The Codes of Love

by Hannah Persaud

  There’s a fridge in the caravan and it’s full of melting ice. They need the car to charge it, but until now they haven’t been able to get it down here. He’ll go to the village and buy some supplies and then return and try out the new road. He’ll get the fridge cold and load it for the next couple of days. On the way out he rattles the old iron gate that lies rusting in the hedgerow and wonders if they could restore it. Strip it down and reseal it and paint it perhaps, it could be good as new. Seeing something by his foot, he bends down and picks it up; a small sign, made of stone. He rubs his finger across the moss and mud that obscures it. Cyfannedd Fach. They didn’t know the cottage had a name. He puts it beside the gate and makes a note to pick it up later and clean it up. Perhaps they can put it on the front of the cottage when it’s ready. He’ll look up what it means.

  The drive is glorious. He rolls the windows down and laments not bringing his convertible instead. Past the nearest neighbour some three miles away, past the abandoned farmers’ cottages tucked into the base of Cadair Idris. Beside the Cregennan Lakes he slows, their perfect turquoise mirroring the sky. There’s not a soul in sight. The remoteness of this place is unsettling sometimes. Not now though, with not a shadow in sight. On a whim he swings the car to the side of the road and parks. The lake he’s chosen is the smallest, fifteen metres across at most. Scanning the craggy peaks around him, he pulls off his shorts and T-shirt.

  The water is warmer near the surface and colder underneath. His toes are numb within seconds. It’s deep, though he’s no idea how far down it goes. Local myth has it that a giant lived here once and that these lakes were created by his footsteps. Now they’re used only by local children and the occasional tourist. He plunges underwater, eyes closed. He swims down until his ears hurt and his lungs are close to bursting, then turns upwards, erupting from the surface. Sun dries the droplets on his shoulders and as soon as he feels its pulsing heat he plunges again, and again; unsure which is better, the thrill of the descent or the relief of emerging.

  Exhausted, he clambers to shore and air dries before pulling his clothes back on and continuing his journey to the village.

  A bell clangs, announcing his arrival, this tiny shop the only sign of life in this desolate town. He’s reminded of the bleakness of British coastal towns. Faded paint and crumbling shutters, an absence of life even on the weekends. Grabbing a basket, he finds milk, wine, some instant pasta meals. So different from what he would be having back home, gastropub food and gourmet organic meals.

  ‘How are you doing?’ The woman behind the counter recognises him. ‘Ryan, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He smiles. ‘Beautiful day.’

  ‘Aye, none too common round here, as I’m sure you know.’ She puts his shopping into a bag. ‘We don’t charge for the bags yet.’ She winks. ‘Down for the weekend? I heard they’re repairing your road?’ News travels round here quicker than wildfire.

  ‘Yep, looks good.’ He smiles to mask his unease.

  ‘Not for everyone, what you’ve chosen. How are you finding the cottage?’

  ‘It’s great, thanks,’ Ryan says.

  ‘How’s your wife doing?’ she asks.

  ‘She’s not here yet. Joining me later,’ Ryan replies. It’s easier to let people assume what they want to. She looks up quickly.

  ‘Could have sworn she came in the other day …’

  ‘Must have been her doppelganger.’ Ryan grins.

  ‘Well, isn’t that the strangest thing, must be my eyesight packing in.’ Passing him the bag she takes his change, sorts it into the till. ‘Well, give her my regards when she arrives. Tell her to drop by. I’ve got some of those Jammie Dodgers that she favours, set some aside.’

  In the car he drives fast. Perhaps Ada is there by now, but surely she would have sent message if all was okay? Short of sending out a search party, there’s nothing he can do. He thinks of the woman in the shop; it’s funny, he’s never known Ada to have a sweet tooth.

  The new road holds firm as he winds down it and through the opening to the cottage. He keeps the speed up across the field to the caravan, which he can see is still empty. He parks on the edge of the field, facing downhill in case he needs to get momentum going through the mud if it rains. He takes out a beer that he’s brought. It’s still cold. The day is in its last throes and the sun will be setting soon. He walks up the ridge to watch Barmouth dwindle in the light.

  He’s halfway up the ridge, chair under his right arm and beer in his left, when he sees them coming across the field. Pausing, he waits for them to come closer.

  ‘Excuse me, sorry for trespassing …’ A woman in hiking gear approaches him. She has tanned, leathered skin and carries walking poles. ‘We’re missing one of our group and wondered if you’d seen her: forties, slim, about five foot ten, long brown hair.’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ Ryan says, irritated by this intrusion on his peace.

  ‘We’ve walked from Harlech, round the coast; she was ahead, but now we think she might have taken a wrong turn.’

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘Penmaenpool.’

  ‘Sounds like a long walk …’

  ‘Twenty miles at least, yes. We meet up every summer, but this is the first time we’ve lost someone. If you see her could you let her know we’re looking? Her name’s Marlena.’

  ‘Of course. Good luck.’

  He sinks into his chair and tilts his head back, face bathed in rays. Harlech. He remembers it now from his youth. A family trip to the castle, a treat to break up their latest migration from one place to the next. It should have been glorious. They’d spent the day on the sand dunes, with his father racing ahead. His mother was in the middle as usual, trying to keep everyone happy. He’d found a large sea snail and insisted on carrying it in his pocket, determined to keep it as a pet. He’d kept quiet about it but at the end of the day his father found it escaping in the car.

  ‘Put it back,’ he’d said to Ryan quietly, and just like that the day changed.

  ‘Peter, he can’t just put it back,’ his mother had said. ‘The tide is out, the sea is miles away now.’ He remembers wishing she would be quiet, knowing well by then the consequences of her interfering.

  ‘I just wanted to keep it,’ Ryan had said, already unfastening his seat belt.

  ‘Put it back where you found it,’ his father said. ‘We’ll wait.’

  So Ryan, nine, maybe ten, unfastened his seat belt and scooping up the snail carefully, clambered from the car and started off down the steep slope to the edge of the dunes. The tide was out by then, the sea a silver line in the distance. He’d made it up the second dune before he heard his father coming up behind him, panting and out of breath. The palm of his hand knocked him sideways and his skin smarted. Sand sprayed into his eyes, and before he managed to sit up his father had taken the snail from him.

  ‘Give it back,’ Ryan had shouted, scrabbling to his feet, not caring who could hear. In the distance he saw his mother, her skirt hitched up to her thighs and barefoot, running towards him.

  ‘Ryan …’

  ‘Give it back,’ he shouted again, jumping at his father’s hands. But he was too small, too slow. His mother was panicking in the distance. His father stormed back to the car, his mother calling, and Ryan when he got there was too late to stop his father’s boot slamming down, crushing the snail against the concrete, its insides spilling out.

  Opening his eyes, he sees the first lights of the evening against the bruised purple sky.

  ‘Darling.’ Out of nowhere her voice startles him and he leaps to his feet, knocking over his beer.

  ‘Ada? Where the hell have you been?’ She wraps her bare arms around his neck and inhales him.

  ‘What kind of greeting is that?’ She smiles and pushes her lips against his. He tastes the warm sweetness of her breath. She’s wearing cut-off denim shorts and a white vest. Her legs are suntanned.

  ‘I was worried; you were supposed to be here hours ago.’


  ‘Bad traffic, late starting … Anyway, there’s no supposed to here, is there?’ She puts her face against his shoulder. He turns away.

  ‘The things that have been running through my head. Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘I don’t have hands-free, didn’t want to waste time stopping. Doesn’t the road look great?’ He nods.

  ‘Are you looking forward to your family holiday?’ she asks, sitting on the ground in front of his chair and drinking in the view.

  ‘Dreading it,’ he replies.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Why do you want to know anyway? No questions, remember?’

  ‘Sorry I asked,’ she says sulkily. Come to think of it, how does she know about the holiday? He’s pretty sure he didn’t tell her about their holidays plans. Any talk of their outside lives chills the atmosphere.

  ‘How do you know about it?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The holiday?’ Ada lies back on the ground and pushes her arms above her head. ‘Emily told me.’ She shuts her eyes.

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘Your wife, remember?’

  ‘Don’t play games, it’s not funny …’

  ‘I’m not. I saw her.’ Ryan sits up straight in the chair he has just sunk into. ‘What do you mean you saw her?’ Ada rolls onto her side so the right-hand side of her body is flanked by the vista of the hills behind her.

  ‘We bumped into each other and had a coffee. It’s no big deal.’ No big deal. Of course he knew they got along, but he’d presumed all contact between them had stopped. After their night out in Dulwich Village he just presumed they’d lost touch.

  ‘How many times have you seen her?’ he asks.

  Ada concentrates on a piece of grass she has plucked from the ground, rolling it between her fingers. ‘I don’t know, a few.’

  ‘A few?’

  ‘Three, maybe four times. I like her. Haven’t seen her for a while, though.’

  ‘And you don’t think that’s strange, to be hanging out with the wife of your lover?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, I like her. We have things in common. Just because she’s your wife shouldn’t mean she can’t be my friend too.’

  ‘I can think of one obvious reason. What things do you have in common?’

  ‘We like cycling – you know we did a sportive together, right?’ Ryan vaguely recalls Emily doing a ride but she didn’t mention it was with Ada, did she? He’d remember if she had. ‘And we like having fun,’ Ada adds. He feels nauseous to think of Ada and Emily in cahoots behind his back.

  ‘What else did she tell you?’ he says. Ada sits slowly and rubs her eyes. She stands and moves behind him, bending to put her cheek against his.

  ‘Just little things, like the way you have a thing for your earlobes being nibbled and the way you let out your breath through your teeth when you come …’

  ‘I’m not kidding, this is some weird shit you’ve got going on.’

  ‘She talked about the cottage, or rather – an investment you had made.’

  ‘She did not,’ Ryan says, feeling like he’s going to throw up.

  ‘She did.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her anything did you?’ Ada moves from behind him and stands in front of his knees, blocking his view. ‘Of course not, how could I? She doesn’t know you’re with me, silly.’ It doesn’t bear thinking about. He deliberately hasn’t told Emily who the affair is with. But something about Ada niggles. How naturally her lies come. He chooses his words carefully.

  ‘How did she find out?’

  ‘Something she saw lying around, can’t remember what. Seems like you were careless.’

  ‘Will you be seeing her again?’ he says, fumbling with the ring pull of his beer.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I like her.’ She bends down now and kisses him full on the lips, lingering after he pulls away, pushing her lips back onto his. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t affect us – she doesn’t have a clue. I am the master of subtlety.’ She laughs, and he feels a flash of sympathy for Emily and a rush of relief, before unease settles inside him like silt.

  It’s only later, when Ada is sleeping that the question crosses his mind: why did Emily not mention that she knew about the cottage? She took issue with him breaking the rules, so why not this one? And how long has she been on at him to buy a ruin and do it up for themselves? Surely this is her Achilles heel. He thinks of the effort that Emily has made to hold them together. Holding her hand in Venice feels like years ago, not months. Why would she keep quiet if she knew about this cottage? What else does Ada know that he doesn’t? When sleep comes eventually it is fitful and broken.

  Rules of an open marriage #9:

  Never bring a lover into our house

  He first saw Ada on a conference call. She commented on the painting behind him. He’d been surprised that she’d recognised the artist, his taste being obscure and rather niche – but not only did she know the painting, but she had a print of it herself, at home. My wife doesn’t like it, he’d said, and they’d shared a joke at Emily’s expense. These writer types, Ada had said, so wrapped up in their own imaginations that they can’t recognise a good thing when it’s right in front of them.

  Ada was smart and good at what she did; they’d been paired together and they got along well. Without her he wasn’t sure the project would have succeeded. She challenged him every step of the way and though often he’d end their calls frustrated, a few hours later he could usually see her point of view. He started to look forward to their calls and the way they mapped the weeks. They started to talk about more than work: just little things, stuff that Emily didn’t have time for in the evenings, her eyes glazing over. Ada remembered things too, details. Still, he didn’t expect to fall for Ada the way he did. It didn’t cross his mind that it could be something more, until the awards ceremony.

  Rules of an open marriage #10:

  Always spend quality time with each other

  Venice, February 2016

  Emily hates flying and it’s not just the powerlessness of being midair, suspended in a metal cocoon. It’s the whole stress of it: the picking of what to take and packing; the order that must be made from chaos. The parking that must be booked, the traffic that clogs the arteries of the M4; the tedious waiting and queuing at the airport, the close proximity of strangers; the sheer size of the man to her left who got the window seat, his huge leg pressing her small one. Beside her Ryan is reading a newspaper. They are sixteen minutes into the two-hour flight and already beneath her sweating palms she is bored.

  Tom and Sam will be at her sister’s in Southfields by now. Their resentment at not coming clouded dinner at the restaurant last night. The waitress, sensing the atmosphere, stayed away. The service was shoddy.

  ‘Why do you get to go away?’ Tom had said, pushing his uneaten bolognaise around his plate. ‘While we get to camp at Aunty Sarah’s?’

  ‘You could try and be happy for us – it’s not often Dad and I get time to ourselves,’ she’d replied, looking to Ryan for back-up. ‘Anyway, it’s hardly camping when you get your own room.’

  ‘Yeah, to share with fuzzy duck here,’ Sam gestured to Tom. ‘I don’t get why you need to have time alone anyway,’ he added, ‘You get plenty of time together at home when we’re at school and out.’ She’d looked again to Ryan for some contribution, then kicked his foot underneath the table. He startled and looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Stop complaining, it’s only three nights and you’ll have fun with Sarah and Matthew.’

  ‘Funny definition of fun,’ Tom replied. ‘Three days with no friends around, watching rugby. It’s all they do all weekend.’

  ‘I hate their flat,’ Sam said. ‘It’s too small and the council estate is rough.’ They’ve raised such snobs. Sometimes she is ashamed. To think of where she came from. One day she’ll take them back to visit the tiny two-up two-down that she grew up in, surrounded by hundreds of other identical homes; row upon row of houses punctuated onl
y by a tiny patch of grass with swings. She hasn’t been back since her mother died, not even to visit her grave.

  ‘Sam, can you stop complaining? It’s fine, their house is fine, the area’s fine. Not everyone gets to live like we do,’ Emily said.

  ‘It’s three days, kiddo. It’s not going to kill you to be a little bored.’ Finally Ryan deigned to speak.

  ‘But you won’t be bored, that’s the point,’ Emily said, glaring at Ryan. ‘Sarah’s planned loads of activities for you to give you a good time.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Skate park, cinema. I don’t know, I didn’t demand an itinerary.’

  ‘Well, you should have,’ said Sam.

  ‘That’s enough, Sam. If you can’t be happy for us, the least you can do is be quiet about it.’

  ‘She doesn’t even like teenagers.’ This from Tom, his words falling into silence.

  In bed afterwards she’d turned her back on Ryan and tucked the covers tightly around her. He’s been so distracted lately. The least he could have done was support her and defend their right to time alone. This morning she awoke still angry, and now, on the plane, she is exhausted. She checks her watch. One hour to go. She’d like to get her book out, but that would mean asking Ryan to pass it. Instead she examines the flightsafety instruction card. Ridiculous, really: who would ever stop to get their hand luggage out if the plane was going down? And really, has a plane ever successfully landed on water apart from that one on the Hudson? She vaguely remembers reading something about a landing in Russia, but the chances of surviving are slight, at best. So what’s the point of the bouncy slide? Perhaps it’s just to create a sense of hope. But do airline companies even think like that? She’d like to order a vodka, but it’s breakfast time and she can’t bear the thought of being stared at. She breathes in deeply, then out. She used to bring her own booze onto the plane in a hip flask, but 9/11 has put an end to all that. She can’t even drown her nerves these days.