Relative Love (68 page)

‘We were,’ admitted Peter ruefully, ‘but … er … fate stepped in and we changed our minds.’

‘And I for one couldn’t be happier.’ Charlie sighed contentedly, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. ‘You sneaky old things,’ he added, with a chuckle. ‘How many weeks is she?’

Peter pretended to work on a calculation that he knew perfectly well. Charlie and Serena, he remembered, had been disarmingly frank about their drunken, haphazard conception of Tina, nearly three years before. ‘It’s over four months now,’ he said at length, unwilling – unable – to be so candid himself, but noting as he recalled the magical night of his fiftieth the irrelevant but interesting fact that both his and his brother’s accidental conceptions had occurred under the slate roofs of the family home. ‘Helen wanted to wait until we were absolutely sure everything was all right … the results of the amnio and so on. She’s had quite a time of it – got these terrible headaches at first – but she’s fine now, apart from being tired, of course.’

‘And will she go straight back to work this time, do you think?’

‘Oh, no, she’ll take a decent bit of leave. And when she does go back she’s determined to ease up a bit, maybe even cut down to a four-day week – get the balance right, which she didn’t really manage before.’ Peter paused, steeling himself for his next bit of news, feeling suddenly unequal to the task of delivering it. ‘Do you know? I think I will have a drink, after all. Don’t tell Helen, will you?’

Charlie laughed. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He leant back in his chair and watched happily as his brother fought his way through the drunken rabble at the bar.

Peter ordered a double whisky for himself and another pint for Charlie. He took a sip the moment the bartender set down the glass, closing his eyes to summon the certainty resident somewhere in his heart. He knew that what he was about to say, once uttered, could never be unsaid. Ever since the tumultuous weekend in Sussex he had thought of little else. Apart from the baby, of course, he thought about the baby all the time. It was a girl, they had discovered. They even had a name: Genevieve. According to a little book of Helen’s it meant
womankind
, which for some reason had pleased Helen enormously, although Peter couldn’t have cared less. He just liked the name, its Frenchness, its three soft syllables. Out late the night before, he had said it aloud several
times, feeling a glorious excitement at the prospect of becoming a father again, an excitement purely to do with getting to know a new child, rather than the more egotistical pride that had characterised his anticipation of their first two. In no hurry to find a taxi, he had cut down to the Embankment, then strolled to the middle of Albert Bridge, which glittered like a giant cats’ cradle across the dark waters of the Thames. Leaning his elbows on the cold metal of the balustrade, he had let his thoughts drift from the prospect of a second daughter to the new map of the future that had been triggered by her conception, a future crafted by the living needs of his own family rather than designs preconceived by his parents. I am ready, he had told himself, tipping his head so that the wind blowing off the water below buffeted the expanding hairless circle in the middle of his crown. It is right and I am ready to do it. For Helen. For me. For our family. His eyes streamed and his ears were pink with cold, but he had felt more alive, more hopeful, than he had in years.

Which wasn’t to say that his decision didn’t also fill him with fear. As he was walking back from the bar he tripped on a ridge in the carpet, almost losing his balance. Beer slopped over his hand, splashing the starched cuffs of his shirt.

‘Hey, are you all right?’ Charlie got up and seized both drinks, fresh concern clouding his heart. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it. Peter was all over the place, stumbling like an old man.

‘If you’re going down with flu maybe you should …’

‘It’s Ashley House,’ blurted Peter, his voice choking at the enormity of what he was about to do.

‘I don’t want it. Ever. I want you to have it, you and Serena. It’s right for you. It’s never been right for me and Helen. Helen’s never really wanted to live there and lately I’ve begun to recognise that I would probably be happier staying in London and, with another child on the way, it makes even more sense. We love where we are and neither of us wants to give up work and —’ He stopped, arrested by the sight of Charlie looking not so much pleased as aghast.

‘Just stop there, will you?’ Charlie raised both palms, as if to ward off any more unwelcome sentiments. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘Oh, believe me, Charlie, I do. These thoughts … they’ve been building inside me for weeks, months. I know it’s right.’ Peter thumped his chest. ‘Here, I know it’s right in here. Ashley House was
made
for you and Serena. You’re the right ones to take it on – and besides …’

‘Yes?’ Charlie whispered, looking between his legs at the ground, which seemed to be heaving.

‘Our lives are about our families, right?’ He swigged his whisky, watching Charlie, who nodded, too stunned now to speak. ‘And what I’ve realised is that at some point one exchanges the priorities of one’s first,
original
family for one’s second. By that I mean the needs of Helen, Theo, Chloë and, God willing, our new little one have to take precedence. If I was an only child or something it would be different, but there’s you – and Serena – so perfectly suited to running the place. It’s been staring me in the face for years only I didn’t – I couldn’t see it.’

‘Look, Peter, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, okay? But —’

‘There’s no
but
.’ Peter drained his glass, set it down carefully and smiled at his brother. A warm, open, certain smile. ‘Uncle Eric did it. For reasons that, I suspect, were not too dissimilar. Whatever really went on between him and Mum, he was always the loner while Dad was the family man. I think he felt, like me, the
rightness
of Dad being the one to inherit,’ he mused, liking the parallels the more he thought about them.

‘Or he was trying to get away from his affair,’ muttered Charlie, darkly.

Peter shrugged, undeterred. ‘I guess we’ll never know. What I
do
know is that I want to carry on working and living in London for as much of the future as I can contemplate, and that Ashley
House should be yours. Yours and Serena’s … I expect you’ll have another child anyway one day,’ he muttered, avoiding his brother’s eye.

Charlie ignored the remark, even though the thought of Serena and the children and a new baby one day running round the airy rooms of the family home thrilled him beyond measure. He tried a new tack. ‘And Dad? What has he got to say to all this?’

‘Ah. Yes. Dad. I’ve yet to tackle him.’ Peter frowned. Telling his father was the aspect of his decision he dreaded most. It was impossible to know how he would take it. He had such set ideas about things. Although sometimes, when Peter imagined the conversation and all the echoes of what had taken place fifty years before, he couldn’t foresee any difficulties. He had already prepared his arguments, the most important being that this new plan would do nothing to jeopardise the key priority of keeping Ashley House in the bosom of the Harrison family. ‘But I have every intention of doing so soon.’ He made a face, wanting Charlie to know that it was a matter about which he felt some trepidation in spite of his firm words. ‘I thought I’d wait until we’re all down there next month for the usual Guy Fawkes bonanza. You can bet Sid’s already working on his bonfire – the highlight of his year.’ Both brothers laughed, conjuring images of Sid’s towering creations over the years, some of them the size of small houses.

‘What if I don’t agree?’ asked Charlie quietly, a few minutes later, as they were pulling on their coats. ‘Or Serena? What if …’

Peter fixed his grey eyes on his brother. ‘Is that really likely?’

Charlie thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, feeling for the comforting solidity of his loose change and the ridge of fresh stitches where Serena had recently darned a hole. ‘Probably not,’ he admitted, ‘but I must talk to her, of course.’

‘Of course.’ They were in the street now, threading their way back towards Green Park tube.

‘She is marvellous, your wife,’ Peter added, ‘how she helps Mum these days – no fuss – whereas Lizzy and Cass, and Helen, frankly, are quite hopeless, and after all that you two have been through …’ Peter swallowed a lump that was swelling at the base of his throat. His emotions were so near the surface, these days, as if Genevieve, unborn and unknown, already had him by the heart. Just the thought of her made the death of his niece, months ago though it now was, seem freshly – vividly – insupportable. ‘I wanted to say, by the way,’ he continued gruffly,

‘when Tina died, we should have come back from Switzerland.’

‘But you did come back,’ said Charlie, surprised.

‘No. I mean we should have come back at once. To be there. To go through it with you. We should have. I see that now.’

‘That’s a kind thing to say, Peter. Thank you.’

The two brothers walked on in silence, until Peter, responding to a tug of elder-brother responsibility to conclude with a pragmatic overview of the situation, pointed out that his proposed realignment of their inheritance prospects was almost certainly premature. ‘Dad could go on for years yet and even when he’s gone I can’t quite see Mum leaping at the chance to exchange Ashley House for an old people’s home.’

‘Maybe Serena and I could move in with her,’ blurted Charlie, then slapped his hand to his mouth, embarrassed at this evidence of how his thoughts were racing. Such a seismic shift to his horizons and already he was accommodating it, envisaging how to make it work. ‘Early days, though, as you say.’ He smiled sheepishly.

Two taxis hove into view. The brothers clasped hands and exchanged hasty valedictory pleasantries, then got into them, each a little unnerved but also excited at how their worlds were changing.

The next day the sun shone again. Having sprung out of bed with uncharacteristic alacrity, Cassie found herself singing in the shower – love songs, one after the other, really badly. The reedy notes ricocheted unconvincingly off the steamy tiled walls of her small bathroom, but inside she felt like some exotic diva, velvet-voiced and beautiful. Afterwards, still humming, she towel-dried her hair with extra vigour, knowing that that way the curls would be just a little tighter and more alluring. Examining her face in the mirror, she pouted, as if to blow herself a kiss, and brushed her lids with the bluest of her eyeshadows. Her eyes glittered, sapphire jewels, shining as she had never thought to see them shine again.

A little later she was bouncing over sleeping policemen, shooting amber lights and rattling through phone-calls, her mobile pressed between her shoulder and her ear so as to leave both hands free for the steering-wheel. She had two appointments, one with a batty widow in Hans Crescent and another with a newly-wed Sloane Ranger in Markham Square. After that she had to call in at Osborne and Little and the Designers Guild to order various materials and stock up on new swatches. Then … then … As the moment of her reunion with Dan approached Cassie felt less and less able to contemplate it. The anticipation, the joy were simply too huge. Dan. After all these months. Her darling, darling Dan.

The morning dragged. The widow wanted to chat, mainly about her ailments – a mysterious pain in her knees, the palpitations of her heart. Did Cassie believe in acupuncture? she wanted to know. Oh, yes, Cassie said, her own heart racing, prepared to believe in anything that would ease her passage through the morning. Acupuncture – marvellous. And reiki and reflexology. Yes, and mustard would look lovely in the sitting room. The Sloane Ranger was easier, focusing solely on the question of décor and more than willing to let Cassie make choices for her.

By the time Cassie got to the shops she was running late. Both places were unusually busy. As she looked round the displays of shimmering printed silks and cottons, the rich brocades and velvets, she felt too overwhelmed by her own brimming emotions to make any sensible choices. After picking samples at random, then joining the tail end of the long queue for service, it all seemed so pointless – so trivial – that she abandoned her basket and fled into the street.

Arriving at the restaurant a little early, she hurried into the ladies’ to run a comb through her tangled curls and check her face for imperfections. By the time she emerged Dan, as if conjured out of some magical puff of smoke, was seated at their favourite table in the corner by the window. He looked so
solid
, so exactly as she remembered him – the long, slim nose, the frown-lines along his forehead, the kink of hair on his crown – that it felt suddenly as if moments, not months had passed since they had seen each other. He had a menu open in front of him, but was staring, clearly lost in thought, at the single pink carnation occupying the vase in the middle of the table. Breaking all the old rules of caution and discretion, Cassie called his name, heedless of the swivelling heads of other diners. He looked up at once, then got to his feet, as if in preparation to bound towards her, before he remembered himself and clenched his hands instead. Cassie stumbled to the table, feeling as if they were the only two people in the room, the only two on the planet. Nobody and nothing else mattered. She dropped her bags and flung her arms round him, burying her face in his neck. For a few instants he squeezed her with equal fervour, then gently prised her arms off and cast anxious glances over her shoulder.

‘You look wonderful.’

‘So do you.’ She sat down opposite him, her heart bursting with joy at the sight of the loving tenderness in his eyes.

‘I’ve been so wretched without you.’

‘Me too,’ she whispered. ‘When Sally phoned I … it was so awful … hideous …’ She was overcome at the recollection of what still ranked as the worst moment of her life. ‘I thought I was going to die,’ she whispered, as the memory of her desolation swept through her, almost real again.

Dan took both her hands in his. ‘Cassie, my love, I am so sorry. So sorry. To this day I don’t know how Sally found out. She said someone had told her, but who? Who would do a thing like that?’