Relative Love (39 page)

‘I’m her sister – and you – you can – fuck off. Come on, Maisie.’ Clem held out her hand. Maisie, dazed and shaken, unhitched her dress, which had got caught under the elastic of her underpants, clambered off the sunbed and took it.

‘Bloody hell, I don’t need this, I really don’t.’ The pop star scratched his head. ‘You don’t have to do what your little sister says, you know. Look, come back when you want, darling, okay?’ He reached out an arm, but Maisie shrank away, clinging harder to Clem. Rosco shrugged. ‘Up to you, of course.’ He grinned, flashing the diamond, then sauntered over to the pool to join his friends. The two girls, still holding hands, dodged out of the maze of empty sunbeds and escaped round the side of the house. A minute later they were scampering down the drive, through the heavy gates and back up the dark lane.

JUNE

The morning after the party the sun rose in a cloudless sky. The slate-tile roof-slopes of Ashley House glistened like polished hide, belying the fragility of their condition. There seemed to be a special stillness to the air, a sense of suspension after the release of so much energy and noise the night before, like the calm after the storm. Samson, freed from captivity in the small hours, padded round the perimeters of the lawns, his paws making small tracks in the dew. Disturbed by the recent disruption to his routine and the continuing, dominating presence of the marquee, he checked and paced the boundaries of his territory carefully, his tiger-tail and whiskers twitching with suspicion.

In the house the silence was heavier still. Boots, envious of his companion roaming free outside, lay at full stretch with his nose at the gap along the bottom of the kitchen door, whining softly. Above him Roland’s recently hung portrait showed him framed in a similar pose, his grizzled face resting on Theo’s trainers. Above that, the hands of the old mahogany wall-clock ticked with metronome precision between its big black Roman numerals, echoing in the emptiness like a heartbeat. Upstairs, several of the adults woke in the small hours with dry mouths and throbbing heads, only to fall back into deeper slumber. The first to stir properly were Roland and Chloë, who met on the landing and tiptoed downstairs to enjoy the usually forbidden indulgence of pre-breakfast television. Hearing Boots whimpering, they treated him to several fistfuls of Shreddies, eating plenty themselves in the process, then took him into the TV room where he sprawled on the carpet between them, bestowing grateful licks on their necks and faces.

In the largest of the guest bedrooms Peter and Helen dozed fitfully in the creaky four-poster. The party had been an unqualified success, both as an event and as a vehicle for reuniting them with many old and treasured friends. Even more importantly, its mutual pleasure and momentum had reconnected them to a fresh sense of togetherness as a couple. After waving off the last of the cars at two in the morning, they had sat out on a bench in the cloisters, sipping wine, talking over the evening like excited teenagers. Through the arched walls in front of them the white folds of the empty marquee billowed gently in the night breeze like the ruffling wings of a great bird. Overhead the sky was black and thick with stars.

‘Did I tell you that dress is fabulous?’ Peter sidled along the bench and slipped his arm round Helen’s icy shoulders. He longed suddenly, with this new closeness, to tell her about the shocking business of Eric and his mother. It was the perfect moment, but some fundamental safety-lock of common sense and caution prevented him. The smaller the circle of knowledge, the safer the secret. Peter tightened his grip on his wife’s thin shoulders, determined to treasure her more, to be more grateful for the many facets of their own good fortune.

‘I’m glad you like it.’ Helen, tipsy and sleepy, let her head fall on to his shoulder. ‘And look, you haven’t seen these yet, have you?’ She eased up the panels of her dress, revealing a glimpse of lacy stocking-tops and the tiny blue triangle of her new silk underpants.

‘Bloody hell … I certainly haven’t.’ Peter, astonished and delighted in equal measure, couldn’t resist trailing the backs of his fingers along her thigh. ‘What’s behind this lot, then? Trying to seduce your husband or someone else?’

Helen giggled. ‘Definitely my husband. Kay helped me choose them.’

‘Did she now?’ Peter took his hand away.

Helen let the hem of her dress drop back to the ground. ‘I know you don’t like her, Peter, but I’m afraid I really do. She’s so natural and uncompetitive. She’s helped me see that life doesn’t have to be a race to prove myself, that it’s okay to be … well, to be
feminine
from time to time. Which might sound stupid but, you know, I think for years I’ve being trying not to let being female get in the way of things, trying to be as good as a man, trying, probably – if I’m really honest – to be as good as you.’

Peter groaned softly. ‘That’s absurd.’

‘It’s not, Peter.’ Helen gazed out at the glittering tapestry of stars, framed by the archways in front of them like some huge bejewelled triptych. She was sobering up now, more aware of the sting of reality in her words. The last thing she wanted was to end this most wonderful of evenings on a sour note. Yet she was also burning to speak her mind, to share some of these vital, altered perceptions of herself and the world. Kay’s understanding was no longer enough. She needed Peter’s as well. ‘But now I’m beginning to feel differently,’ she persisted, ‘to acknowledge that I
like
being a woman. Kay has played a part in that, I know, but I think it’s also because my clock’s ticking, with the menopause and so on …’

‘The menopause?’ Peter was bolt upright, forgetting his disdain in an instant. ‘You’re miles off all that, aren’t you?’

Helen sighed. She was still coming to terms with this development herself. ‘Well, no, unfortunately. Though it’s taken me a while to realise it. I’m all over the place – heavy, irregular periods, mood-swings, it’s perfectly obvious what’s going on. I am almost forty-eight after all.’

‘And why haven’t you told me all this before?’ Peter did his best to sound stern, although really he was fractionally relieved. It was awful to think of Helen already being on the brink of such a business (were they that old, already?), but it went a long way towards explaining why life on the home-front had been something of an ordeal in recent months, all fire-fighting and no fun. He turned to study his wife’s profile, recognising a new forbearance in its familiar sharp lines. She’s brave, he thought, and she’s pouring her heart out to me, all ghostly and beautiful in the moonlight, like an eager girl. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he repeated softly.

‘I’m telling you now.’ Helen turned to face him, lacing her icy fingers in his. ‘I’m taking these homeopathic pills that Kay recommended. I’m feeling so much better. Haven’t I seemed better recently? Just a
little
bit easier to live with?’

‘Come here, just bloody well come here.’ Peter took hold of her hands. ‘This feminine side of yours, are both of us allowed to explore it?’ Without any warning, he scooped her into his arms and stood up.

‘Put me down,’ Helen squealed, caught completely off-guard. ‘I’m too heavy. You’ll hurt your back. Put me down.’ But Peter didn’t put her down, not until some minutes later when, having kicked the door of their bedroom shut with a back swing of his foot, he laid her gently on their bed. ‘This menopause business, will it … does it have any effect on sex and so on?’ As he spoke he was tugging at his socks, hopping comically round the room on one leg then the other.

‘I might go off it a bit.’

‘That would be bad news.’ He stopped hopping, socks in hand, looking thoroughly dismayed.

‘But no signs yet,’ she whispered, beginning to unzip her dress.

‘Well, thank God for that.’ Peter stepped out of his underpants and flung them in celebratory and uncharacteristic fashion over one shoulder.

‘And losing one’s fertility does have its advantages —’ She broke off to giggle at the flight of the underpants, which had ended on top of a lampshade. She eased herself out of the dress then began to peel off her silk pants until, catching Peter’s eye, she changed her mind. They exchanged a look the like of which she had never known in their entire marriage: one that made her feel, just for a few seconds, like a glamorous heroine about to be ravished by the hero of her dreams. But, a moment later, when Peter, far too solid for a dream, crawled into her arms, Helen forgot everything but the warm reality of the man she had married, a pompous, at times selfish and irritating man, but one she loved none the less. They made love with a passion that felt fresh, undeterred by the creaking of the old bed, which on previous occasions had proved something of a restraint on their libidos. Afterwards they fell asleep holding hands, floating in post-coital euphoria, Helen feeling quite beyond the ravages of time and Peter delighting in the sensation that he had somehow reclaimed his wife for his own.

Elizabeth stretched one arm across to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty. The unoccupied expanse of sheet felt pleasantly cool, however, and after a couple of minutes she rolled into it, seeking relief from the pain in her body. Everything ached, her head, her neck, her arms, her legs, even her feet. For a few minutes Elizabeth indulged in the notion that this must therefore mean that she was not only hung-over but also extremely ill. It took her a little while to remember that she had spent several hours in high heels flinging her usually unexercised body in mad whirls round the dance-floor. The thought of it now made her hot with shame. Oh, God, and she had made Colin cross and been rude to her mother. Oh, God. Elizabeth turned on to her stomach, feeling like a beached whale, sick at the recollection of her foolhardiness, wishing it was all a bad dream. The woman who had danced had felt all that she longed to feel – young, inspired, independent, powerful. And yet she was none of those things and never would be. She was a sad, half-committed music teacher, who fussed about unimportant things and who maddened her hard-working, sensible husband.

At the thought of Colin Elizabeth opened her eyes. She had to find him and say sorry. She had to tell him that she knew she had embarrassed him and that it wouldn’t happen again. And her mother … Oh, God. What had she been thinking to say such a thing? To be so unforgivably insensitive and stupid. To make a big deal of something so ancient and irrelevant. Colin, as usual, had been right: the past did not matter; she had got herself into a state about nothing.
Again
. Elizabeth levered herself upright, then waited for the throbbing in her head to subside before she got out of bed. She moved slowly, protecting her tender joints, not even bothering to clear the messy mop of her hair from her eyes. It felt right that she should feel bruised and ugly; remorseful sinners deserved no more. To have got so drunk, so out of control … Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, close to tears, wishing she could weep the images away. She would make up for it, of course – to Pamela, to Colin, her father, everyone. She had let them all down again. There was no one to blame but herself. Elizabeth dragged herself along the corridor to the nearest bathroom, noting with dismay that it was already past midday. She drank three toothmugs of water, swallowed two Panadol, then promptly threw the whole lot up. The retching was so bad that she had to kneel with her head virtually inside the lavatory bowl, holding back her hair with one hand and clinging on to the cistern for dear life with the other.

Clem, on an errand to fetch fresh tea-towels from the airing cupboard for her grandmother, heard the noise as she passed along the corridor and wondered who it was. She hovered outside the door, lost for a few moments in the reassuring fantasy that her own secret habit was shared by
another member of the family. Then the lavatory flushed and she bolted for the back stairs, disappearing like a rabbit down a hole.

In the kitchen Pamela was frying twenty rashers of best back bacon and stirring a saucepan of scrambling eggs. Chilly when she had woken up, she had put on her blue twin set and a thick skirt and was now far too hot. Behind her, Serena was buttering toast and counting knives and forks, which Maisie and Clem were arranging round mats on the table. The twins, still in disgrace for their behaviour the night before (they had been discovered emerging round the side of the garage, reeking of cigarette smoke, their dresses splattered with mud) performed this duty in silence with their heads bowed. Pamela couldn’t help feeling rather sorry for them. They were young and headstrong, after all, just at the age of wanting to push back boundaries and challenge rules. Especially Maisie. But she felt sorry for Serena, having to deal with it, just as she had once had to deal with Elizabeth. Just as she was still dealing with Elizabeth. Pamela flicked the bacon over. It was spitting badly, flecks of fat stinging her hands. She ought, she knew, to put her apron on, but she was already so hot that the thought of another layer of clothing was unbearable.

‘Call the others, will you, girls? This is nearly ready.’ She watched the twins dash gratefully from the room and ran a wooden spoon round the eggs, which were sticking to the pan. She had left them too long; the mass of lumpen yellow looked dry and overdone. Her ability to concentrate, usually so effortless in the kitchen, had deserted her. She was tired, of course, from the party. They all were. Serena, fiddling with spoons and napkins, was grey-faced. She had heard her shouting at the girls that morning, about smoking, about the dresses, and at Ed for having left his schoolbag in London. His Common Entrance for Kings Grove was three days away. He had to grow up, she had scolded, had to start taking responsibility for himself. Serena never shouted. And now Charlie was in the garden kicking a football with his son to make up for it, the change jangling in his pockets, his own face white and sweaty with fatigue and dehydration. The party had taken it out of them all – apart from Peter and Helen, who had appeared downstairs with sleepy but beaming faces at ten o’clock and decamped to the drawing-room sofa, where they were unwrapping the pile of gifts that had been left in the hall, exclaiming in delight and making lists of what had come from whom. Pamela scraped the egg on to a serving plate next to the bacon. In spite of her own fatigue and the bliss of sliding into bed, she had slept badly, her heart clogged with a nameless anxiety that she knew was connected to Elizabeth’s drunken remark on the dance-floor. It was ridiculous, of course, and quite untrue. She loved all her children equally. Elizabeth, coming after the miscarriage, had been a particularly precious gift. And yet …