The Simple Rules of Love

by Amanda Brookfield

  She had sent the clothes. Of course she had sent the clothes, and the note, scurrying into the post office clutching them to her chest like an inept thief. Afterwards she had sat in a coffee shop, weighing up the crime – the betrayal of Charlie's precious, faltering trust in her mental strength – against the sharp joy of having allowed herself one small step in the direction her heart so longed to go. Longed to, but would not.

  Serena released the frame. Another small test was over and she had passed. She felt fine about it. Charlie was right to trust her. She trusted herself. Buoyed up, secure again, she remarked breezily, ‘It's as well you didn't get pregnant, you know, Cass. Just think how it would have complicated things.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Yes, indeed!’ cried Cassie, launching into a frenzied search for her coat, reminding herself that Serena had every right to say such things. They made perfect sense. She had encouraged everyone to believe her hair-hacking had been about Stephen, and had no intention of disillusioning them. Her sister-in-law was a bereaved mother, after all, she reminded herself – the real thing – not some spinster-imposter whose hopes had been dashed.

  It was a relief, none the less, to hear footsteps on the path and Pamela calling urgently up the stairs, ‘My dears, we must go.’ A couple of minutes later she pushed open the door and tottered into the room in her smart, too-tight shoes. ‘Even Edward is ready now.’ She turned somewhat sharply to Serena, the pheasant feather in her hat pointing like an accusing finger. ‘I thought you'd come to fetch her, not talk to her.’

  ‘It's my fault, Mum,’ interjected Cassie. ‘I've been trying to decide how to hide my horrid hair.’

  ‘It is horrid, you foolish child,’ agreed Pamela, ‘but nothing that nature won't put right in a few weeks. I still don't know what you were thinking.’ She spoke briskly, but gently. There was more, obviously, to the episode: a jilted bride might, conceivably, shear herself, but surely not one who had done the jilting, especially not one as pretty as her youngest. But Cassie clearly had no desire to talk about it and Pamela had never held any truck with the modern way of getting everyone to bare their souls. In her view each inner life was secret and sacrosanct, not something to be picked at like a plate of finger food. It wasn't something that warranted judgement either, not if you were eighty and had done your own share of sinning. For similar reasons she had kept well clear of Peter and his turmoil; and when Dr Lazard, during a recent check-up, had suggested, in his gentle, circumspect way, some counselling as a follow-up to the pills, she had said no, and perish the thought, and what were his plans for Christmas.

  While the good doctor chuckled and answered the question, Pamela had quietly rejoiced in her new ability to keep worries about her offspring and all her own marauding demons at bay. The trick was to distance oneself, to be a little selfish. The dark spaces were there still, but contained, private. All difficult thoughts she now saved for her nightly conversations with John. Only her darling dead husband knew that, much as she was looking forward to Crayshott – seeing more of Marjorie, making new friends, playing a little bridge – when she had inspected the deceased colonel's rooms, the paint still fresh on the walls, she had been overwhelmed by the notion that it would be a good and peaceful place in which to die; easier than Ashley House, where she would struggle against the pull of so many familiar objects, scents and memories, and the family, no doubt pegged round the bed like guy-ropes, willing her not to let go.

  Roland fell back as the rest of the family trooped from the Shaw Gallery's impressive chandeliered foyer into the first room. His mother gave him a look but stayed close to Peter and Genevieve, who was dancing round their legs in what had been proudly described as new pink party shoes. Roland was grateful. Lately his mother had got a lot better at giving him space, reading his moods, instead of it always being the other way round. There had been no third degrees on the gay business either; in fact, it was like nothing had happened, which it hadn't, really, Roland mused. He was who he was. She was who she was. They annoyed the hell out of each other and loved each other, like any mum and son. When the long-awaited response from his father arrived – ‘sorry I shan't be able to come over at Christmas after all… but this is clearly some kind of teenage phase… you are too young to have decided what you feel about anything… I am sure there are some good therapists who could help' – she had laughed and said how American and not to worry because Colin had spent a lifetime trying to mould people in ways that suited his nature rather than their own. When Roland screwed the letter into a ball, however, she had smoothed it out, saying that love could be expressed in many different ways and he wasn't to judge Colin too harshly either. His father only wanted what he thought was best, she had explained, stroking his back so calmly, so soothingly, that Roland had been flooded, briefly but intensely, with some of his old little-boy faith in the adult world.

  Genevieve's shoes had pink satin bows on top and hard soles that clacked on the gallery's polished parquet floor. It was a good noise, Roland decided, the one natural thing amid all the awkwardness. Waiting in the street for Helen to arrive with the girls, fielding inane remarks about how he was feeling about the viewing – about the weather – he had been resentful of the dark cloud cast by the troubles between his aunt and uncle. It was his big day and he wanted it to burn brightly. Instead there were distractions and difficulties on all sides: Chloe, skulking with her phone, kissing her father but not looking at him, while Theo had shaken Peter's hand – as if his father were some stranger he was meeting for the first time – then stepped firmly to Helen's side where he had stayed ever since, steering her by the arm as if he were suitor rather than son. Muddling along in the middle of it all, like buffers protecting a dangerous space, were his mother, Charlie, Serena and his cousins, nudging each other and laughing in a way that was too jolly to ring true. His godmother, meanwhile, clearly trying to draw attention away from her weird new hair and equally weird red hat, had fussed over his grandmother, inquiring every few seconds if she was cold or tired or in need of anything. When Pamela had said – just after Helen and the girls had arrived and they were all filing inside – that she would like to visit the ladies‘, Cassie had looked delighted, as if the day had found its focus. ‘You go on – we'll catch up,’ she chirped, fluttering her fingers in a wave, then feeling for the cherry-red beret in just the way Roland had so often seen his grandmother feel for her bun, like it held the key to an ordered world.

  Roland clasped his hands behind his back and stepped towards the first picture, a sketch of an old man on a train. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the family group moving to the far end of the room. He loved it that they were there. He loved, too, their glorious, loud, messed-up Technicolor – the awkwardness, even: it was like a work of art in itself. But he wanted to move through the gallery alone, to experience it like the ivory-skinned girl with the satchel handbag who had come to stand next to him. She was squinting at the picture, flexing her gingery brows, taking in each clever, loose sweep of the artist's pencil. Roland wanted to get as close as he possibly could to experiencing his own two pictures in the same way – to stumble across each one, to absorb that real first shock of a new visual image – see them as the girl with the satchel would see them; only then, he believed, would he truly know whether they were good or bad.

  Clem had been upset that the great Nathan Chalmer wasn't there to greet them – tied up with some other commitment, the girl at the desk said, as she inspected their tickets and waved them through. But Roland didn't mind. It would have been yet another distraction – struggling to express gratitude, being tongue-tied, boiled alive in embarrassment. It mattered far more to him that the girl with the satchel bag was there, a businessman too, blowing on his cold hands, dabbing a handkerchief at whiskery nostrils. This first room led into the last, and through the doorway Roland could see several other people shuffling from picture to picture, clearly reluctant to make their exit back into the foyer. His work was in their heads now, he thought – subliminally if no
more than that. He had penetrated their lives. One day money – sales – might matter more, but he hoped not. Remember this moment, he told himself, so sustaining, so electrifying. Never let it go.

  He turned back to the sketch of the old man. He had seen it before, thanks to a search engine on one of the school computers. Man on a train, it was called. It looked a lot better off the screen. The man was very old, wizened and unsmiling, but the rheumy-eyed gaze fixed out of the train window was one of profound contentment. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, exposing gnarled hairy knees and thin calves. In one hand he held an open book and in the other a half-eaten apple that displayed the crooked imprint of his teeth. So much story in so few lines; studying them all, scrutinizing each tiny stroke, Roland's exultation faded. His stuff was rubbish in comparison. Rubbish. He stared about him, heart thumping, seeking escape. The others were in the second room now. Clem was signalling to him, mouthing something, eyes popping with excitement. To his left his aunt and grandmother had emerged from the ladies' and were walking briskly across the foyer, their terrible hats bobbing in unison. Trapped, desperate, Roland backed out of view of both parties and scampered through the doorway into the final room.

  Stage-fright, that was all it was. Entirely to be expected –hadn't Carl said as much when he rang to wish him luck that morning? ‘They'll all be looking and you'll want to freak out.’ He'd said he felt like that on the sports field sometimes, like he just wanted to charge back into the tunnel and put a towel over his head.

  Breathing more evenly, wiping his damp palms on his trousers, Roland looked properly about him, half hopeful, half terrified that one of his measly pieces might fall into his line of sight. Several paintings bore coloured stickers, he noticed, to indicate that they had been sold. For thousands and thousands, no doubt, he mused, relaxing a little more and turning to study the wall nearest to him, which contained two small sketches of a dark-skinned girl undressing and a large painted nude of a woman – no, a girl – lying on a blur of blue satin, her breasts pushed up, her tummy button pierced with a gold loop, her legs open. There was something savagely erotic about the pose, but the face of the girl was fresh and innocent –wide, uncertain blue eyes, a full mouth, slightly open like she was about to ask a question, like she had no idea of the other message her body was sending. Interested, forgetting his terror, Roland moved closer, absorbing the richness of the colours, the contradictions, the fearless depiction of the girl's private parts. Would he ever be that good, that brave?

  He would work his way in reverse order round the exhibition, Roland decided, take his time, meet the rest of them in the middle. There were only a few rooms, after all, so it wouldn't take long. Strolling towards the doorway, he turned for one last look at the nude; it was even better from a distance – better and familiar… the eyes, the long, sharp nose, the full mouth. Roland froze, then he out a laugh of astonishment as the brushstrokes merged into an image of his favourite cousin.

  Thus absorbed, he failed to notice Clem herself – and Theo and Maisie and Ed – advancing on tiptoe across the room behind him, as if ten years had fallen away and they were all playing Grandmother's Footsteps on the lawn in front of the cloisters.

  ‘Got you,’ squealed Maisie, slinging an arm playfully across his chest.

  ‘You're a star, and should be proud,’ scolded Clem, ‘not hiding. We've seen them both, they're –’ She broke off, struck as they all were by the spellbound expression on Roland's face. ‘What is it?’

  Roland pointed, muttering, ‘If I'm a star, Clemmy, what does that make you? It's brilliant by the way, totally brilliant.’

  Theo said, ‘Fuck,’ and clapped his hand to his mouth, while Maisie, releasing her grip on Roland, let out a low groan.

  ‘The bastard,’ Clem whimpered. ‘The total bastard. He promised – he – oh, Maisie, we've got to stop them – Mum and Dad, Granny! We've got to stop them.’

  ‘Stop who doing what?’ interjected Charlie, bounding up to the group with Genevieve on his shoulders, the little pink shoes flapping against his chest. ‘Peter's buying one of your pictures, Roland, mate. How about that, eh?’

  They were all arriving at the same spot now, Helen and Peter, still walking with military stiffness, several feet and several worlds apart, Chloe sauntering nearby, one ear plugged into her iPod, most of her face masked by her hair. Ed was leaning towards her, making teasing swipes at the other earpiece. Cassie and Pamela were, as ever, bringing up the rear, while Serena was deep in conversation with Elizabeth who, encouraged by a general state of over-excitement, had confided the news of Roland's certainty that he was gay.

  Such preoccupations might have been sufficient to save the identity of Girl On Blue from those whose opinion Clem most feared, had the artist himself not chosen that moment to stride across the room in black jeans and jumper, arms outstretched towards the group in general and Clem in particular. ‘Hey, Clementine – and a bunch of Harrisons, I presume.’ He kissed Clem, then flung his arm in the direction of the picture. ‘So you've seen it already. Isn't she beautiful? And quite the best sitter I ever had.’

  Murmurings of polite assent were followed by a stunned silence as every pair of eyes travelled across the room. Someone coughed, feet shuffled. Roland, more embarrassed by the stupefied hush than by the picture – which was obviously spectacular – stepped forward to introduce himself, stammering gratitude and admiration, explaining that he hadn't seen either of his own paintings yet, but his uncle wanted to buy one and how much should he charge.

  Nathan's craggy face lit up with delighted surprise. ‘You're the man himself, then.’ He shook first Roland's and then Elizabeth's hand as she, too, stepped forward, so shyly that for a horrible moment Roland thought she was going to curtsy. ‘Let's take a look at your pieces together, shall we?’ the painter boomed, adding, ‘They're great, really great,’ and offering a hasty nod of farewell to the rest of the family as he steered them both away.

  ‘Shall we go with them, Mum?’ suggested Cassie, brightly.

  Pamela, whose feet were throbbing and whose eyesight was sufficiently poor for her to make out only a blue blur across the room, confessed that she would prefer a cup of tea. Passing closer to the picture en route to the café, she paused to study it, narrowing her eyes and tightening her grip on her handbag. ‘Well, I don't think it looks in the least like Clem. Except maybe the nose… The nose is very good, don't you think?’

  ‘Marvellous,’ muttered Cassie, wondering when, if ever, her mother would stop surprising her.

  Behind them the gawping tableau was coming to life. ‘Clem, it's you,’ murmured Serena. She took a step closer to the picture, then stopped.

  Clem buried her face in her sister's shoulder, wondering if it was possible to expire from embarrassment. Maisie was muttering what consolation she could but marring the effect with feeble attempts to suppress giggles. Chloe, too, was laughing, silently, falling against Theo, properly relaxed for the first time that day. Ed growled, ‘Nice one, sis,’ and then, with genuine curiosity, ‘How much did you get paid for that?’

  Charlie had breathed, ‘Blimey,’ then started shaking his head. Genevieve, thinking it was some new game, was trying to grab his ears. Helen, faintly disgusted by the portrait and in no mood for an ugly family scene, clapped her hands at her youngest and said it was time to go.

  ‘I'll get her down,’ offered Peter. He reached for Genevieve, who wriggled furiously, clamping her hands round her uncle's neck. Peter gripped her round the waist and pulled harder. He was pleased to have something to do, pleased, too, to be able to turn his back on the livid sexuality of his niece. The painting was obviously magnificent, but looking at it felt close to incest. Worse still, it seemed – like everything, these days – to be speaking directly to him, throwing oil on the already raging fire of his remorse. Carnality and innocence. Lust and love. It was all there. Virtue arose from how one chose between them, how one balanced and channelled them. He had known that once, but had lost the power – the
will – to implement the knowledge. Had Clem slept with the man? he wondered. And if she had, what right had he to judge her for it?

  Genevieve was in his arms now, sobbing quietly. He tried to comfort her, wanting desperately to wring something good from another difficult day. He hadn't really wanted to own one of the paintings. Much as he admired his nephew, the whole venture – Clem for organizing it – Roland's style was too abstract for his own taste, colours without shape, in heavy dark frames; the picture would do little to alleviate the empty drabness of his new flat. He had made the offer because it had seemed the right – the most noble – thing to do and because he had nursed the dim, foolish hope that the gesture might raise a glimmer of pleasure, approval, in the grey, rigid face of his wife. Or even a flicker of mercy, Peter reflected, setting his squirming daughter on the ground with trembling arms, wanting only to collapse to the gallery's hard, shining floor and howl like a dog.

  He had gone mad, that much was clear to him now. His brain had been infected by the virulent strain of infatuation to which the Greeks had given a name and about which poets liked to write. What didn't get such a high-profile mention was the ugly flip-side of the affliction: the loss of civility, the wounding of all that should be held dear, the warping of perspective, the shattering of self-belief and confidence, the heart-shredding regret. In the days and weeks since his shameful, begging showdown with his brother, Peter had felt like a man waking up to the pain of amputation without anaes-hetic. Missing Delia was nothing – a mere ache – compared to this new state of suffering. He had no one; he had nowhere; he had nothing. The self-pity was throttling, but above all he missed more and more all the things he had thrown away – the company of his children, his home, his easy relationship with his brother… and Helen. Peter missed Helen so much he couldn't breathe sometimes: her intelligence and seriousness, her cool, clear head, her command over the grind of life, her respect for him…