Relative Love (44 page)

Perched on a rock holding a string baited with a beef scrap from his sandwich, Ed could not remember when he had last been so happy. It was hot. It was the weekend. His exams were over. Everything was cool, including – and especially – his father, who had turfed them all out of the house into the car with the announcement that they were going to spend the afternoon at the seaside. The journey had been a pain, the beach was made up of pebbles that were agony to walk on (the girls had made a real fuss hobbling into the sea), the water was icy and there was almost certainly not one fish daft enough to close its mouth round a scrap of soggy beef, but to Ed none of this mattered. Watching his string being tugged by the little waves, a tiny part of him hoping (in spite of everything) that it would suddenly go taut with some huge Moby Dick of a catch, he felt as if the world had righted itself. Almost as if the summer holidays had started, bringing that delicious buzzy feeling they always brought, as if a ton of good and wonderful things were just round the corner.

‘Ed’s cheerful.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the girls, they’re happy too – and getting on so well at the moment, it’s brilliant.’

‘Yes, everyone’s cheerful. Except me, right?’ Serena threw another pebble into a small pile she had been building next to the picnic blanket. ‘Sorry I didn’t swim – I just couldn’t face it.’

‘That’s okay,’ murmured Charlie, who had been disappointed at his wife’s refusal to join in the expedition (a long one because the tide was out) to the water’s edge. She needn’t have shrieked with glee – or pain – or even swum. But she should have come. To show willing. To show that she was prepared at least to
try
. Then they would all have known that she wanted to join in even if a part of her still couldn’t. Instead, she had sat huddled in towels watching them with the hair blowing across her face, her bones like marble, her big blue eyes filled with distance. ‘Clem is still far too thin.’

‘I know.’ They turned to look at the twins, lying side by side on their tummies with magazines on a patch of scrubby grass between the beach and the car park, having complained that any sort of comfortable sitting was impossible on the stones. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

Serena threw another stone. ‘Like it’s all my fault.’

‘Of course it’s not your fault,’ began Charlie, exasperated.

‘I’ve talked to her, several times, and she is eating more – much more. I’ve spoken to the school and they say she is definitely going to lunch every day. Short of force-feeding her I really don’t see what else I can do …’

‘Serena, I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying I’m still worried.’ Charlie rolled over on to his side, wincing as a sharp stone cut into his hip. ‘Darling …’ He laid a hand on her forearm, pressing his fingers into her cold skin. ‘I want to take care of what we have left, that’s all.’

He had meant only to be kind, to express how much he wanted both of them still to treasure their family – beaten up and damaged as it was – but Serena sprang to her feet. ‘I don’t need that, okay? As if we didn’t take care of what we had before – I really don’t need it.’ Her hands were in fists and her hair stuck across her mouth. ‘And by the way, did you say something to Cassie? About working with her? Did you? Because at first she said no and then, all of a sudden, she phones up and says yes, as if something – or someone – had made her change her mind. Did you?’

Charlie squinted at the sea, which was now edging inshore, eating up the rock pools and muddy flats. It looked choppy and grey as it always seemed to in England, no matter how blue the sky. Two seagulls were playing tag overhead, swooping and hovering, their blinking black eyes alert for scraps of picnic. ‘Does it matter if I did?’

‘Yes, it does. It matters very much.’ Serena was standing between their towels looking down at him, her hands on her hips. Her feet, pink from the sun, looked uneven and uncomfortable on the pebbles. ‘I don’t want charity, Charlie.’

‘You don’t want help, you mean,’ he muttered, rolling away from her, inexplicably moved by the sight of her sore feet.

‘What did you say?’

‘Help,’ he snapped. ‘I said you didn’t want help. Which is quite a different thing.’ He turned back to find that she was walking away from him, arms out to balance herself as she picked her way towards the sea. ‘Serena,’ he shouted, but his voice was lost in the wind and she didn’t turn.

‘They’re not getting on, are they?’

‘Who?’ murmured Clem, though she knew perfectly well.

‘Mum and Dad. They were arguing and now Mum’s stormed off.’

‘So? Married people always argue.’ Clem kept her eyes on her magazine. The pages were flapping in the wind like a trapped bird. She had been so hot at home and then in the car, but the moment they had arrived at the beach there was such a strong breeze that she had felt all goose-pimply and totally not in the mood to swim. She had gone in to please her father, who was trying to be jolly for all of them, and because Maisie, in spite of having her period, had been typically determined that it shouldn’t hold her back. Watching her sister plunge into the waves, Clem had felt a mixture of admiration at her bravery and relief that her own boldness had only to encompass inuring herself to the numbing grip of the sea. Though she had been the first to start menstruating, it was months now since she had seen any sign of her own blood. She knew this should probably be a cause for concern. Yet it was hard to mind, hard to miss the deep aches in the pit of her stomach and the horrible warm rush between her legs.

‘Do you think they’ll get divorced? Like Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Colin.’

‘Don’t be stupid. And, anyway, Aunt Elizabeth’s not getting divorced – not necessarily. A trial separation, Dad said. A cooling-off period.’

‘That’s what people always say, just so it doesn’t sound so bad. And then, after a bit, they get divorced anyway. Aunt Elizabeth’s already done it once, hasn’t she? I wonder if it’s easier the second time.’ Maisie frowned, turning the pages of her own magazine, which was full of stories of on-off liaisons between famous people. ‘I mean, maybe it doesn’t feel such a big deal the next time.’

‘I think it must feel even worse – getting everything wrong
again
.’

‘I guess.’ The two girls read on for a few more minutes, silent apart from the smack of their chewing-gum. ‘Poor Roland, though,’ added Maisie. ‘Can’t be much fun for him. And he was sort of getting better too, wasn’t he? Not nearly such a drip. Even Ed thought so —’ She stopped mid-sentence and thumped her sister across the back.

‘Ow.’

‘Oh, my God. OH – MY – GOD. Look … just look at this.’ She sat up and thrust her magazine in front of Clem. ‘Look at him, the minging bastard … LOOK.’

‘I’m trying to – get off – I can’t see.’ Clem elbowed her sister’s arm out of the way to reveal a large colour picture of a smiling, well-groomed Neil Rosco:

ROCK STAR SPEAKS OUT
AGAINST DRUGS

Chart-topper and heart-stopper Neil Rosco this week opened a new wing in the Kyle Young Offenders institution in south-east London where he spoke inspirationally about the dangers of substance abuse. ‘I know what it’s like to come from a tough background,’ the star said, ‘and how drugs can seem to offer a quick-fix escape. If I hadn’t had my music I could well have ended up in a place like this. But there are other ways out,’ he told the youngsters, ‘like just getting a decent job and trying to be a decent person. No one needs drugs to be cool.’ After a tour of the premises Rosco signed autographs and then sang the title song from his new album Dead Geraniums, before returning to his penthouse home on the Chelsea Embankment.

Maisie slapped the page in disgust. ‘What a fucking hypocrite.’ ‘Ssh, Dad’ll hear.’

‘I don’t care. It makes me sick, acting like he’s such a great do-gooder, when he probably takes drugs all the time. They were all on something at that party, their eyes were staring, just like they
said in that drugs lecture at school, and one of those women asked for another line – of cocaine, obviously – and he said not now —’

‘Oh, so what?’ snapped her sister. ‘It’s over, Maisie, just forget it. The guy’s a fraud and his music’s crap and he’ll probably kill himself with an overdose or something anyway one day. Who cares?’ Clem sounded much more dismissive than she felt. It always alarmed her when the Rosco business came up, partly because Maisie got so feverishly agitated and partly because, instead of dissipating with time, her own fears about the incident had somehow ballooned. It was both confusing and odd to feel afraid of something that was over – particularly something so horrible. Maisie was safe – she had saved her. And yet every time Clem thought about it now – the surreal scene with the steam rising off the turquoise water, the night sky, the sunbeds and Rosco’s hairy backside pumping, crushing her sister – she felt giddy with new terrors. Her own bravery no longer offered any reassurance. It had just been a fluke, nothing that could be relied upon. Nor did the fact that they had coped with and accommodated the episode on their own. As each day passed it felt as if the ordeal wasn’t over and that it involved her just as much as her sister.

Maisie was now thumbing back through the magazine, chewing furiously on her gum. ‘Who wrote this thing anyway? Because I am going to write to him.’

‘Who?’

‘The journalist, that’s who.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not. I’m going to write to him and tell him what Rosco is really like. Look here’s the name. L. J. Cartwright.’

‘Maisie, you can’t do that,’ whispered Clem, tugging feebly at the magazine. ‘It wouldn’t do any good.’

‘Oh, yes, it would.’ Maisie clasped the pages protectively to her chest. ‘It would make me feel better. Are you going to help or not? You’re good with words – better than me.’

‘Of course I’ll help,’ murmured Clem. They were sitting up now, side by side. Their father had left his towel and joined Ed on the big rock next to the breakwater. They had given up fiddling with his lunatic string of a fishing-rod and were spinning stones into the sea, making them hop along the steely surface of the water. A few yards further on their mother was still picking her way across the beach, pausing every so often to stare at the horizon, scanning it from side to side as if it contained something she had forgotten or lost. ‘But I think a phone-call might be better – it would be more anonymous, less likely to get us into any sort of trouble.’

‘Clem, you’re a genius. That’s exactly right. We’ll phone the magazine, get the journalist’s number, then call him and – and just tell him what we know.’

Which wasn’t very much, thought Clem, but did not say so because Maisie was looking so elated. Though what, after all, would be the harm? she consoled herself. It seemed highly doubtful that this L. J. Cartwright would want – or be able – to use anything they had to say, particularly if they refused to give their names and had only suspicions to offer instead of hard facts. Just going through the motions might make Maisie feel she had got the revenge she was after. It might also, Clem decided, pondering these possibilities, go some way towards helping her to lay the episode to rest. ‘Not now, though,’ she said hurriedly, frightened that Maisie might race at that very moment for her mobile phone. ‘We should do it from a phone-box. Oh, but look, Dad’s coming over.’

Charlie was indeed lumbering towards them, with Ed in rather more nimble pursuit behind. ‘Ice-creams,’ he called, smiling and waving a ten-pound note. ‘What are your orders, girls?’

‘You better bloody have one,’ hissed Maisie, smiling and waving back.

‘Of course,’ retorted Clem, getting to her feet and quickly wrapping her towel round as much as she could of herself. She knew they all thought she was thin. She knew, too, that her costume hung in little loose wrinkles while Maisie’s was stretched tight across her hips and the now quite sizeable mounds of her breasts. What was also true – but impossible to explain – was that whereas Maisie somehow looked okay, Clem knew full well that she didn’t. Her hips were so wide and ungainly, while her thighs, half hidden under the towel, were huge white planks that she would happily have trimmed with scissors if she could. ‘I’ll have a ninety-nine, please, Dad,’ she announced, spotting in the same instant a painted arrow on the edge of the dunes saying, ‘Toilets’. It was a splintered, rickety sign, but at the sight of it Clem felt a rush of something like love. She was in control, after all. She could eat the ice-cream without fear. And when she sprinted across the dunes afterwards, in the direction indicated by the arrow, Maisie would say nothing, first because she understood and also because of how co-operative Clem was being about the journalist. ‘With two Flakes, if that’s okay?’

‘It certainly is, sweetheart,’ agreed Charlie happily. ‘And we’ll get the same for Mum, shall we?’ They all turned to look at Serena, a speck now beyond the next breakwater, her towel billowing like a cloak in the onshore breeze. ‘She’ll feel left out otherwise, won’t she?’

‘Right,’ the children chorused, forced by the determination in his voice to collude in this happy half-truth, wanting to protect him as much as themselves.

JULY

Elizabeth sat on a bench near the cathedral to eat her croissant, which was thick and greasy and splurging with spinach and cheese. Tourists and foreign students swarmed on all sides of her, posing for pictures in front of the cathedral’s solid square walls and the rather more easily photographed poultry cross, which sat in the middle of the pedestrianised cobblestones a few yards to her left. These landmarks were at the intersection of Chichester’s four main streets – called, in recognition of this, North, South, East and West Street. She was at the geographical and emotional heart of the city; the central point of the compass. Elizabeth pondered the wooden signpost advertising this fact, and wondered that she could be at such a focal point on the planet and yet feel so lost herself.

She ate slowly, savouring the heavy pastry, feeling a dim comfort at the way it filled her stomach. She had walked past the bakery several times, resisting the smells, telling herself that the last thing she needed was a mid-morning snack, but then thinking, Why not? Why the hell not? Given her current circumstances, battling with her weight seemed futile. She could swell to the size of a small cottage and it wouldn’t matter. Roland would still love her; and Colin, whose dry little quips on the subject had sometimes inspired bouts of intense calorie-deprivation, was no longer someone she had to worry about. It was perhaps for similar reasons that, before entering the bakery, she had gone into a shoeshop and bought a pair of yellow trainers with two-inch-thick heels. They did not look very elegant, particularly with the wide green cotton skirt she was wearing, but they had air-holes and felt springy and comfortable, even in the heat.