And yet… and yet… Facing his brother in the hall, Charlie's sense of outrage had grown. Although the decision made financial sense, although he still doubted his and Serena's solidity, it was still a huge thing to have offered Ashley House back to his brother – too huge, Charlie felt, for Peter to bully him about it. Nor, now he thought about it, had his brother shown due concern for the circumstances that had prompted the offer. Even with his marriage on the rocks he hadn't asked about Charlie's. The sadness of their sister's situation still didn't seem to have touched him either, let alone the difficult prospect facing his nephew. Tussling with such thoughts during their conversation in the hall, uncertain as always whether to be appalled or admiring, Charlie had found himself latching on to his and Ed's meeting with the lawyer as the main pretext for delay. They needed a clearer idea of the financial position, he explained, patting the house specifications and then they would be able to proceed.
Ed had taken the car keys and was swinging them round his finger. ‘I know a good back route to Chichester, Dad. Shall I show you?’
‘If you don't mind, I'd prefer you to keep to the main road,’ Charlie muttered, getting out of the car, then succumbing to one of the violent fits of coughing to which he had become prone since his illness.
‘I'm not a complete idiot, you know.’ Ed strode round to the driver's side, then hung back a little awkwardly until the bout had passed.
‘That's reassuring to hear.’ Charlie hit his chest only to cough again. ‘Go on, then,’ he rasped weakly, once they were both back in the car. ‘Show me this short-cut, if you're so keen.’
‘Great.’ Ed grinned and revved the engine.
‘Gently now, we're not at Silverstone.’ Charlie closed his eyes and gripped the seat then opened them in some surprise a moment later as Ed smoothly manoeuvred the Mondeo back on to the main road, then cut down a narrow, pretty lane of arching trees and high banks.
‘It's a question of playing chicken if another car comes, but that's fun, too, isn't it?’ Ed, his confidence and spirits rising by the minute – he loved driving and knew he was good at it – grinned cheekily at his father. ‘Good route, eh, Dad?’
Charlie smiled encouragingly, his heart full of an extraordinary unexpected joy. He was dreading the meeting with the lawyer – as, no doubt, Ed was too. The future, in whichever direction he looked, was fraught. But for now here he was, chest aching, sinuses blocked, enjoying the simple, novel, unlooked-for pleasure of being driven down a beautiful country lane by his son; impulsive, flawed, irrepressible Ed, in charge and doing well. It was a small reprise, perhaps, but in Charlie's tender state it was like a curtain lifting in the gloom.
Jessica could feel the wind driving against the back of her coat, bowling her along, hurrying her, like the hand of an impatient adult. Her coat didn't do up any more. Her bump stuck out between the panels, like it was bent on being noticed and shaming her. The coat had been her bid to look smart for the lawyer. Underneath she wore the same thing she had all week – a blue corduroy tent of a dress she had bought in the Mothercare sale and extra large tights, which still barely stretched up to the bobble of her tummy button, so ugly that she had cried out at the sight of it, fighting the new thought that the baby was pushing at her innards, trying, literally, to turn her inside out. The skin round her belly-button was ugly too now, thanks to a network of itchy pink lines that had sprung up overnight, surfacing like some ancient map from the buried depths of her womb.
‘Stretch marks, Maureen had declared, catching her daughter studying the damage in her bedroom mirror that morning. She had pointed gleefully at Jessica's stomach with her fag, like a teacher jabbing a piece of chalk at a blackboard. There's creams for that now.’
‘Whatever.’ Jessica had hitched up her voluminous tights and yanked down her dress. Her main aim, these days, was concealment. She was glad it was winter when only total slags showed off their bodies. Thinking back to the times when she had paraded her own curves made her feel not just sad but jealous, of the girl she had been, now lost for good. On bad days it felt like she'd mislaid her best friend.
It was also a new and horrible sensation to feel less attractive than her mother – a reversal ensured not just by her pregnancy but by Maureen having spent the last few weeks starving herself to a size twelve. She'd been to Jerry's too, to have her usual peppery tangle cut and coloured into a state that, even Jessica had to admit, made her look nearer thirty than forty. She was also dressing better – pointy heels and tight skirts, even when she was going to work, taking her trainers and apron with her in a plastic bag. All of which meant only one thing. Jessica, having seen it all before, couldn't bring her-self to ask. She'd hear soon enough, when the guy wanted to move in and she'd be banished to her bedroom every night so they could touch each other up on the sofa while they watched telly. And with the baby too – Christ, she'd go mad.
Jessica stepped out of the wind into the newsagent's. Staring at the array of brightly coloured sweets, she was momentarily tempted to slip something into her pocket, like she had when she was small, dodging behind her mum's wide bum for protection. But now there was no one to protect her, only her bump, which made it hard to reach. And she shouldn't buy any-thing anyway, she reminded herself, not after what the lawyer had said. Fucking man with his horrible hairy chest poking through his shirt buttons and his gold necklace – no wonder Dot had recommended him: he was just her sort. What Dot and her mum hadn't known, because they were stupid and only ever thought what they wanted to think, was that the man had had nothing to tell her but bad news. So bad that Jessica bought a pack of Camel Lights as well as a bar of fruit-and-nut. She lit one as she left the shop, even though it was a struggle to smoke with the wind blowing ash in her eyes and her fingers stiff with cold. She stubbed it out before she got to the café but her mum, seated in the window with her own fag, saw it anyway.
‘You're a bloody idiot, you are.’
‘Yeah, and you're Einstein.’ Jessica dropped into the empty chair, not bothering to take off her coat.
‘Dot's coming in a minute.’
‘Hooray.’
‘Do you want anything?’
Jessica shook her head and then, more to piss her mother off than anything, lit another Camel.
‘Well?’ prompted Maureen eagerly, pushing her new ash-blonde fringe out of her eyes. ‘How did it go?’
For a moment Jessica toyed with the idea of lying, not to protect Maureen but to hurt her. When the truth had become apparent – that Ed Harrison owed her nothing beyond what he himself could afford, that the wealth of his family was irrelevant – it would be such a fantastic shock, just like the one Jessica had suffered, sitting opposite the hairy chest, eyes stinging, lips all quivery, like they'd taken on a life of their own. It had to be wrong, she had stammered, it had to be. The kid was half Ed Harrison's: surely it was owed all the privileges of its father, surely… The lawyer had shaken his head, half smiling, like he was pleased to be cleverer than her. Under the Children Act of 1989, he said, she could apply for maintenance, not capital, and it would be the father's resources that were taken into account, not his family's. If the father had nothing, she got nothing. Later on, maybe, when he… But Jessica, with the baby performing cartwheels against her ribcage, like it was celebrating her distress, could not think of ‘later on‘. There were always benefits, of course, the lawyer had added, like he was trying too late to be kind – no one, these days, was left without help.
When Jessica had finished explaining Maureen slammed her cup down. ‘You'd better be bleeding joking.’
Jessica shook her head, biting her lip till she had blood to swallow against the lump rising in her throat. ‘Poor you, Mum… all your hopes down the drain. What were they, anyway? A better flat, a new bathroom, a bigger telly?’
‘You can cut that out for a start,’ snapped Maureen, who hadn't known exactly what she had hoped to gain beyond the vague access to a better life – a little of the ease with which people like the Harris
ons swept through the world with their big houses, cars and holidays. ‘You're a bloody idiot, that's all I know. You got yourself into this. You should have taken that two grand and got rid of it. We tried to tell you, didn't we? But you wouldn't listen.’
‘Ed's mum didn't want me to get rid of it,’ muttered Jessica, remembering suddenly the kindness in Serena's tone that day when the Harrisons had squashed into their poky sitting room, how it had shone like a ray of light in the dark.
Maureen snorted. ‘Yeah… Fat lot of good that does you now. I can tell you, girl, the benefits are crap – I know cos that's what I had to manage on, bringing you up.’
She was prevented from continuing her usual sad trawl down Memory Lane by the arrival of Dot, who flounced into the café with shopping-bags and her phone to her ear, followed by her daughter, Jade, juggling similar items. With their long, streaked hair, skin-tight jeans and leather jackets, the pair were like sisters, except that Jade had a flat stomach and smooth skin, while Dot's belly bulged over the waistband of her jeans and her skin was saggy, like a piece of leather that had been stretched and let go. Jessica, who had never liked them, ignored her mother's protests and gathered up her things. ‘You don't need me here, Mum – in fact, you've never needed me,’ she quipped, enjoying the put-down until she got into the street when it occurred to her that with Ed not only distant but safe, apparently, from the obligation on which she had been pinning her hopes, it wasn't Maureen's needs that were at issue so much as her own.
Scared, suddenly, at what it meant, Jessica started to run – or lumber – her bag thumping against her stomach. She'd have to get a job. Jerry, no doubt, would take her on, once she got her figure back. But how would she work and look after the baby? Somehow she couldn't see a pram parked in the salon while she lathered hair and swept up clippings. She'd have to be nice to her mum, Jessica reflected miserably, sweet-talk her into helping out. And as for the pram and all the other gear – ppies, clothes and Christ knows what – she'd have to persuade her to help with that too. Every time Jessica went to Mothercare, her wish-list grew. Sometimes she had even imagined shopping for it all with Ed, like other couples she saw, all cosy and arm in arm, filling baskets to overflowing, then pulling out their credit cards like it was no big deal.
Cantering clumsily down Wandsworth High Street, Jessica felt as if she was running away from her foolish dreams towards a reality that would be unremittingly hard. She didn't stop until she had reached the railings separating their flats from the block next door, by which time a pain had started in her belly, low down and deep, as if a meat hook had snagged her innards. As she gripped the railings the pain changed, spreading into a wider, pulling sensation, as if some extra gravitational force had latched on to her lower belly and was trying to suck it towards the ground. Dizzy, panting hard, Jessica half fell against the cold metal bars. Inside her there were no cartwheels now, no sliding sensation of small bony limbs, just the throb of pain. She clenched the rails harder still, opening her legs and bending her knees, willing the little bastard to do its worst – to tear her open and die on the pavement among its own entrails and the blobs of dirty chewing-gum. No one would give a fuck. And she might as well die too, Jessica decided, from loss of blood or infection or some such thing. Everybody would feel bad and say nice things, like they always did after someone had died – like the Harrisons all had at the funeral of that horse-faced great-aunt… all except Ed, she remembered, closing her eyes as the pain in her stomach eased, and the fusty smell of the guests' coats came back to her, mingled with the sharp scent of Ed's aftershave and the excited pulse of her heart.
Peter parked a few yards from his house and watched the minute hand of the dashboard clock edging towards the time at which Helen had asked him to arrive. She liked punctuality, as did he. Turning up early or late, he knew, would get things off to a bad start. Anyway, he needed time to compose his thoughts. In court that day he had performed brilliantly, cross-examining a witness who had had no idea, until the last minute, that he was being outwitted. It had been like watching a small fish swim into the confines of a huge, tightening net, with him pulling the strings. Recalling the scene, the admiring looks of his colleagues, Peter wished he could summon the same focus for his energies now, the same unshakeable conviction as to the best line to take.
He had seen his daughters just once since the appalling, sordid climax of his affair – for a Saturday afternoon. He had taken them for tea at the Ritz, dimly hoping to impress Helen as much as the girls with the lavishness of the treat. Helen her-self, having warned that she wouldn't put so much as a fingertip round the door, or let him across the threshold, had stuck to her guns. His daughters had shuffled on to the doorstep like parcels awaiting collection, Chloe displaying a scowl that had stayed rigidly in place all afternoon, while Genevieve had leapt at him like a puppy wanting to play. Even with the tea, it had been hard. Hard and horrible.
But now Helen had agreed to talk – properly, at last. She had phoned back late the previous night, when the rest of the household had gone to bed, and Peter had retreated for some quiet contemplation into the Ashley House study. She had spoken in her new curt voice, the one that had cut off all his attempts at explanation, the one that, beneath all the sorrow, indicated a new sense of power. After work, seven o'clock, Genevieve would be asleep, Chloë at a friend's – would that be convenient? ‘Yes, most convenient,’ Peter had muttered, pressing one finger to a pulse in his temple, glad that he was seated in the quiet library-hush of his favourite room, with its timeless smell of leather and polished wood, its dark green carpet and velvet curtains, its oak-panelled walls lined with books. The presence of his father was still vivid there, too, thanks not just to the pipestand and the photo of him and Pamela on honeymoon in Biarritz, but something in the atmosphere, an invisible imprint left by the hours John Harrison had spent sitting in the little Jacobean desk chair, feasting on the view through the arched hollows of the cloisters towards the lawns.
After the call Peter had sat in the same chair with a tumbler of whisky, drawing back the curtains so that he could see the shadowy contours of the garden, brightened only by a flash of Samson's yellow eyes and the few brave white roses still clinging to the pergola, like dimming party lights. If anything, Peter's love of these surroundings had grown fiercer during his exile from London. The comfort of Ashley House's easy, grand beauty – its familiarity – soothed his nerves in an immediate sense and as consolation for the very real prospect that his exile would become permanent. He wanted back his marriage – his family – of course. He missed them all terribly. But the fact remained that, in spite of their horrible parting, he missed Delia too. Alone in his big bed, he thought of her all the time, the smell of her skin, the passion she had released, like a genie from a bottle. Each day a tiny ridiculous part of him hoped still that she would call.
None of which had made either for a good night's sleep, or much degree of clarity as Peter – at six fifty-nine exactly – approached his front door. He was wondering whether he could muster the humility necessary to ring the bell, rather than using his keys, when it swung open.
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘No need for thanks,’ he muttered, aware of how she stood back as he stepped inside, precluding physical contact. The way she had dressed looked deliberate too – a black trouser suit that he last remembered her wearing for Alicia's funeral – no makeup and her hair clipped back off her face, revealing the dry thickets of grey that sprouted along her hair-line.
‘How are the girls?’
‘Great.’
‘And Theo? Have you heard from him?’
Helen nodded, the impassive mask slipping for a moment. ‘He phones every day. He worries about me…’ She shook her head, smiling absently. ‘Funny, to be worried about by one's son. Such a role reversal. I rather like it, if I'm honest.’
‘He doesn't call me – which is understandable, of course,’ Peter added, knowing that to expect sympathy from her was close to ludic
rous. Nor did he want her to know the extent of his pain, which had started with his dreadful mishandling of the conversation in the stuffy too-small space of Serena's studio. He had opted for a man-to-man approach. ‘I will honour you with the truth,’ he had declared, his heart pumping not only with the obvious shock of seeing Theo but the realization that the blond young man holding his niece's hand had to be Delia's son. ‘I fell in love,’ he had continued, so eager to explain, so swamped by his own churning emotions, that he had almost overlooked the fact that he was addressing his son. It was only as Theo's grave, solid, wide-eyed face sank into disappointment and disgust that Peter grasped the extent of his misjudgement in attempting to put truth before the parental duty of reassurance. He had tried to back-pedal, to play it all down, to say it would be fine and to talk about his uncle's exciting new proposition, with regard to Ashley House, but it was too late. Theo's look of disgust remained, heightening the stress of that long afternoon and evening all the more for his impressive ability to behave normally in spite of it. Crushed and silent, Peter had watched the display helplessly, drawing little comfort from the obvious fact that he was being treated to a mirror image of his own strengths.
The Simple Rules of Love Page 47
