Jesse knew, for example, that Andrew was an only child, born in 1950 and raised by a single mother. She was named Margaret and had worked as an English teacher to support them both. When she died, Andrew had written a moving tribute to her, as the preamble to a review of a new curry house in Willesden Green, her hometown. In it, Andrew revealed that his father had walked out on them when he was born. The piece had moved Jesse to tears, and given him hope that this absent father might make Andrew more receptive to a son of his own. Several times, Andrew had mentioned that he’d gotten a scholarship to private school and studied history at Oxford University. He’d been one of The Times’ Middle East correspondents from 1977 until 1987, mostly based in Lebanon, at the height of the civil war. Jesse guessed this was how his birth parents had met. This phase in Andrew’s career seemed to have loomed large. Whenever he reviewed Middle Eastern food, most recently a falafel truck in “hipster Dalston,” he referred to it.
Not everything Jesse knew came from Andrew’s column. A quaint British website called ThePeerage.com revealed that Mr. Andrew Birch had married the Honourable Emma Hartley in 1983. They had had two daughters (Jesse’s half sisters!): Olivia Frances Birch, born 1984, and Phoebe Gwendoline Birch, born 1987. In his reviews, Andrew referred to Emma as The Matriarch. That was cool, Jesse thought. He liked the idea of an aristocratic stepmother. Better still was a clipping he’d found online, from an obscure eighties gossip column called Sloane’s Snooper. It revealed that Emma and Andrew had first met at the Royal Wedding, July 29, 1981, where Emma was a guest and Andrew a reporter. This fact, besides being pure British rom-com, was a coup. Since Jesse’s 1980 birthdate comfortably predated Andrew and Emma’s meeting, he felt confident he wouldn’t cause tension by making contact. Hopefully, Emma would be cool about her husband’s past. Still, he couldn’t get complacent. For starters, Jesse had no clue if Andrew was even aware of his existence. There was every chance his birth mother had never told Andrew she’d gotten pregnant. All his adopted mom and dad could tell him was that, when he was two weeks old, they’d taken him from a Lebanese orphanage. Calgary kept reminding him to limit his expectations. She said the entire Birch family would likely be profoundly shocked when they discovered that Andrew had fathered another child—even if it happened long before meeting Emma. They would need time and space to process their emotions.
There were photos to study, too, mostly of Andrew at various media functions—often with Phoebe on his arm. But beyond his height, Jesse just couldn’t see himself in his birth father. There was the shadow of his own hairline in Andrew’s byline picture, but his birth mother’s Lebanese genes were the dominant force in his DNA. Andrew had sandy, freckled coloring and wincing eyes, where Jesse’s high school nickname had been Aladdin, after the Disney movie. Andrew’s hair grew straight back in a slick, silver plume—Jesse’s curls had to be tamed daily. Even his birth father’s hawk-like nose—perfect for damning an inferior Merlot—looked discerning. Jesse’s straight, Roman profile hailed from his birth mother, like the rest of his features.
He’d scoured photos of his half sisters for some physical likeness, too, but this was even less evident. Phoebe’s Instagram and Twitter were tantalizingly private, but Jesse could see from the pictures with Andrew that she was cute. She had a kind of imperious, English rose face with sulky pre-Raphaelite lips, unusual green eyes, and a fine aquiline nose. Nothing like Jesse. The only photo he could find of Olivia was her Facebook profile, which showed a female Andrew. They had the same long face, deep-set eyes, and fair skin—but on a woman, and without Andrew’s skeptical gaze, it added up to something different. Homely, Jesse’s mom would have said. Beyond this, Olivia seemed to exist in a social media vacuum. He didn’t even know what she did for a job.
Emma must be too old to show up much online—unlike her media husband. The only photo Jesse could find of her was the one on Sloane’s Snooper, from 1981. It showed a pretty, grinning brunette with big hair and shoulder pads—a lot like a young Rachel Weisz. He could see the likeness between her and Phoebe, although Emma looked curvaceous, where Phoebe was actress skinny. But the photo was so old that he had no mental image of Emma today.
Other trivia: Phoebe worked in TV (Jesse clung to this fact as some semi-common ground) and always ordered fish when she accompanied Andrew on his reviews. She sounded fun, and witty, in a dry, British way. Emma adored dessert, and Elvis, and wanted a dog but had to make do with a cat because Andrew didn’t like dogs. This fact bothered Jesse. Who didn’t like dogs?
Today, the Birches lived in Camden (home of Amy Winehouse!), but holidayed at the gloriously British-sounding Weyfield Hall. It was Weyfield that had started the whole plan to head to Norfolk in December—specifically a Christmas photo shoot of the house on CountryLiving.co.uk. When Jesse had seen the roaring fires, family portraits, and dark paneling, he’d realized how badly he wanted to be part of it. He’d started to feel quite romantic about the fact that his roots were part Arabian Nights, part Downton Abbey (never mind that Weyfield was on Emma’s side). He became convinced it was his rare cocktail blood, and not just the fact that he was gay, that had made high school such a bitch. And so he’d told everyone that he was heading to the UK over Christmas to research “a confidential project.” Only Dana knew the full story. Still, it wasn’t technically a lie. The journey to meet his British birth father, in a country manor house, could make an incredible documentary. It would be the first film of his own, but he had a good feeling about it. He’d already shot some preliminary footage, just of himself in his apartment, talking about his life in L.A., his childhood in Iowa, and his expectations of meeting Andrew in Norfolk, England.
• • •
“I was thinking, don’t you find it kind of strange how Andrew’s a food critic, but he’s super skinny?” said Dana, as the waiter brought their drinks. “It’s like he doesn’t actually enjoy food. He literally never says, ‘That was yummy.’ It’ll just be, like”—she put on a snooty British accent—“‘The jus was well wrought.’ He actually described a sorbet as ‘deft’ last week. What does that even mean?”
Jesse sipped his beet Bloody Mary. He didn’t usually drink, but hitting send on the e-mail had frayed his nerves.
“I like his prose,” he said. It was crazy, he thought, how defensive he felt of Andrew already. Dana was right, though. His friends, cell phones poised over every green juice, were more into food than Andrew was.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be bitchy,” said Dana. “I’m just pissed that he didn’t reply yet. Anyway, now we know where your metabolism comes from.”
“Guess so,” said Jesse.
“He looks like he could be even skinnier than you.”
“Uh-uh. We’re identical—six foot four, 170 pounds.”
“Stalker.”
“Hey—it’s all we have in common. Physically.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. You should be thankful you wound up like your model birth mom.” Dana was always teasing Jesse about his freakishly pretty face.
“Phoebe looks nothing like him either,” said Jesse.
“I noticed he mentions her a whole lot more than Olivia,” said Dana, after a pause. “Do you think she’s his favorite?”
“I think she’s just more, like, the type of person you can write about,” he said. “She always says funny stuff about the food they order.”
“Right,” said Dana, draining her drink and avoiding his eye. He wished he didn’t get the feeling Dana was wary of Jesse’s birth father and family. Calgary had suggested that since Dana wasn’t adopted herself, she might be reluctant to share her big brother. It made sense—he and Dana were so close that she followed him to L.A. after college. But her attitude still bugged him. Especially because he’d thought the exact same thing about Phoebe and Olivia himself. Only Phoebe seemed to accompany Andrew to his reviews and star in his anecdotes.
“I can’t believe you won’t be ho
me for Christmas,” said Dana. She always got sentimental with vermouth.
“We only just had Thanksgiving.”
“When are you going to tell Mom and Dad this ‘confidential project’ is a big lie?”
“Once I’ve heard from him. He’s probably just working out what to say. He’s not going to write straight back.”
“Sure,” said Dana. “He has to soon, though. Or he’ll have me to answer to.”
Jesse knew Dana was only keeping his secret out of loyalty and would have preferred everything out in the open. But it felt safer this way, in case the search ended badly like last time. Jesse hadn’t expected his mom to be so upset when he had tried to contact his birth mother—after years of deliberation—only to find that she had recently died. Nor had he expected to be so upset himself. This time he would wait until after he’d met Andrew to tell Mom and Dad. That was better than getting everyone involved before he knew the outcome. At least his birth father was definitely alive.
But by midnight West Coast time, there was still nothing from Andrew. Surely he would reply tomorrow, thought Jesse, sitting at the kitchen counter in his briefs with the air-conditioner on full. He flicked from his e-mail back to the Virgin Atlantic website. He should wait, he knew. To book now, before he had a reply, would be premature. But flights for the holiday season were only getting more expensive. He hovered over the Purchase Tickets tab, for a second, then clicked.
• 2 •
December 23, 2016
Quarantine: Day One
Emma
ARRIVALS, TERMINAL 3, HEATHROW, 8:10 A.M.
• • •
Emma had arrived at Heathrow madly early, having left Norfolk before dawn. Every time she went to the loo (which was often, thanks to a large, muddy cappuccino from Costa) she felt terribly anxious that Olivia would emerge to find nobody to greet her. She used to have the same horror of being late to collect the girls from school. It was also very awkward to maneuver the welcome home sign she had made, in and out of the tiny Heathrow loos. She had painted it on a rug-sized sheet of green cardstock from the art shop on Holloway Road. It read “Welcome Home, Darling Wiv, You Heroine.” Holding it now, she feared it looked silly. Olivia didn’t like a fuss. And was it still OK to call her “Wiv,” her childhood nickname, coined by an infant Phoebe? But Emma needed to mark Olivia’s safe return somehow. And busying herself with the sign had taken her mind off the lump for an hour. A tall young man wearing a baseball cap sat down near Emma, and she moved the sign onto the floor, so the corner wasn’t poking his thigh. He looked down at it, and then at her. “Cute sign,” he said, in an American accent. If he hadn’t spoken, she’d have assumed he was Mediterranean, with his olive skin and dark eyes. He had the kind of chiseled, regular features that might make an actor or male model. “Dishy,” she would have said, when she was young.
“Are you Wiv’s mom?” he asked.
“Yes, she’s been in Liberia, helping with the Haag epidemic. She’s a doctor.”
“Whoa. That’s incredible. You must be so proud.”
“Of course! It’s wonderful what they’re doing out there.” Emma did like the way Americans were so enthusiastic. She’d always felt she’d have fitted in rather well in the States.
“For how long?”
“Just since October. But it’s felt like centuries!” She giggled, and his face opened into a film-star grin.
“Incredible,” he repeated. “I’m, like, in awe of those guys. What they do is so cool. Will she be OK afterward?” he said, after a pause. “Do they offer them, like, therapy?”
“Gosh, I don’t think so. No, I think they just get on with it,” said Emma, suddenly wondering if she should have organized some sort of counseling for Olivia. She’d seemed all right after her other volunteer trips, hadn’t she? Though she’d never been anywhere so dreadful-sounding before.
“And what about you?” she asked, looking at the bag at his feet. “D’you have English relations?”
“Kind of.” He paused for a moment, and she hoped she hadn’t made some faux pas. Perhaps he was escaping a nightmare family Christmas in America.
“I’m visiting friends in London today, but I’m actually trying to meet with my birth father. He’s British, but I’m adopted, so . . . My birth mother had me adopted. She and my birth father weren’t, like, officially together or anything.”
“Golly, how brave,” said Emma, trying not to look taken aback. “And presumably your father knows you’re coming? Your birth father,” she corrected herself.
“Uh, I e-mailed him, but he didn’t reply, and I already booked my flight. I’m not sure he even knows I exist. So. I’m kind of in a dilemma.”
“Goodness. Yes, I see. That’s tricky.” She couldn’t help thinking it was rash to fly all the way here, at Christmas, before getting a reply. “Are you sure you had the right e-mail address?” Emma had a deep mistrust of technology. How could anyone rebuff this sweet man? His eyes were just gorgeous—Marmite colored, and fringed with a child’s luscious lashes. Andrew had had terrific eyelashes when he was young, too. But Andrew’s were fair, she thought, as the American man talked, so you had to be right next to him to notice. They ended up chatting for quite a while, because the rather hopeless-sounding friend who was picking him up was late. Emma hadn’t pressed him on the birth father stuff, since it all seemed a little dicey, and he’d obviously geared himself up to meet this man and was terribly nervous. So they talked instead about L.A., where he lived, and his job, which was something to do with making health documentaries, and that had led to talking about health in general. He was so easy to talk to, in fact, asking her all sorts of questions about herself—not her daughters or Andrew, as most people did—that she found herself telling him about her diagnosis. It was funny, the way one opened up with strangers. Perhaps she felt able to confide because he’d told her his own dilemma, she thought, as he talked about a documentary he’d helped to make on cancer. Or perhaps it was the safety of knowing she would never see him again. It was only when his friend arrived and he gave her a quick, squeezy hug good-bye (Americans were bonkers, but so sweet), that she realized they hadn’t even introduced themselves. “Good luck!” she shouted, as he walked away. He turned and smiled, and she’d wanted to rush after him and tell him if it didn’t pan out with his birth father, he must come and spend Christmas with them—but then she remembered that they would be in quarantine.
Olivia
ARRIVALS, TERMINAL 3, HEATHROW, 8:40 A.M.
• • •
Olivia willed her rucksack not to appear on the luggage carousel too soon, but it was the second bag out. Sean lunged for it and she wanted to tell him not to, to eke out their last moments. Arrivals was blinding. Everything looked so new and efficient. World Duty Free shimmered with oversize Toblerones, pyramids of perfume, and towers of amber bottles. “Who buys that stuff?” she said to Sean. And how can all this be normal again? she wondered. The airport, after the chaos of Monrovia’s streets, sounded strangely muffled. And her feet, calloused in sandals, looked utterly out of place. Almost worse than the onslaught of consumerism was the dingy room where all aid workers were herded to have their temperatures checked. This must be where unlucky drug mules were interrogated, she thought, noting the contrast between the stained walls and the glitter outside. It was like seeing backstage. Sean looked at her and smiled. Not touching him for the entire flight had felt like an unscratched itch. Last night, knowing that they couldn’t even shake hands today, they had lain on the low bed in her apartment, limbs wrapped together so that she forgot where her skin ended and his began. She’d pressed her forehead into his chest and said: “We will, y’know, carry on, once we’re home, won’t we?” It was easier to say it to his nipple than his face.
“For sure, you idiot!” he’d said, his mouth finding the top of her head. Lying there, fan whirring until the generator stopped, she’d felt like they were in
a bubble, sealed off from the world. But looking at Sean now, she feared the bubble might have been an illusion. It was only five weeks since they’d first kissed. And for all they’d witnessed together, they’d yet to share real life—yet to tell anyone they were a couple.
It was her turn. The security guard held up the non-contact thermometer, eyes wary. This, she supposed, was what she was in for: suspicious looks, people surreptitiously sanitizing their hands after coming close. The thermometer beeped, and she was waved through. Sean was cleared next. They stood outside the room, facing one another, the requisite two feet apart. “Bye, for now, then,” he said. Her throat seemed to have closed over. She wasn’t like this, usually. Sean reached out to touch her arm, and she backed away instinctively—a reflex in public, after weeks of the No-Touch rule. “It’s fine, nobody’s watching,” he said, smiling. “Going to miss you so much, O-livia.” She liked the way her name sounded in his mouth.
“I’ll miss you too,” she said. It had been ages since she’d let someone in this close. In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d ever told Ben, her lukewarm boyfriend at University College London, that she’d miss him.
She heard a familiar shriek. “Wiv! Wiv! Olivia!” It was her mother. She came stumbling up, impeded by a huge welcome-home sign, hugging and kissing her without hesitation. “Oh sweetheart,” she said into her shoulder. “You’re so thin!”
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