As the car gobbled up the motorway, Peter contemplated the ruin and couldn't help wondering still if there was anything he could have said, even then, to avert the disaster. A passer-by might have lost an earring. He could have pretended the passer-by was referring to a flowerbed. Yes, he could have pulled that off, surely. He should at least have tried. He was good at that sort of thing – being persuasive when he was on shaky ground: it was how he made a living. Instead, he had said, ‘Oh, Helen.’
‘You're with someone,’ she whispered. ‘You're nowhere near work. If you were you'd know about the bomb. You're with someone.’
‘Helen… I can explain…’ But it was too late. He could hear the defeat – the guilt – in his voice.
‘Don't come home,’ she said at once, her voice breathy with shock but also hard, very hard. ‘Don't come home. I won't let you in. Don't try to call me. I don't want to talk to you. I need to think.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Delia. She was standing next to the bed, holding up the lost earring. ‘Peter, I'm so sorry.’ Her voice was kind, but she was already – with bruising, businesslike movements – pinning the offending article into her ear-lobe and slipping on her shoes. ‘I thought your phone was off.’
‘It was. I…’ Peter looked at the mobile in the palm of his hand. ‘I just put it on for a moment. I… She called. There's been a bomb of some kind… She was worried… She – Oh, dear God, what am I going to do?’
‘She'll come round. This sort of thing happens all the time.’ Delia tied a little grey silk scarf round her neck as she talked. ‘Of course, it seems terrible now but…’
Peter stared at her, aghast at the insouciance of her tone and the severity of the pain it caused him. ‘Does it happen all the time?’ She gasped. ‘Who to? To whom does this happen all the time? She neither answered nor looked at him, continuing instead, with her slim, deft fingers and pearly-painted nails, to arrange the scarf. Peter watched as if in a trance, recalling how he had untied the very same item of clothing just an hour before, remarking on its prettiness as his fingers trembled at her throat and his heart pounded. ‘You never loved me,’ he said.
Delia dropped her hands to her sides with a heavy sigh. ‘Peter, darling, you know I love you – I shall always love you – but, as I made clear from the start, I was never in the business of busting up our marriages. You knew that. Of course I never meant for it to end this way… all such a mess now. It's horrible that it has and I wish there was something I could do. But, as I say, I'm sure Helen will forgive you – most wives do, you know. Just give her time. Didn't you say she's gone all churchy recently? I'm sure that will help her, you know, to forgive.’
‘Stop it,’ Peter groaned, feeling more wounded with each word. Her matter-of-factness, her pragmatism, telling him what Helen would think – it was too much to bear. ‘You're not going to miss me at all, are you?’ He seized one of her hands and pressed it to his mouth. ‘Delia…’
‘Don't be silly! Of course I'm going to miss you. But you've got three lovely children to think of and –’
‘Don't tell me what I've got,’ he shouted, throwing her hand back at her, then trying to seize it again. ‘I'm sorry, my sweetheart, I'm sorry, it's just that I know what I've got – or, rather, what I had – but I fell in love with you, didn't I? I fell in love with you.’ He dropped his face into his hands and wept.
‘Darling, calm down.’ Holding her car keys now, her handbag over her shoulder, Delia came to sit next to him on the bed. ‘We had agreed to end it anyway, hadn't we? Just tell her that – that it was over.’
She tried to stroke his head but Peter ducked out of reach, pressing his palms to his ears, like a little boy trying not to hear a telling-off.
‘Darling, I'm sorry, but I've got to go… I'm late as it is.’ She leant forward and planted a kiss on his head. ‘It was lovely, what we had, I wouldn't have missed it for the world. There'll always be a special place for you in my heart, Peter Harrison. Darling, just one more thing…’ She waited, with her fingers round the door handle, until Peter had lowered his hands from his ears. ‘It's just that, well, darling, you won't be silly and try to call me, will you? I mean, no point in making a bad situation worse… One collapsed house of cards is quite enough, don't you think?’
Peter had studied her through a mist of tears, trying to equate the audacious, lovable woman who had stolen his heart with this clumsy, cowardly request for his discretion. ‘Don't worry, Delia. I won't tell Geoffrey.’
‘Thank you, darling. I knew you'd understand.’ She blew him a kiss and was gone.
Although she closed the door lightly, it felt to Peter as if it had been slammed in his face. Moving slowly, drugged with shock, he had gathered up his things, settled the bill and walked back down the steps, past the sign with the hanging L, to his car. Once behind the wheel, he tried Helen's landline and mobile numbers, but was almost relieved when she didn't answer. He should beg forgiveness, he knew, plead to be taken back. But Peter didn't feel ready for that, not yet. Delia, for all the clumsy brusqueness of her departure, still owned his heart. He had never, in all his fifty-five years, loved so madly, so absolutely. Giving up on it felt like giving up on part of himself. He needed time to adjust his focus, to steel himself for the inevitable onslaught of interrogation and outrage from Helen, to prepare what defences he could. So Peter had headed south, to the only refuge he could think of. After the M3 he cut east along the M25 taking the slip-road on to the A3. When he stopped for petrol, he managed to muster the wherewithal to phone his chambers and report that he was going down with flu. Afterwards he felt calmer. He had bought a little time. He would try Helen again after he got to Ashley House, start the ball rolling. She couldn't not talk to him indefinitely.
It was only as Peter drove past the Rising Sun and caught sight of his nephew leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette that the panic returned in earnest, borne on a chilling, reluctant recognition of the wider implications of his fall from grace. Once, only a few hours ago, he had pitied his brother's family for what the boy was putting them through. Yet now, in the light of his own behaviour, Ed's crime did not seem so bad. The boy was still only eighteen, an age at which the boundaries of morality were blurred and getting things wrong was allowed. Furthermore, seeing him in his casual pose against the pub wall, so slim and tall and young, his hair standing to attention in its habitual gelled spikes, his jeans torn and belted round his underpants, caused Peter to think properly for the first time about his own children, of Genevieve's heart-aching innocence, of Chloe, such a tangle of adolescent contradictions, of Theo… oh, dear God, Theo. Peter felt his mouth go dry. He had let Helen down, of course, but only now, as he headed up the rutted lane leading to Ashley House, did he experience the first real, terrifying rush of shame as a father. Theo, thank God, had gone back to university a week early. And as for the girls, Helen wouldn't tell them, would she? At least, not until they had talked, decided what to do… Peter's hands slid on the steering-wheel. He had no control over what Helen did. He had lost all such rights by betraying her.
As he turned the final bend in the lane Peter was almost blinded by the flash of the high bright sun bouncing like a salutation off Ashley House's top-storey windows and sloping silvery slates. At the sight Peter let out a choke of relief. And the place was his now, he reminded himself leaping on the recollection of Charlie's recent dramatic decision, like a tired swimmer lunging for a life-raft, not caring – not even thinking – of the distressing conditions that had prompted it. Ashley House was his. Helen could kick him out – rip him to shreds – but at least he had this. Let her stay in London, as she had wanted to all along. He would seek solace in the stewardship of the family home, exactly as his dear father had once intended.
Charlie heard the crunch of wheels on gravel as he made his way upstairs and peered in some astonishment through the first-floor landing window. ‘I thought you said Cassie was coming.’
‘She is.’ A few steps behind him, Pamela peered ove
r his shoulder.
‘When Helen called, what did she say?’
‘Nothing, except that Peter was all right – nowhere near the bomb, she said.’
Serena, appearing along the corridor with an armful of fresh sheets to make up a bed for her sister-in-law, stopped to see what they were looking at. ‘Peter? Oh… and, look, Charlie, he's… he's…’
‘He's crying,’ Charlie whispered. For a few moments all three were too stunned to speak. Below them Peter, oblivious to an audience, was standing next to his open car door, head bowed, shoulders shaking, almost comically, as if some invisible puppeteer was pulling strings.
‘Maybe someone he knew was killed by the bomb?’ suggested Serena.
‘Whatever it is,’ said Pamela, ‘he'll want you, Charlie dear.’
But Charlie was already plunging down the stairs, taking them two at a time, sick at heart in a way that far outstripped his illness or his anxiety about the whereabouts of his sister's jilted fiancé. Peter never cried. Even when they were boys, he had never cried. Charlie had been the baby, seeking out Pamela's lap for bruises and scrapes, often earning his brother's contempt. Such images flashed across Charlie's mind with the feverish lucidity of delirium as he tore across the hall and tugged open the front door. For the first time in his life Peter, his rock, needed him, and he would be there – by God, he would be there. At the bottom of the steps up to the drive Charlie hesitated, made timid suddenly by his brother's grief and that Peter didn't even know he was at home. Then the wind caught the front door, slamming it with a violence that set the bell jangling and the dried twines of clematis hissing in protest. Like a runner responding a little too late to a starter gun, Charlie took a deep breath and raced on up to the gate.
‘So I won't need my shoes, then?’
‘Your shoes?’
‘The ones Cassie bought me for the wedding, the horrible fancy leather ones with slippery soles.’
Elizabeth couldn't help laughing. ‘Well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose.’ She had picked Roland up from school and taken him straight to their favourite pizza parlour. He had subsequently demolished a heap of garlic bread, while Elizabeth worked her way, as slowly as she could, through a packet of breadsticks.
‘Funny, isn't it,’ Roland continued, reaching for the last breadstick and breaking it in two, ‘how, like, nothing happens for days and days and then loads of stuff happens all at once, like it's suddenly reached bursting-point?’
‘Today has certainly been one of those,’ Elizabeth murmured, pushing his napkin at him as the waiter delivered their plates of food – a salad for her and an extra large American for her son. She was still absorbing the news from Ashley House. It was like a field hospital, Serena had said, with Charlie, Peter and Cassie huddling in their bedrooms like invalids, and her and Pamela rushing between them with bowls of soup and sympathy. The victims of the bomb who wouldn't make it into the newspapers, Serena had added, sounding so on top of it all that Elizabeth hadn't argued with her insistence that she could manage the situation alone.
‘Is that what Dad did?’ asked Roland, suddenly, his mouth crammed.
‘What?’
‘Have another woman on the side. Is that why you left him?’
‘No… That is, there was someone else, yes, but I left him for a million other reasons. We never really got on that well, not like Peter and Helen… I still can't believe it, I really can't.’
‘And Aunt Cass, what's going on there, do you think?’
‘Oh, Roland, I don't know. Relationships – all relationships – are such complicated things. Who's to know what really goes on anywhere behind closed doors? All I can say is that if Cassie was having doubts she was right to call the thing off. It's just too tragic that it should all have blown up – so to speak – on such a day, because now, according to Serena, Cassie has convinced herself that Stephen might have got caught up in the bombs.’ Elizabeth stopped, aware that she had lost her son's attention. He had lowered his forkful of pizza and was staring at his plate. ‘Darling, what is it? Do you feel ill?’
‘No. I – It's just that… I mean, it's probably not the time and all that, but this is, like, one of those days when the crap is flying around and I've just got to the point where I hate you not knowing – I can't handle it.’
‘Can't handle what? Roland, what are you saying?’
‘I'm gay, Mum. I didn't know how to tell you,’ he raced on, wanting to explain, but also to delay the moment of her response. ‘I knew you'd be, like, really upset and stuff, but that's how it is and there's nothing I can do about it and I thought of not telling you but that's been, like, crap… you know, like I'm lying the whole time and now, whatever you say, I feel better, I really do, because it's out there and not eating me up inside. And don't ask me if I'm sure or any bollocks like that because it's not like something I've chosen, just how I am,’ he finished, dropping his gaze to a piece of wilted pepperoni hanging over the edge of his plate. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, picking at it.
‘Don't say sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for.’
‘You mean you don't mind?’
‘Of course I mind. But only because… because…’ Elizabeth groped for the right words ‘… because it will make your life harder than I want it to be. It will make it harder for you to be happy and all I want, darling, is for you to be happy.’
‘But I am,’ Roland insisted, his eyes shining. ‘I've met… There's someone…’ Hearing his mother's sharp intake of breath, he stopped. ‘Well, anyway, now you know, that's the main thing.’
‘Now I know,’ echoed Elizabeth, unable to keep the shock from her voice, but thinking, too, that somewhere in her heart she had probably always known. ‘Hey, telling me was good, really… brave.’ She reached across her salad and patted his hand.
‘It felt like a day for truth,’ said Roland, simply, offering her a wan smile, then returning to his pizza.
Recalling the phrase as she lay in bed later that night, Elizabeth marvelled at her son's capacity to see to the heart of things, how he managed to combine the innocent honesty of a child with the maturity that had always been beyond his years. It made her think she had done something right, after all, something truly good. His life would be burdened – defined, even – by his sexuality, but so were all lives. It took courage, that was all, and Roland had that in bucketfuls.
Elizabeth levered herself upright and switched on her bedside light. Her head was too full for sleep. Her son was gay. Her sister had broken off her engagement. Her brother had been unfaithful to his wife. And she was in love with someone she couldn't have. Muttering at the madness of it all, she threw off the bedclothes and tiptoed down to the kitchen. Or maybe it wasn't mad, she mused, unclipping her handbag and pulling out her mobile phone. Maybe it was just life. Everybody struggled. It was only the visibility of the struggle that varied.
She pulled on a fleece for warmth, and sat at her small kitchen table to compose a long text to Cassie, saying she hoped she was all right and promising to call round at Ashley House the following evening. She then checked her in-box, even though she knew it contained nothing new. As the events of the week had unfolded, her urge to talk to Keith had grown stronger. Yet chasing him, she knew, wasn't fair. He was under enough pressure trying to find work and be with his children; not to mention the other thing, the one that sat like the final trip-wire to all Elizabeth's attempts to rationalize why they should have to lead separate lives. The little Pakistani girl: Elizabeth imagined her sometimes, glossy black hair, wide brown eyes and skinny limbs, a satchel over her shoulder, maybe, and long socks, white against her skin, a striking but slight creature, no match for the bumper of a speeding car.
As the clock ticked and the silence continued, Elizabeth's gaze drifted to the wine rack. It was empty, apart from a bottle of whisky someone at work had given her for her birthday. She had watched, with mounting satisfaction, the dust gathering on it ever since. Yet whisky would help her sleep, she reasoned now. It had been
a tough week, after all. And even on normal days people all over the world used the tonic of a nightcap to get their eyes closed. Why should she be any different? Why should she be ‘good' when there was nothing – no one – to be good for? What did it matter? Who would care?
Elizabeth looked hard at the phone, lying so still and quiet, and then at the bottle, wondering which to choose.
‘Are you sure they won't mind?’
‘Their lovely daughters-whom-they-never-see arriving a day early for their dress fittings with their equally lovely boyfriends, of course they won't mind, will they, Clem?’ Maisie grinned at her sister and Jonny, framed in the rear-view mirror, cheek to cheek, like one of the snaps they had posed for in photo booths as kids. ‘And I'm skipping freshers' week so I've got a few days more freedom before Bristol, and I want to make the most of you, Julian, don't I? And as for those two, they're, like, glued.’ She ducked as her sister tried to cuff her.
‘And me?’ ventured Theo. ‘Will they be pleased to see me?’
‘Star nephew – doh – I think so.’ Maisie tapped her temple, then opened the glove compartment, spilling a pile of tapes on to her lap. ‘Rod Stewart, anyone?’
‘So, how come you get to drive this swanky car, anyway, Julian?’ put in Clem, nestling against Jonny.
‘It's my mum's. I'm an only child, I get spoilt, it goes with the territory – you lot don't know what you're missing.’
‘I still can't believe it,’ muttered Theo, so cramped between Jonny and the door handle that he was beginning to wish he hadn't come. He had hitched a ride to London with a friend the night before for what had turned out to be such a damp squib of a party that he had left early and presented himself on Clem's doorstep.
‘Can't believe what?’ asked Jonny, raising his voice against ‘Maggie May' and beating out the rhythm on his thighs.
‘That bloody bomb. I wrote it and then it happened. Can you believe that?’
The Simple Rules of Love Page 43