The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  ‘The main thing is that you're all right,’ cut in Serena, a little desperately, wishing she could steer Jessica's gaze to something other than the carpet. The girl was so forlorn that her heart ached with pity. Even allowing for the early stages of pregnancy, her figure had swelled unattractively since the funeral. Her hair, with its curious line of black where the dye continued to grow out, was dry and neglected, while her pasty face was pitted with small angry patches of livid pink, which she kept picking at with her fingernails. ‘Jessica? Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fucking brilliant,’ she hissed, her eyes sliding briefly towards Serena and back to the floor.

  ‘You watch your tongue, girl,’ snapped Maureen, rising out of her chair towards her daughter, then reaching for her cigarettes instead.

  ‘We are all agreed, I think,’ said Peter, speaking quietly and gravely, ‘on the appropriate course of action.’

  Maureen tapped a sprinkle of ash into a saucer and exhaled a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, which was a faint brown from a steady stream of similar assaults over the years. ‘Oh, yes, she's seen sense on that, all right, haven't you, Jess?’

  ‘I have here a couple of suggestions for places that would carry out the procedure privately,’ Peter continued, getting out his list and putting on his glasses. ‘All that remains is to find a time that would suit you, Jessica – and, of course, you, Maureen, as I'm sure you would want your mother by your side.’

  Jessica laughed. ‘Oh, sure, yeah, by my side.’

  ‘Or maybe a close friend,’ put in Serena, gently, ‘someone who –’

  ‘Ed was my close friend, weren't you, Ed?’ Jessica peered at him from under her hair, her face such a mixture of resentment and pleading that, for a moment, none of them, least of all Ed, knew how to respond.

  Ed shook his head slowly. ‘Jess, this is crap, I know, and I'm truly sorry.’

  ‘And then,’ continued Peter, firmly, ‘there is the question of what we can do to make up for this most upsetting state of affairs – that is, to compensate Jessica for the distraction she must have suffered, not to mention the distress… Charlie, perhaps you… He gave his brother, who was looking dazed, a sharp nod of encouragement. In spite of his confidence in his own abilities to develop this sensitive aspect of the subject, even Peter could see it was one that Charlie, as father of the unfortunate Ed, should manage himself. The pair of them had, after considerable discussion, agreed on the figure of two thousand pounds, erring on the side of generosity as an expression of regret, and recognition of the part Ed's lack of responsibility had played in the whole sorry business.

  ‘The point is,’ stammered Charlie, giving up on his tea and gripping the mantelpiece, ‘we want you to be all right after the operation, Jessica, so anything you need – anything at all – we would like to make sure that you get it, and to that end we thought we would give you some money so that –’

  ‘How much?’ asked Maureen, dropping her cigarette into the dregs of her tea, where it fizzled briefly like a damp firework.

  ‘We thought, maybe, two thousand pounds would cover any-thing that –’

  Maureen was trying not to look too pleased. Her doubled figure had been eight hundred. Her dad had said Jessica had got what she asked for and the Harrisons owed them nothing, but what did an old gardener know? ‘That's generous, Jess, isn't it? Very generous.’ She folded her arms, nodding happily. ‘Anyone for another cuppa?’

  Everyone said, no, thank you. ‘Perhaps I should leave this with you,’ said Peter, relief evident in his voice as he handed Maureen the list of clinics. ‘Just let us know –’

  ‘What about me? Shouldn't you be showing me your private clinics?’ snarled Jessica, getting up from her chair and snatching the piece of paper.

  ‘Of course. I'm so sorry,’ said Peter, masking his shock at the speed with which the girl had moved, the viciousness in her tone.

  ‘I tell you what, though,’ continued Jessica, her eyes darting from the paper to those watching her, ‘Ed's right. This is crap. All of it, a pile of crap. You see, I'm not having an operation. It's my bleeding baby and I don't want to kill it. So you can all fuck off, especially you, Maureen, doing anything for a bit of cash as usual.’ As she spoke Jessica started to tear the page in two, holding it out so that there was no danger of any of them missing the spectacle.

  ‘You stupid bitch,’ said Maureen, her voice throaty with smoke and anger. ‘What do you think you're doing?’

  ‘I'm having it,’ screamed Jessica, ripping the paper again, then screwing it into a ball. ‘Just cos you wish you'd got rid of me – it would have made your life simpler, wouldn't it? Nothing but trouble, that's what you always say. Well, guess what? You're right, I am trouble and you'll just have to put up with it. But I tell you what, it's my baby and I'm fucking well going to have it with or without their stinking money.’

  ‘I knew she'd ruin everything,’ gasped Maureen, lighting another cigarette, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Stupid cow, she always does.’

  ‘Now, now…’ Peter stretched out his arms and flapped his hands in the manner of a grand speaker trying to calm a noisy crowd. ‘You're upset, Jessica, that's understandable. It's not an easy decision and I apologize profusely if any of us have given the impression that we thought otherwise.’

  ‘It's just that it's the best thing for you,’ pitched in Charlie, desperately. ‘Both you and Ed are far too young to have children – you're still children yourselves.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ she sneered. ‘Then how come men want to have sex with me? Not just Ed, but men like him.’ She pointed her finger at Peter, who, while trembling inside, stared back at her with strong, stony eyes.

  ‘As I said, child, you're upset. You don't know what you're saying. I think we should leave you now to think through everything. I'm sure you'll see sense in due course.’

  They all stood up, except Serena, who had listened to the exchanges with mounting sorrow.

  ‘Darling?’ Charlie touched her arm. ‘We should go.’

  ‘We should listen to Jessica – to how she feels… It's such a big thing, after all.’

  ‘Of course,’ Charlie murmured, pulling rather less gently at her sleeve. ‘She needs time to think.’

  ‘I don't,’ said Jessica, leaping from her chair and running to her bedroom. ‘I have thought and you can all fuck off.’

  ‘I wonder how it's going,’ murmured Cassie, reaching across Stephen for the wine bottle and topping up her glass. They were sitting side by side on the sofa, wrapped in after-dinner tranquillity. Her fiancé, she could tell, was in a good mood – from a successful day on his book, she presumed, although he hadn't said as much, merely greeted her with a fond kiss and talk of the veal he had bought for supper and left marinating in lemon juice and olive oil.

  ‘Oh, they'll sort it all out,’ said Stephen, lightly, swilling his wine so that it slid to the lip of his glass and back again. ‘Peter, no doubt, will get his cheque book out…’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Like he did for me once, remember, when you all thought I was going to expose your mother's affair with Eric in my book?’ He shook his head, still chuckling. ‘Happy days, eh?’

  Cassie laughed, too, but with less certainty. The days to which Stephen referred had been far from happy, not just because they had feared public exposure of something so private but because she had been reeling from the death of her niece and the end of her relationship with Dan. Stephen, rightly, had been disgusted at her brother's attempts to buy his silence. He had withdrawn the offending references from the book anyway, retreating into a hurt silence and the continuing agony of loving her but getting nothing in return.

  ‘It's good that you can laugh about it,’ she ventured, after a pause, taking heart suddenly at this simple evidence that even the grimmest things could become amusing, or at least harmless, given a decent passage of time. Maybe it would happen to them, too, she mused, when they looked back on the tensions that seemed to have grown since their engagement. Ma
ybe even, one day, they would be swinging a toddler between them, laughing at the needless to-do that had led up to his or her conception. ‘Poor Ed,’ she murmured.

  Stephen had dropped his head on to her shoulder and was basking in the brief respite the day had offered from the treadmill of his anxieties: an appointment with a woman in Clapham, trips to a couple of fabric shops, a phone call to him while she ate her sandwich on a bench in Grosvenor Gardens; saying he was on the way to the butcher's had meant that he had had to race there en route home afterwards, but all in all it had been a good day, another building block in the still delicate wall of his trust. Soon they would be in Italy, rubbing sun-cream into each other's back and strolling through olive groves.

  ‘Don't you feel sorry for him?’ Cassie pressed.

  Stephen snorted and said that as far as he was concerned both Ed and the girl had behaved like idiots. Cassie murmured agreement and sipped her wine. While irrefutable, it wasn't the sympathetic response she had been looking for. But, then, she was learning the danger in demanding responses, just as she was learning to make the most of tranquil evenings. It was a juggling act but, then, what wasn't? Like Stephen, she was hanging on now for the holiday, certain that relaxing in a warm climate would ease the tension between them and within the mysterious labyrinth of her reproductive system.

  August

  The villa was, if anything, even more perfect than the glossy images in the brochure had suggested. It sat at the end of an avenue of poplars, surrounded by sloping terraces of olive groves, its white stucco walls, blue shutters and red-tiled roof brilliant in the sunshine. In the distance, shimmering like a mirage between two folds of undulating countryside, lay the town of Todi, the small dome of its cathedral glinting like a crown jewel on a velvet cushion. The swimming-pool, lined with mosaic tiles of blue and white, was tucked away discreetly at the back of the villa, and landscaped so cleverly that it only became visible from the dining terrace that overlooked it. It was a decent pool, too, equipped with a diving-board and a crescent of little steps for less adventurous participants. Parked round it at angles under striped parasols were a dozen sun-beds and several small tables. Two symmetrical flights of steps linked this area to the terrace above, curling round a vast rockery that played host to some fierce-looking cacti and scores of exotic flowers with flamboyant petals and colours so vivid that little Genevieve wasn't the only one who couldn't resist reaching out to touch one every time she passed. No one else tugged them quite so hard or made a small store of broken petals behind one of the giant earthenware pots that decorated the terrace.

  Although Helen and Peter were due to stay for the full four weeks, the departure dates of the other members of the family were sufficiently complicated for Helen to have felt justified in transposing them on to a chart, which she had stuck on the fridge door. Organizing the sleeping arrangements proved even more taxing, since all of the seven bedrooms were doubles and they would, at maximum capacity, be fourteen. The children would share, obviously, but when they were consulted mayhem broke out, largely thanks to Chloe, who said that she would rather be roasted alive than sleep in a room with her little sister. Gathering that she was not wanted, and exhausted from the journey, Genevieve sobbed until Roland scooped her up and said he'd like her as his room-mate if she'd have him. Whereupon Helen suggested that Ed and Theo go together, only to be informed by her nephew, far too curtly, she felt, that he had already struck a deal to share with Clem. At which point Chloe said that she, too, had been hoping to share with Clem and that she didn't want to be in the same room as her brother.

  ‘You shouldn't have consulted them,’ said Peter, laughing, when Helen stormed out to join him by the swimming-pool, hurling her book and her towel on to a sun-bed in a state of such frustration that a rash of angry red heat-spots had broken out across her chest. ‘Giving people a choice is always fatal.’ He smiled, peering at his wife over his sunglasses. ‘Children and adults alike respond far better to orders.’

  Peter was feeling good. He had already had a swim. Ploughing through the water for several lengths with his steady, stylish crawl, he had been vividly aware of the strength in his limbs and the life-affirming warmth of the sun on his back. I can do this, he had thought, smoothly turning his head to gulp air, then plunging his face back into the water, a few seconds in between, finding the rhythm. I can have a lover, come on holiday with my family and be happy. Life is a house of many mansions and I can occupy them all. It's just a question of having broad enough shoulders, of being in one room and closing the door on the other… Compartments. Delia in one, Helen and the children in another. It was easy. ‘I'll sort them out,’ he promised, reaching for the sun-cream Helen had brought and squirting some on to his tummy and legs even though the hairs were still matted and thick with pool water. ‘I'll command them into submission, you just watch.’

  ‘And Elizabeth will have to move in with your mother when Stephen and Cassie arrive,’ said Helen, with a sigh, perching on his sun-bed so he could rub some cream into her back. ‘I hope they'll be okay about that – with Pamela so in need of a lie-down and Elizabeth busily unpacking I didn't have the heart to mention it just now.’

  ‘They'll be fine about it. Stop worrying.’

  ‘I know. Sorry.’ She lay down and closed her eyes, then opened one a second later to remark, ‘Don't forget your bald patch.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain,’ Peter muttered, his spirits deflating at this small wifely reminder of the one physical deterioration that eating well and keeping fit had no power to amend. Delia, he recalled happily, had said she found bald men immensely attractive. As if to curb any doubts on the subject, she had pressed his face between her breasts as she delivered the reassurance and kissed the naked top of his head with eager lips. The memory was vivid and caused Peter to feel a heat that had nothing to do with the ferocity of the sun. He turned on to his stomach to conceal the fact and closed his eyes, pretending to doze. A wife and a lover might occupy different compartments but he was finding that the doors between the two could slide open at the most inappropriate times.

  A few minutes later the rest of the party arrived at the poolside. Charlie and Serena led the way, looking white and distinctly British in their sun-hats and swimsuits. Theo, his handsome rower's physique somewhat undermined by the vivid T-shirt and shorts marks on his arms and legs, overtook them and sprang off the diving-board into the water, followed, amid much shrieking, by Chloe. Roland, in a pair of voluminous green trunks, which Elizabeth had bought in a sale the week before, bombed in between them, creating a nuclear explosion of a splash of which Clem, preparing to enter the water at the shallow end, received the worst. As her cousin surfaced, laughing, shaking the hair out of his eyes, she stuck out her tongue, then slipped under the water, eel-like, with no splash, to see if she could manage a length without breathing.

  Ed, meanwhile, kept at a distance from all the horseplay, first strolling to inspect the low wooden fence separating the pool area from the olive orchards, then going to sit on the edge with his feet dangling in the water. He was joined a few minutes later by Genevieve, who, sensing her cousin's isolation but with no concept of its origin, squatted next to him with an earnest expression on her freckled face, saying that if he couldn't swim either they could take it in turns with her armbands. Ed tried to ignore her, but couldn't resist grabbing her, holding her out over the water and snarling that all bad pirates had to be fed to the crocodiles.

  ‘Lovely to see them all enjoying themselves,’ said Serena, pulling her sun-bed alongside her brother and sister-in-law. ‘Thank you, you two, for organizing it and insisting that we come in spite of… everything. It is so what we all needed. She glanced a little anxiously at Charlie, wondering how anyone could not guess at the new and terrible tension between them, as impossible to ignore as clashing cymbals. Since the fruitless trip to Wandsworth they had, in the tense, whispered privacy of their bedroom, said terrible things. She had claimed that he lacked compassion and wanted a quick-fix sol
ution. He said that Jessica's determination to have the baby was absurd and destructive, and she had encouraged it. She said his silent hostility towards Ed was making the boy wonder why he had bothered to return home. He said that her compassion was nothing more than cowardice about facing the issues. Going upstairs to pack the night before, tensing at the sound of Charlie's footsteps on the stairs behind her, it had occurred to Serena that their bedroom felt more like a battleground now than a sanctuary. ‘Charlie, darling, we must unite,’ she had pleaded, wringing her hands as he closed the door. ‘We want the same things, surely? Happiness for our son, the safe upbringing of this unlooked-for child…’

  Instead of responding as she had hoped, Charlie had folded his arms and said, no, he wasn't sure they did want the same things and where were his swimming trunks? She had plucked them from the pile of clothes on the bed, then hugged them to her chest, asking him what he meant by saying such a thing. He had gone red, blown out his cheeks and said, on a gasp of rushed angry air, that maybe she wanted Ed and Jessica's baby for herself, to fill the gap. Serena, feeling as if she was uncoiling like a too-tight spring, had flung his trunks across the room. How dare he and what gap – what fucking gap? Her voice had been whispery and high. If anyone had a gap it was him, she said, a gap where his heart should be. Charlie had studied her with dark, sad, accusing eyes, then taken himself into the spare room.

  They had argued before, of course, during two decades of marriage, but never so nakedly. Even in the thick of the Tina crisis they had mostly left their worst thoughts unsaid, thereby allowing them to be defused by time or a good night's sleep or the simple fact of loving each other. What could they do now with these said things? Serena wondered. They were like exploded bombs, the debris spread far and wide, coating all that had been good with ugliness. How, with so much damage, could they ever claw their way back to the state of not-saying – of not-knowing – necessary to love?