable Helen in a discussion about religion. She had observed the piety in her sister-in-law's eyes as they approached the altar in the cathedral – the quick, fervent crossing of her chest – and not liked it very much. Where had such zeal come from – and why did she have to parade it? All Cassie's own wavering faith had died with her niece. Churches for her were now solely about architectural beauty, tradition and public ceremony; rituals for humans rather than gods.

  ‘My dear, marriage is fun,’ continued Helen, warmly, reaching across the table and patting Cassie's hand. ‘Pre-wedding nerves are perfectly understandable. You and Stephen were made for each other – both Peter and I have always thought so,’ she declared grandly, even though neither of them had ever said any such thing.

  ‘Have you? Oh, that's nice… thanks.’ Cassie sighed and smiled, tempted to add that if she could only be pregnant she would be the happiest woman in the world. But then she looked at Serena, still tight-lipped and sombre from her out-burst, and pushed the thought away. Given the situation facing Ed, talk of wanting babies was hardly appropriate. ‘A newspaper,’ she exclaimed instead. ‘We mustn't forget to look for one.’

  ‘But only after we've seen the Rocca and the Nicchione,’ countered Helen, rolling her vowels in a way that she hoped sounded Italian. ‘Come on, let's pay the bill and I'll tell you all about them as we walk.’

  A few minutes later the trio set off across the cobbled stones of the piazza, progressing slowly, thanks to Helen's insistence that no detail from her guidebook should go undisclosed. They had reached the cooler, shaded corner of the piazza, when a voice, female and high-pitched, rang out behind them. Serena turned first, seeing an unfamiliar, deeply tanned creature with braided hair in combat trousers and a skimpy vest-top running towards them, a bulging rucksack bumping awkwardly against her back.

  ‘Mum!’ screeched Maisie, waving both arms in frustration that she hadn't been recognized.

  ‘Oh, look! Oh, Helen! Cassie! Look!’ A moment later Serena was hugging her daughter and the rucksack, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, asking if she was all right and what was she doing in Italy instead of America, and why hadn't she told them?

  ‘I wanted to surprise you,’ squealed Maisie, crying a little her-self. ‘I changed my plans – decided to come back through Europe and hook up with you lot, only I didn't have the address so I thought I'll get to this Todi place, then call you on your mobile. I got off the bus literally five minutes ago and here you are! It's unbelievable, isn't it?’

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Serena, who was crying in earnest, reaching out between sobs to stroke her daughter's freckled brown arms and curious tight plaits, as if to reassure herself that she wasn't an apparition. ‘I must tell Dad,’ she said, struggling through her blur of tears to find her phone.

  ‘No! Let's surprise him.’

  ‘Yes, let's,’ agreed Cassie and Helen, thinking how delighted Charlie would be. The same thought crossed Serena's mind, only to be darkened by the realization that Maisie needed to be brought up to speed with regard to the antics of her brother. She was taking a deep breath, wondering when – how – to start, when Maisie said, ‘I know about Ed and Jessica, by the way. Don't be cross,’ she added, glancing at their three astonished expressions, ‘but Clem told me and I'm bloody glad she did. It's one of the reasons I changed my plans.’ She swung her rucksack off her back, rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms. ‘The total twit! I mean, what was he thinking? And poor you, Mum – and Dad, poor everyone. Making me and Clem aunts, at our age.’ She giggled and clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, but I still can't believe it and I'm just so pleased to see you.’ She hugged Serena again, saying, ‘He's been a twit but he's still Ed, isn't he?’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Serena, feelin
g a huge comfort at this small, obvious piece of wisdom and managing to laugh a little herself, ‘he's still Ed, all right.’

  ‘Well, we saw the Duomo anyway,’ remarked Helen wryly, as they set off back in the direction of the street where they had parked the car.

  Serena and Maisie had fallen behind, linking arms. ‘Is this to be a permanent style?’ teased Serena, tugging at one of the braids and thinking that Maisie could have shaved her head and she wouldn't mind.

  ‘No, just helps keep it clean. I'll take them out tonight. God, I can't wait for a bath – it does have baths, this place, does it?’

  ‘It has everything,’ replied her mother, ‘and everybody, come to that.’

  ‘Ashley House but in Italy,’ exclaimed Maisie happily, tightening her grip on her mother's arm, unable to explain how much she had missed them all, how magical it was to have stretched her wings but to have her family still there, awaiting her return.

  It was Cassie who remembered the newspaper again, darting into a shop just before they reached the car. ‘It's only a Daily Mail and it's yesterday's, but better than nothing. Look,’ she continued, as Helen manoeuvred out of the space, edging past the wheel of a large motorbike, ‘there's a new terrorist alert in London, the worst since September the eleventh.’

  ‘Well, thank God we're all out here,’ said Serena, too giddy with delight to care about bombs. She patted her daughter's bare leg, certain suddenly that her arrival marked the turning point they so badly needed, that everything now would get better.

  Shortly after the women's departure Charlie strolled over to Peter's sun-bed and challenged him to a game of tennis.

  ‘Bit hot, isn't it, old man?’

  ‘Don't be a wimp. It'll do us good.’

  ‘Perhaps I could play the winner,’ ventured Stephen, who had deferred his good intentions about work in favour of a swim. He swung his towel across his shoulders, keen suddenly to be fully accepted by the brothers. He would be a member of the family soon, after all, and wanted it to be on the best possible terms.

  ‘Okay, then,’ said Peter, not really liking Stephen's obvious eagerness, but unable to resist the harder challenge of beating both of them. ‘I've, er, just got to put a call in to work, then I'll be with you.’

  ‘Give me a shout when you've finished,’ Stephen called, trotting up the steps. ‘I'll be in my room.’

  ‘You've got to call work?’ Charlie snorted. ‘Whatever for? I thought you had a team of underlings, these days?’

  ‘But the buck still stops with me,’ replied Peter, glibly, following Stephen up the steps to the terrace. ‘I need to put my trainers on anyway. Won't be long.’

  In his bedroom, he took his phone into the en suite and locked the door. Delia answered when he was on the point of giving up. ‘I'm with a patient.’

  ‘Sorry… Just wanted to hear your voice… to tell you that I miss you all the time, that I can't stop thinking about you – that I love you.’ It was the first time Peter had uttered such words to anyone but his wife, and he caught his breath, trembling with shock both at their truth and his own daring in voicing it.

  At the other end of the line there was a rustle and a muffled thump, then Delia's voice, hushed but more relaxed. ‘I've got two minutes. I wanted to talk to you too.’

  Peter laughed. ‘Well, thank God for that.’

  ‘My son has met your niece, did you know that?’

  What?’

  ‘On their travels. They bumped into each other, took the same flight to Europe. Julian got back this morning – he's been full of it.’

  Peter, perching on the edge of the bath, reached out a hand to the shining wall of white tiles to steady himself. ‘That's not possible.’

  ‘You think not? How many Maisie Harrisons aged twenty and living in west Sussex can there be?’

  ‘Christ! I don't believe it! Are they – Is something going on between them?’

  ‘I don't know, but it changes things, doesn't it? Even if they're just friends.’

  ‘No,’ said Peter, firmly, desperation surging inside. ‘It's just important that we know, that's all. It means we can deal with it… work our way round it…’

  There was a sigh. ‘I can't talk now, Peter, I've left my patient waiting.’

  ‘You are glad I rang, aren't you?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘And you want to see me again?’

  ‘And I want to see you again,’ she echoed, ‘but…’

  ‘Oh, here we go, the big “but”,’ interjected Peter, trying to sound teasing rather than terrified.

  ‘You know the “but”, my darling,’ she said softly, so softly that all the terror melted to sheer desire. ‘You know it, don't you?’

  ‘Yes. You don't want to jeopardize either of our marriages. You want to carry on seeing me but to stay with your husband. That's fine. That's what I want too.’ Peter recalled his confession of love and wished she would offer some similar endearment in return. She had had other lovers, he knew that. She needed more than her husband, she said. She was sure he saw other women, but exercised similar discretion. They had a good, solid, shared history, a son they adored, considerable wealth, security – too much for either of them to countenance giving up the marriage. It had sounded ideal. It was ideal, Peter reminded himself now, sliding along the bath to lean more firmly against the wall. No demands, no hysterics, just closeness and sex… Millions of married men would give body-parts for such an arrangement. He was lucky beyond words. But sitting there, with his forehead pressing against the cool hardness of the tiles, Peter didn't feel lucky so much as desolate. He wanted her to say she loved him, too. He wanted her to say that they would carry on seeing each other, no matter what. He hated it suddenly that she had had other lovers, that she had dipped in and out of such passions, while what he was experiencing was so new, so overwhelming. ‘I want you now,’ he said huskily, pressing his palm against the swell in his shorts. In the same instant he heard the bedroom door open and Charlie calling his name. ‘I've got to go. I'll call again soon.’

  A moment later the bathroom door handle rattled. ‘Are you in there?’

  ‘Christ, can a man get no peace?’ Peter shouted, stuffing the phone into his shorts pocket and pressing the flush on the lavatory.

  ‘It's getting hotter, that's all. We should hurry up – maybe play just one set.’ Charlie folded his arms and stepped aside as Peter emerged. ‘Often make your business calls on the throne, do you?’

  ‘Only when nature calls at the same time, old chap,’ replied Peter, thinking fast – Charlie must have heard him speaking. ‘I say, you've perked up a bit haven't you? Getting at me – that's a sure sign.’

  ‘Ed's school secretary just phoned with his exam results – two As and a B. Remarkable, given the circumstances.’

  ‘It certainly is. Excellent – well done.’ Peter shook his brother's hand, as if the achievement had been his rather than his nephew's. ‘I thought they were due tomorrow.’

  ‘So did we so did Ed. Can you imagine? Something so important and he doesn't even know the day.’ Charlie shook his head, lost in exasperated affection. ‘Not that it matters. His life's still a fuck-up,’ he said glumly, sitting on the bed and performing a desultory swing with his tennis racket.

  ‘No, it isn't. I never heard such nonsense. He's bright, your boy, and he'll do well in spite of this wretched business. It's up to you to be strong, to help show him the way to –’

  ‘I've decided you should take over at Ashley House.’ Charlie spoke loudly to prevent the words sticking in his throat.

  ‘What? One trainer on and the other in his hand, Peter hobbled towards his younger brother. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Why?’ gasped Peter, then thought he should really have said, ‘No,’ or ‘Don't be stupid.’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘We… Serena and I, we're not… coping. Being there doesn't feel right. It never has, to be honest. Mum would prefer you there – you know she wo
uld. Christ, in her own sweet way she's made it clear enough, hasn't she?’

  ‘Now you're being ridiculous.’

  Charlie shook his head wretchedly. ‘This year, it's all gone wrong and it feels connected to our being there.’ He held up his racket, peering first at its criss-crossed face, then through it towards the window and the unreal blue of the sky. It was like staring at something unreachable through the bars of a cage.

  ‘Does Serena know you feel like this?’ pressed Peter, trying harder now to say the right thing, trying, above all, to disguise the irrepressible bubble of excitement mushrooming inside. Ashley House… Christ, he'd handed it over willingly enough, had not subsequently wanted it – had never let himself want it

  –but now, here, with such an offer slung at him from nowhere, a terrible hope had taken hold. His mind was racing already – Helen would need persuading but how wonderful it would be to live in the beloved place, how perfectly he would run it, how fine it would feel to sit at the big desk in his father's old study surrounded by his books, how – his thoughts galloped faster

  – he could keep a flat in London, stay there a night or two each week… see Delia.

  Charlie laughed darkly. ‘Oh, I think so. Serena was the first to mention it.’ He lowered the racket and looked at Peter properly for the first time. ‘We're not… happy… together.’

  For a moment Peter was almost more astounded by this than the proposition about the house. ‘What are you talking about? You and Serena have always been stupendously happy – an example to us all,’ he added, as a little eddy of shame surged and retreated inside.