Who to call, then? She didn't have many friends. She had always been a man's woman, not the sort to pour out her woes to female confidantes over glasses of wine. Before Stephen there had been Daniel, and before him a string of steady, respectably long relationships, each one providing all the emotional solace her undemanding nature had required.
Cassie began to walk, holding the phone in front of her like a torch in the dark. Other daughters might talk to their mothers in such circumstances, but then other people's mothers hadn't… She didn't want to think about that. There was Elizabeth, of course, a good sister in many ways, but so messed up in others – not an obvious candidate for the counsel Cassie craved. Her brothers were out of the question too: she could imagine the bafflement in their voices, all that manly incomprehension at such feminine despair, and from her too – Cassie – the one who wound life round her little finger and did as she pleased. Which left… Serena, of course. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Her dear, perceptive, gentle sister-in-law, who had been through so much, who alone of all people had seemed to comprehend the magnitude of her quest to become a mother. Cassie, fighting tears, was so pleased to have identified a source of help that she hardly minded when her call to Serena's mobile was put through to voicemail. ‘Serena, it's Cassie. Could I talk to you… urgently? Could you call? I need your… I need to meet, just to talk through a couple of things… Would you mind? Thanks so much.’
Cassie dropped her phone into her pocket and had another go at the umbrella, which opened smoothly and sweetly into a sleek black flower, as if all it had been waiting for was the injection of a little self-belief into the effort.
Seeing Cassie emerge from Sylvie's house, Stephen stepped back behind the protective shelter of the bus stop. He had chosen his lookout carefully, near enough to watch the door but not in the path of her route back to the car. The street had been easy to find once he'd double-checked the postcode in Cassie's address book with the various options presented by the A–Z. On the way to the tube station he had stopped off to post Clem her manuscript, with a dog-eared copy of the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook and a note that had taken most of the morning to compose.
A very brave start to a story. Well done you! But I'm afraid it's not really my sort of thing… far better to send it to an editor or agent – the enclosed book might help. It's a few years out of date but lists all the main ones. Sorry not to be more helpful. Keep it up!
Handing the parcel across the post-office counter, Stephen had felt as if he was unburdening himself of something far weightier than the modest brown package suggested. He couldn't believe he had allowed the manuscript to sit in his bottom drawer for so long, undermining – jinxing – his own creative efforts with the quiet invisible force of its presence, just as Keith worming his way into Ashley House had undermined him, upsetting his sense of balance within his future wife's family. But now the manuscript was off his hands and Keith was leaving Charlie and Serena, heading back north where he belonged. Hearing the news via Cassie that week, Stephen had felt a lump of joy clog his throat. Everything was going to get better, he could feel it. All that remained was to get things back on an even keel with Cassie, pull her back into the circle of his love, where things like her work and having babies were secondary preoccupations instead of obsessions.
It was all a question of perspective, Stephen mused, fighting the temptation to rush to Cassie's aid as she fought with her umbrella. She was so vulnerable, so in need of his protection. If only she could recognize that instead of retreating into her-self all the time, putting the wrong interpretation on things. Like the business with her mother, which had been dreadful but Stephen had felt he understood at once. Poor Pamela, bereft without her soulmate, living like a guest in her own home. No wonder she had wanted to end it all. It was terrible, but glorious too, as terrible things often were. But Cassie couldn't see it that way and trying to persuade her otherwise had proved so detrimental that Stephen had given up.
He was wooing her instead now, Stephen reminded himself happily, peering round the side panel of the bus stop and experiencing a fresh wrench of pity at the sight of his beloved's bedraggled hair and rain-soaked jacket. All he wanted was to rush down the pavement and grab her, lick the rain off her cheeks and tell her he loved her. Yet it was exciting too, he had to admit, watching but not touching, safely screened inside the bus stop. In many ways it reminded him of the days when she hadn't yet reciprocated his feelings, when he had prowled outside her flat like a stray in search of a home, leaving flowers on her doorstep and scratching messages into the icy windscreen of her car. Halcyon days, Stephen reflected wistfully, though he hadn't known it at the time. He dropped his gaze to his damp shoes, pondering how simple early love was, how pure, how driven by the energy of its own conviction. Where had that simplicity gone? How had he become a man watching his lover from a bus shelter on a dank June afternoon? A man with cold toes and an aching heart. Jack Connolly might behave in such a way, but not him, surely?
And yet he was doing no harm, Stephen reasoned fiercely, fighting the wistfulness now, digging deep inside himself for reassurance. It wasn't like he had planned to come. It had been a whim, blown into being by the oddness of Cassie's manner the previous evening, the reserve with which she had yielded her itinerary for the day. There had been a certain stealth (there was no other word for it) about the way she had slipped upstairs afterwards – while he was still finishing his wine from dinner – and bolted the bathroom door. Bolted it. After letting him in she had jumped back into the bath like a shy schoolgirl burying herself under the bubbles and smiling awkwardly – weirdly – almost as if she didn't want him to see her nakedness. Any normal lover would have thought it odd, let alone one who'd already had doubts about a chap called Frank and who feared deep down, within the rubble of his terrified heart, that she might find someone else to make a baby with, someone keener and more sure of themselves, someone who'd had a decent dad of their own and didn't live with the terror that everyone he cared about would either hurt him or disappear.
Cassie was hurrying down the path now and out into the street. Her hair was so wet it hung in black rats' tails round her face. She stepped carefully in her high heels, avoiding the worst of the puddles. The rain had eased slightly. High in the sky a minute patch of blue had appeared like a teasing hope. Noting its presence and experiencing a sickeningly lucid glimpse of the absurdity, the sheer seediness of what he was doing, Stephen stepped out of the bus shelter to declare his presence. As he did so Cassie lifted her face sufficiently for him to observe, with some shock, that she was crying. He noticed, too, that she was holding her mobile phone and on the point of dialling a number. His number, Stephen realized, his chest tightening with panicky excitement as he hastily stepped out of view. Who else would she call if she was sad? Who else but the love of her life, her future husband, who would die rather than live without her? He pulled his own phone out of his pocket and waited, so sure it would ring that when Cassie began to talk he tapped its little screen, dimly wondering if there was a faulty connection. But then, suddenly, she was walking away, clearly talking but out of earshot, wiping the tears off her face, then laughing – he was sure he'd heard a laugh. Stephen stared after her through the Perspex wall of the bus shelter in disbelief. Why had a dress-fitting for their wedding made her sad? Why had she phoned someone else for consolation? Why was his world crumbling, no matter how hard he tried to prop it up?
When a bus pulled up several minutes later he was still standing there, all the doubts he had sought to allay ganging up against him, mocking him like the bullies at school who had poked his bruises and told him he was a loser, until Keith elbowed them away. Until the next time. There had always been a next time. There always would be, Stephen mused bitterly. No matter how far he tried to remove himself, pain would always be waiting round the corner, ready to get him in the end.
The doors of the bus slid open with a hiss and an old lady got off, clinging to the handrail as she lowered hers
elf gingerly to the pavement.
‘You getting in or what, mate?’ shouted the driver.
‘Yes… no.’
‘Make up your mind.’
‘No… thanks, that is… I'm not sure where I'm going.’
‘Who does, mate?’ laughed the driver, returning his attention to the road as the doors closed.
Peter swilled the wine round his mouth, swallowed, scowled, then peered over his spectacles for a second look at the bottle being held out for him by the sommelier. Next to him Helen chewed a piece of bread and checked her phone for messages. Serena tried to catch Charlie's eye, but he was too absorbed in his brother's antics to notice. Absorbed and admiring, mused Serena, despairingly. She caught the sommelier's eye and beamed at him, wanting to make up for all the silliness. The wine was priced at thirty-five pounds and had a beautiful label and a lovely long French name. Of course it was all right. Peter was just being Peter, showing off as usual.
‘Is Monsieur not happy with the wine?’
‘I'm not sure… Charlie, see what you think?’
‘Could I see what I think?’
‘Of course, Serena. Be my guest.’ Peter offered his sister-in-law an indulgent smile and pushed the glass across the tablecloth.
She sipped. ‘It's heavenly,’ she declared, patting her lips with her napkin.
‘Good,’ murmured Peter, unperturbed. ‘Helen, darling? Do you want a taste?’
Helen, replying to a text from Chloe who had asked if her Saturday-night curfew could be extended from ten thirty to eleven o'clock, shook her head absently.
‘Your turn then, Charlie.’
Charlie looked anxiously from his brother to his wife, aware, as he swallowed the remaining mouthful of wine, of a tension that he didn't want to explore. Serena was looking cheerful, that was the main thing – the purpose of the exercise in fact. ‘Doesn't seem too bad… but I'm no expert,’ he said.
‘Well, I don't think it's at its best,’ declared Peter, returning his attention to the sommelier.
‘I will fetch Monsieur another bottle,’ said the waiter at once, his face a mask as he bowed and left the table.
‘Good. Well, that's sorted that, then. No point in settling for second best.’ Peter rubbed his hands. He was enjoying himself enormously, far more than he had dared hope. Far more than he deserved, probably, he reflected, turning to catch something Helen was saying and detecting – from his cheek or collar, perhaps – the faintest but most deliciously distinct trace of Delia; not so much a perfume as an animal scent, a combination of skin and soap so alluring that he had wanted to lunge across the checked tablecloth of the bistro in which they had lunched that day and bury his face in her neck. He hadn't, of course. They had enjoyed a civilized meal instead. Steak and frites and a green salad, washed down with mineral water and a glass each of merlot. They had talked about the wet summer, their children, their jobs and, eventually, Pamela, who had provided the justification for the meeting in the first place. I know some of whatyou're going through… the shock… I could be a friend, someone to talk to about it all. The memory of those words, the simple offer of comfort – not to mention the indelible imprint of her phone number across his brain – had proved too vivid for Peter to resist. Helen, with increasing regularity, was seeking comfort in church, so why shouldn't he do the same in a new, unexpected friendship? And Delia had proved a friend indeed, sharing details of the events surrounding her brother's suicide, offering all sorts of gentle wisdom in the process. The scent of her was from a parting kiss: her lips on his cheek; a momentary burning. And here he was a few hours later, treating his wife to a well-earned break, strengthening brotherly bonds, accommodating the now ever-present tetchiness of his once easy-going sister-in-law. So, no harm done. In fact, if anything, Peter mused, he felt warmer towards his family than he would have done if he hadn't met Delia for lunch. It had boosted him, as all good friendship should, he assured himself, experiencing, as the trace of scent vanished, an absurd momentary urge to sniff his shirt collar like a dog. ‘Darling, you're as bad as Chloe with that phone.’
‘No, I'm not,’ murmured Helen, pressing the discreet option and setting it down next to her side plate.
‘Our dear daughter is plugged into machines of one kind or another all day,’ Peter continued, turning to Charlie and Serena. ‘She even dries her hair, preening herself like a film star. Teenagers, eh! Who would have them? Talking of which, how's Ed getting on?’
‘Ed's fine,’ said Serena, a little sharply. ‘His exams have gone really well. He's got one left on Monday, then his eighteenth to look forward to – though he's decided against a big party.’
‘His latest plan, apparently,’ put in Charlie, glancing at his wife, ‘is to use both his trust fund and the money we would have spent on a party to go travelling.’
‘Is it now?’ Peter folded his arms and leant back in his chair. ‘Forgive me for being old-fashioned, but I thought gap years were supposed to be about earning one's own way. Give them too much and they'll start blowing it on drink and drugs. Theo's planning to hang on to his trust fund until he needs a mortgage.’
Serena's mouth was full of wine from a second, approved, bottle. She almost spat it across the tablecloth. ‘A mortgage – at his age?’
‘Oh, you know Theo,’ said Helen, smoothly, doing her best to sound proud rather than smug. ‘He likes to think ahead.’ She smiled at her sister-in-law, enjoying, as always, her sheer straightforwardness but thinking with something like pity that offspring were invariably the product of their parents and upbringing. Ed, for the most understandable reasons, had been spoilt. He had his father's easy charm and a mollycoddling mother – a lethal combination, she and Peter had agreed many times. She had been in no mood for a weekend away with the pair of them, no matter how luxurious the setting, but Peter had talked her round. Charlie and Serena were still reeling from the trauma of his mother's recent breakdown, he reminded her, they needed cheering up, and he and Helen might have a good time in the process. All of which had made Helen grateful that Peter, in contrast, seemed to have recovered his own high spirits. Lately his mood had been verging on ebullient – because his shoulder was better, he said, and because his case was going well, and because he could still beat his son at squash. He had been singing so loudly in the shower all week that Chloe, who had just turned fourteen and was more self-obsessed than ever, had been moved to remark on it herself, delivering such a hilarious rendition of his operatic wailings between mouthfuls of cornflakes that all of them – including Genevieve, banging her spoon against the table in encouraging and uncomprehending glee – had laughed till their sides ached.
‘Oh, look,’ said Helen, picking up her phone as it hummed for attention. ‘A message from Theo… about to go to that ball of his with Clem. She's fine, he says, better than he's ever seen her.’
‘And why wouldn't Clem be fine?’ inquired Serena, stiffly, looking from her husband to Peter, then to Helen.
‘No reason. We knew she hadn't been in touch much lately and –’
‘What else have you told them?’ Serena interjected, glaring at Charlie. ‘Have you said you're worried about me too? That that's why we are all here – to cheer me up?’
‘Darling, really –’
‘I'm perfectly cheery, thank you.’ She lanced one of the little scallops she had chosen as a starter, wondering when her husband had started looking to his brother for support rather than to her, or whether he had always been that way and she had been too dense to notice. She popped the coral into her mouth and chewed slowly, aware that as the architect of the now ringing silence round the table it was her responsibility to dispel it. The scallop was sweet and buttery, melting between her teeth. ‘Sorry.’ She rolled her eyes and made a face. ‘It's been a tough couple of months, what with…’ she breathed deeply ‘… all that's happened. And, yes, Peter, you're right, teenagers are a nightmare.’ She chattered on about Ed's exams, Keith leaving and Pamela improving, until the gusts of relief from Cha
rlie were almost palpable.
‘Well done,’ he said, once they were safely back upstairs in their sumptuous bedroom, which had been tidied in their absence – towels folded, curtains drawn and the sheets turned down, as white and smooth as envelope flaps. ‘I should have brought you here alone, shouldn't I, my petal?’ He took her hands in his and kissed each palm. ‘I just felt the need to include Peter and Helen… I mean, they're cut up too, about Mum and so on.’
‘I know.’ Serena cupped his face in her hands. ‘Because you're kind and loyal and I love you for that. I also know that you've been worried about me and bringing us here was a lovely idea – I'm truly grateful – but we don't owe them anything, darling.’ She moved her fingers over his face, feeling the strong ridges of his cheekbones. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether you're trying in some way to make up for the fact that Peter gave us the house but – hush, let me finish – we didn't ask him to, remember? He insisted, just as your uncle Eric insisted your father should have it. John and Pamela didn't spend the rest of their lives trying to make up to him and neither should we.’
‘I'm just trying to keep him… involved,’ muttered Charlie, sheepishly, inwardly marvelling at his wife's capacity – no matter what else was going on inside her head – to see to the heart of things. ‘And I'm sorry for telling them we were concerned about Clem. I meant it for the best.’
‘I know, and I'm glad Theo says she's fine. That was good to hear. The family tom-toms signalling across the country. It's good that we all watch out for each other.’ She had moved into the circle of his arms now and was pressing her body against his, offering signals of a rather more immediate nature. There are chocolates on our pillows, look,’ she murmured, peering over his shoulder. ‘Shall we unwrap them and have a choco-latey kiss?’ She ran her tongue round his ear-lobe, enjoying his breath against her neck and the knowledge that twenty-five years of marriage had not dimmed her ability to stir her husband's passions. ‘A sticky wet kiss, my bear…’
The Simple Rules of Love Page 23
