“I wish.” She also wished he wouldn’t say “booby,” but didn’t say so.
“Small but perfectly formed. Like the rest of you.” He grinned.
“I’ll take that. OK—wedmin,” she said. “My dad’s going to try and get us Sexy Fish for engagement drinks, but we should probably send the save the date soon so people can start booking accommodation.”
“Sure.”
“So, also, I was thinking . . . How would you feel about having the wedding here?”
“What, in Norfolk? I thought we agreed that?”
“No, I mean here, at Weyfield.”
“At yours? But if we’re thinking December, we’d have to be inside?”
“Yeah. The drawing room’s massive, if you open the double doors to the dining room. We had my eighteenth here, and Mummy’s fiftieth. And my parents got married here, obviously. Plus people can stay.”
“How many was that?” Even on screen she could see panic in his eyes.
“Easily a hundred and fifty.”
“Sitting down? What about dancing?”
“We had a dance floor for my eighteenth. And Mummy had a sit-down dinner. You just have to move the piano and all the stuff out.”
“OK.” He screwed up his face. “Just . . . I was thinking Gunston Hall. The food’s meant to be awesome. Or Mum suggested Delling Abbey. Will and Poppy got married there.”
“Delling? But that’s just like here, except, you know, we’ve got no connection to it. It’s, like, generic.” Will and Poppy were a pair of deeply basic friends of George—if it was possible to be posh and basic.
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“I don’t want to have a wedding someone else could have,” she said. “I’ve always imagined I’d get married here. Ever since I was little.” She hadn’t expected George to have plans of his own. He’d always seemed quite taken with Weyfield. Usually he was the one joking about her “country pile.”
“Wouldn’t it be a massive ball ache for your parents?”
“No way. They’d love it. Especially Mummy. She’s expecting it to be here.”
“Is she? But we hadn’t, like, talked about it.”
“I know, but, it’s a given. Birch weddings are always here. I mean, Hartley. Can’t believe you’re being funny about it.” She knew she sounded like a sulky child.
“I’m not, Phoebles. It’s stunning, you know, the outside. I’m just not sure it’s kind of wedding-like inside. It’s more of a home, you know?”
“But that’s why I want it. It would be personal. And once you had all the flowers and stuff, it would look weddingy. Anyway, I don’t want my—our wedding to look like ‘a wedding.’ Or to be in some hotel where another couple is getting married the next Saturday.” She stopped, realizing she was on the point of insulting George’s world.
“I thought you liked hotels?”
“I do, but this is different. It’s our wedding.”
“Why is that any different? Plus, just in terms of logistics. The bar, and loos, and stuff. How would it work?”
“Logistics? It’s not a work conference. Anyway, we could sort all that out.” She knew this wasn’t the real problem. He thought the inside of the house was weird. It was true, the decor needed updating, but in photos that passed for shabby chic. And at least it had character—unlike his barn conversion.
He rubbed both hands over his face, up into his hair.
“Will you look at Gunston and Delling, before you write them off?” he said.
“I haven’t written them off. Anyway, what did you get Tom and Matt?” she said as a kind of peace offering. She knew she’d get her way in the end. Arguing wouldn’t help her cause. George was soon recounting a recent pub quiz victory with his brothers, “Team Marsham-S,” and she felt the tension had been put aside.
“Anyway, Phoebles, look, I should go,” he said when he’d finished his story. “We’re heading to the Woolmakers.” George’s Christmas Eve drinks with his siblings was sacred. Phoebe usually went too, and half of her resented Olivia for making it impossible. The other half was relieved to miss an evening with his sister, Mouse, and Tom’s wife, Camilla. Something about the girls’ uniform of rugby shirts and pearl earrings made her feel simultaneously superior and out of place.
After the call, she went downstairs to moan to her mother. Emma was in the kitchen, listening to The Archers, in a fog of boiling beetroot. Every Christmas Eve she made the same meal, a thick fuchsia borscht, marbled with sour cream and studded with porcini. Phoebe always felt it was unpleasantly close to baby food. She slumped on one of the benches, her head on the table. Her mother looked over. “Daddy’s set me up on you-player!” she said brightly, pointing to her iPad. “So clever.”
“It’s i-Player,” said Phoebe. “George doesn’t want the wedding here.”
“What?” said Emma, turning. “But wouldn’t it work wonderfully, with the Marsham-Smythes so nearby?”
“Smiths. Not Smythes,” she said, for the millionth time. Why, after six years, couldn’t her mother get her head round George’s surname not being as posh as her own? “I don’t know, he just didn’t seem into the whole idea.”
“Where does he want it?”
“Gunston Hall. Because of the food. Or Delling. That’s what Linda wants.”
“But—this is your home.”
“Ish. But he, his family don’t really get that. They’re different.”
Her mother looked down at the AGA. Phoebe could see she was battling Granny’s voice, saying something about the Marsham-Smiths’ new money. She knew Mummy prided herself on not being as snobbish as Granny, but it still came out. Especially when she was annoyed. Phoebe suddenly felt strangely defensive of George.
“What if we had it here, but got Gunston to do the catering?” said Emma.
“It’s not only the food. It’s just, the Marsham-Smiths do things in a more, kind of, traditional way.”
“Traditional? Isn’t it more traditional to have a lovely wedding at home than in some hideously expensive venue?”
How could she begin to explain? thought Phoebe. Her mother had no idea that weddings had become an industry, that most people got married in a venue now.
Andrew walked in. “I think what Phoebe is trying to say,” he said, “is that the Marsham-Smiths prefer to throw money at a problem.”
“Hey! They’re not like that,” said Phoebe, thinking of George’s mother and her Mulberry handbags, and knowing he was right. He was always right.
Andrew took a clementine without saying anything, and strode out again.
“It just seems rather a pity. We’ve got all this space. Why would we spend God knows how much when we have somewhere with such sentimental value?” said Emma. She waved a spatula around to make the point.
“Let’s just look at Delling,” said Phoebe. Why was she now on George’s side, she wondered, when she’d come down for support and got it? They sat down together with Emma’s iPad. Looking at stuff online with her mother was always exasperating. Emma typed any Google search in full, usually making several typos, and then wondered why it didn’t work. Delling Abbey’s website appeared, and they clicked Get Married at Delling. There was a picture of a woman wearing beauty-pageant makeup with her hair in crispy tendrils and a man in shiny morning dress. They were grimacing and ducking in a blizzard of confetti. The idea that she and George might become that couple was surreal. A banner ad on the side steered them to another site called Wedding Bee. Here, all the brides said how intent they were on making the wedding unique, but all had a photo booth and mustaches on sticks. Her mother kept hooting with laughter. Phoebe felt her blood pressure rise, even though she agreed with Emma that the weddings looked terrible. She wanted to say: “If you’d just spend some money on this place, instead of leaving everything to rot, then George wouldn’t be freaking out.” But she knew this wou
ldn’t go down well. She would have to convince her mother to redo the dining room and drawing room at least. Her father would understand.
She left the iPad to Emma and returned to the mood board she had begun that morning. She was using the back of Olivia’s homecoming banner, the green fitting her Christmas theme neatly. The table was soon covered in tusk-shaped fragments of Brides magazine, as she snipped round photos of winter flower arrangements, white fur capes, and the occasional, non-disgusting dress. “Ooh, this is a jolly idea,” said her mother, “a cupcake tower—sort of a pile of fairy cakes. I suppose traditional wedding cake can be rather stodgy, can’t it?”
“Yummy!” said Phoebe. Her mother wasn’t to know that the world had reached peak cupcake years ago. She needed to be extra sweet, if her campaign to get Weyfield redecorated was to work out. Olivia came in, looking tired. “Can we move this thing? There’s nowhere to sit,” she said, gesturing at the mood board. Phoebe took the board and leaned it against the window. She’d moved on to a wedding playlist now anyway. She was thinking either “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” or “Let It Snow” for the first dance, and her all-time favorite “Please Come Home for Christmas” for the last dance. Or even Mariah. George wouldn’t object; he had typical public school cheesy taste in music. Olivia sat, pushing a mince pie into her mouth as if in a trance, and pulled the newspaper toward her—the way she used to hide behind the All-Bran at breakfast.
“How’s your poor friend?” said Emma.
“No news,” said Olivia, barely looking up. “Though the press have gone to town on him. Including Andrew’s colleagues.”
He’s our dad, thought Phoebe. Why d’you have to call him Andrew? After a moment of nobody saying anything, she gathered her lists and went upstairs. She knew it must have been stressful in Africa. But everything was so much easier, and nicer, when Olivia wasn’t around.
Jesse
THE WOOLMAKERS ARMS, BLAKENHAM, 9:16 P.M.
• • •
It was Dana who told Jesse that staying in wasn’t an option on Christmas Eve. He had called in a nostalgic mood, seeking sympathy, after catching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV. They used to watch it together, eating Mom’s spiced shortbread, he’d reminded Dana. But she hadn’t indulged him. “Jesse, you made this decision—you need to own it. Go make some new memories,” had been her exact words. So he had showered, cologned, and stepped into the cold to see how the locals celebrated.
Now, sipping a self-conscious pint, he couldn’t tell if the Woolmakers Arms was playing tricks on him. It seemed to be pure Ye Olde England—close and carpeted, with tiny, diamond-paned windows and such a low-beamed ceiling that he had to stoop. The seats were dark as church pews, and the beers had crazy names like Woodforde’s and Bullards. Back home this would have been a replica—like the dude ranch in Montana where he’d stayed with his ex, Cameron. He didn’t want to be the gullible tourist, taken in by a sham, but something about the Woolmakers suggested it was the real deal. He half regretted not bringing his camera, but he felt conspicuous enough as it was.
The bar was packed. Christmas Eve was clearly a big party night in Blakenham. Jesse wondered if this was the kind of topsy-turvy evening when lords and peasants mingled, like in Titanic. A group of three young guys with posh accents dominated the room. With them were two blond girls, giggling uncontrollably. They were all sitting by the fire, braying with laughter at an anecdote Jesse couldn’t catch. The men reminded him of frat boys at college, but their bodies were different—with bigger necks and barreled thighs. Two wore striped shirts, sleeves rolled up to show meaty forearms; the other had on a V-neck that just stretched over his broad chest. Their table was covered with empty glasses. The one with his back to Jesse stood and turned, and Jesse saw it was the guy who had jogged past him that morning. Their eyes met, fleetingly. Jesse watched him walk to the bathroom and resisted the impulse to follow, to see if he would acknowledge him were it just the two of them under strip lighting. Moments later he reappeared right beside Jesse at the bar, looking straight ahead. He had a preppy little snub nose and a fine, almost feminine jawline—at odds with his athlete’s beat-up ears. His hairline was wet—he must have smoothed it back in the bathroom. Jesse looked at his wrist, the hairs blond against his tan, muscles twitching as he fiddled with two notes. A gold ring shone on his pinkie, and beside his Hublot watch was a string of pale green prayer beads. Funny to see that the L.A. influence even made it here. “’Nother three Woodforde’s and two G-and-Ts, please, mate,” he said to the barman. He had a deep, garbled voice that reminded Jesse of Prince Harry—top of the “celebrities I am allowed to sleep with” list he’d had with Cameron. The guy turned to Jesse and raised his eyebrows.
“You were out running this morning, right?” said Jesse, before he could stop himself.
“Ha, yeah. Unsuccessfully,” he said.
“How come?”
The guy seemed confused. His cheeks colored slightly.
“Oh, uh, y’know. Suboptimal terrain,” he said, and Jesse could hear the air quotes in his voice, but wasn’t sure what he was alluding to. This must be the famous British sense of irony.
“Sure,” said Jesse.
“You on holiday? Sorry—vay-cation,” said the guy, in a twangy New York accent.
“Kind of. I’m also working.”
He could feel his adoption story about to spill out again, like in the airport, and stopped himself.
“Doing what?”
“Research,” he said. “I’m making a short film.”
“Cool,” said the guy.
Jesse waited for him to ask what it was about, or to question why he was working over Christmas, but he said nothing.
“Are you from around here?” said Jesse, fearing the conversation might end.
“We have a house here.”
“Cool. Must be a nice place to relax.”
“Yah. So beautiful. I love it here, the sea, the air. Awesome.”
“It’s beautiful, right?”
The barman set down the drinks. “And a pint for this fine gentleman,” said the guy, gesturing to Jesse.
“Hey, cheers—I appreciate it,” said Jesse. His “cheers” still sounded off.
The guy mock bowed, but said nothing as he put the two notes on the bar and tried to pick up all the drinks at once.
“Let me help you,” said Jesse, taking the gin and tonics.
“Thanks—George, by the way,” said the guy.
“Jesse.”
“Jesse. Good to meet you, mate.”
He followed George through the crowd, feeling the fizz of being invited to the popular table in high school.
Putting down the gin and tonics, he was unsure if he was expected to join the group or go back to the bar. They all seemed too drunk to notice either way. One of the men, who appeared to be the alpha male, was mid-story.
“And then,” he gasped, voice shrill with suppressed mirth, “Chingers sits up and promptly says: ‘Mmmm, Toby, why are your testes in my mouth?’” As if taking a cue, the table erupted with laughter.
“Guys, this is Jesse,” said George.
“Jessie? I’m sorry, your name’s Jessica?” said Alpha Male, dissolving into more guffaws.
“Stop it,” hissed the girl beside him, slapping him on the arm. “Sorry about this one—can’t take him anywhere,” she said, putting a hand over the man’s mouth. “Hel-lo,” she added, looking at Jesse properly. “And where are you from?”
“Los Angeles.” Jesse had learned long ago that this got a better response than “Iowa.”
“So what in God’s name possessed you to spend Christmas in Blakenham?” said Alpha Male. He talked like a fifty-year-old man, though he looked around thirty-five.
“He’s in film,” said George. So he had taken in what Jesse said after all.
“Christ,” said Alpha Male. “What are they filmin
g here—period drama?”
“Uh, it’s more documentary.”
The girls were looking at him eagerly. They probably thought he was an actor. Women often did.
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” said the other, younger-looking girl. She had the same profile as the three men, and he guessed she was their sister.
“I came early. Wanted to get a feel for the place.”
“So you’re on your own at Christmas?” said the first girl.
“It’s all good—we just celebrated Thanksgiving back home. Plus it seemed like a nice opportunity to travel.”
“You can’t be on your own at Christmas! We’ll look after you,” said the girl he presumed was a sister, shifting up the bench to make room for Jesse.
She began introducing the table. Her name was Mouse, inexplicably, and the three men were her older brothers, as he’d guessed. Alpha Male, real name Tom or “Tommo,” was the oldest. George was the youngest, and the middle brother was named Matt. The girl beside Alpha Male was Camilla, Tom’s wife. By the way Mouse was tossing her hair, he guessed she didn’t have a refined gay-dar. But people didn’t always realize Jesse was gay, straight off. The looks Matt was shooting him suggested he thought Jesse was sharking on his little sister. Just as well Matt didn’t realize Jesse had a crush on his brother. A couple of times he sensed George looking at him on the edge of his vision, but whenever he checked, George either wasn’t or had just looked away. He was by far the cutest of the three brothers. He was the only one with the cool, swimming pool eyes. He wondered if George had guessed he was gay.
“Drinking game!” bellowed Alpha Male. “I Have Never: the Christmas round.”
Everything they said about Brits drinking was true. Shots were summoned from the bar and they played a few rounds of I Have Never, where it transpired that Matt had thrown up on his boss’s back at an office party, and Alpha Male had taken a dump in someone’s shoe at boarding school. Jesse wasn’t sure what the point was, since they clearly all knew each other’s secrets.
“OK, my turn,” said Camilla. “I have never given my ski instructor a blow job,” she crowed, looking at Mouse.
Seven Days of Us Page 9