Seven Days of Us

by Francesca Hornak

  Phoebe was holding a small, professionally wrapped present. “OK, now George’s,” she said. She uncovered a tiny turquoise box. Her lips puckered, like when she was about to cry as a child.

  “Ooh, Tiffany! More sparkles!” said Emma.

  Phoebe opened it and sighed. “I knew he wouldn’t get them,” she said.

  “What’s wrong, angel?” said Emma. “Let’s see.”

  Phoebe held up a pair of pearl studs.

  “Oh sweet! Very nice, very classic. You’ll have those forever.”

  “I never wear pearls.”

  “Perhaps George would like you to,” said her father. “Nice rugby top and pearls, sounds right up his street.”

  Emma shot him a look.

  “It’s just I asked him specifically for these Dinny Hall hoops. I sent Mouse the link and everything. I knew she’d be useless.”

  “Oh well, these are lovely, too. Let’s see them on! Perhaps the hoops can wait?” said Emma.

  Phoebe sat back on the sofa, biting her bottom lip. “Can you put that away?” she suddenly snapped at Olivia. “It’s Christmas!”

  “OK, calm down. There.” Olivia made a show of turning her iPad screen facedown and covering it with a blanket.

  “You never get it, do you?” said Phoebe.

  “I don’t? I’m not the one crying because I got some ridiculously expensive earrings, when millions of children are malnourished.”

  “Oh my god—do you always have to bring it back to Africa?”

  “It’s not just in Africa. Although, since you mention it, hundreds of people have died of Haag this month.”

  “Girls, come on, please,” said Emma. “Now, here’s one for Daddy.” She handed a floral package to Andrew, and he gave her a clumsy pat on the arm, as she leaned down to plant a loud kiss on his cheek. He took ages to open it, using his penknife as if they were on a survival course. Finally, he eased a book out of the William Morris paper, held it at arm’s length, and announced: “Where Chefs Eat: A Guide to Chefs’ Favorite Restaurants. Marvelous, I shall enjoy that. Thank you, my sweet,” he said, scanning the blurb. Olivia wondered why her mother had bought him a book on the one subject he knew inside out. But it wasn’t really about that, she knew. It was about going through the motions of giving each other more and more stuff, every year. Her mother had given her about twenty tubes of hand cream—all of them overpoweringly perfumed. Phoebe had bought her a jumper that looked like something she’d wear herself, and was probably made in a sweatshop in Bangladesh. And her father had given her a pointless photo album—no doubt chosen by Emma. He’d written in the gift tag: “Olivia, Haagy Christmas, A.” What was wrong with him? Did journalists find it that hard to resist a pun? She looked at the floor, scattered with newness and wrapping paper and ribbon, and realized it was actually making her feel sick. She mumbled an excuse and went upstairs to check the news in peace.

  Andrew

  THE DINING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 4:00 P.M.

  • • •

  It was nearly dusk outside but they were still finishing lunch, wearing paper crowns from their Christmas crackers. Andrew had protested that it made them look as if they were in an old people’s home. But Emma and Phoebe had insisted, and Olivia had just looked pained—no change there. Was there anything, thought Andrew, more dismal than a family of adults wearing paper hats? He felt uncomfortably full. The turkey carcass sat on the side, the tarlike pudding still on the table. They’d followed it with some unnecessary Stilton, and Emma was now passing round Charbonnel et Walker truffles. Writing about food, eating out all the time, Andrew had come to feel that less was more. In his foreign correspondent days, they’d often made do—cheerfully—with Ryvita and boiled water. Emma put a fuzzy recording of “White Christmas” on the old LP player in the corner. He remembered dancing to it with her soon after they had met and knowing he would marry her. Now it just sounded schmaltzy.

  Phoebe was clamoring for charades when the doorbell rang with the long pressure of a stranger. Nobody ever used the bell. A heavy knock followed.

  All four of them looked at each other.

  “Who’s that?” said Phoebe.

  “Didn’t they see the sign at the gate?” said Emma.

  Andrew stood up quickly. He knew he should have replied to Jesse’s last e-mail, should have fended him off. “I’ll go,” he said. But already there came the sound of someone grappling with the front door.

  “Keep them outside,” said Olivia, sharply.

  “I will,” he called back, guts contracting as he rushed through the kitchen, the quickest route to the hall. He jumped as the latch clicked—louder than ever, it seemed.

  But before he reached the hall, a voice called out “Meeeeerry Christmas one and all!” and he found George, pulling off his coat.

  “Mr. B!” he said, with a slightly crazed grin. “Couldn’t stay away!”

  Andrew wondered if the boy was drunk. He seemed to be slurring, but perhaps that was just his obnoxious accent.

  “George—” He couldn’t think what to say, but luckily Phoebe appeared.

  “Phoebles!” he said.

  “Bae! What are you doing here? You’re not allowed!” She was tipsy, too.

  She rushed up to him, and he lifted her off the ground. “Thank you for my earrings,” she said. “Love them.” He kissed her, full on the lips, as if he was eating her.

  Andrew coughed.

  “Charming though this display of festive affection is, children, we Birches are in quarantine. George, should you be here?”

  George looked at him. He had Phoebe’s lipstick all over his mouth, but he wore it like victory. Emma and Olivia walked in.

  “What the—? He shouldn’t be here,” said Olivia.

  “Lovely to see you, too, Liv.”

  “We can’t see anyone till the thirtieth. Didn’t you explain?” Olivia said to Phoebe. She sounded unusually flustered.

  “Of course I did! He knows. But he can stay till then, right?”

  “I’m family! Nearly,” said George, his joker smile widening.

  “Well, he has to,” said Olivia. “They’ve just exchanged God knows how much bacteria.”

  “He has to stay?” said Phoebe, hopefully.

  “Yes! It’s a public health risk if he leaves now,” said Olivia. “And you won’t be able to go anywhere till Friday, you know that, right? Even leave the grounds. We all have to stay here.”

  Emma seemed to rediscover her default hostess. “Of course you must stay, George—not that there’s any real risk. How lovely. Will you have some coffee? Take it you’ve had lunch?”

  They walked back to the dining room, Phoebe and George whispering behind Andrew.

  “I can’t believe you came! You’re literally insane,” she said, in the same little girl voice she used to ask Andrew for money.

  “I missed you, Phoebles,” said George. “And I was worried about you. You OK now?”

  “Mmm. Thanks for coming.”

  Andrew half wondered what George was talking about, but knowing Phoebe, it was probably nothing more than a broken nail. She was always having a melodrama about one thing or another. Still, he was surprised George had risked Haag for one of her crises. Andrew didn’t have him down as the type. Maybe he knew he was in the doghouse about the earrings. Perhaps he was just deeply stupid. Anyway, he supposed he had to get used to having George around.

  Emma

  THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 5:00 P.M.

  • • •

  Emma stood by the sink, handwashing the special plates. Everything had gone to plan, but the timings of Christmas lunch had left her exhausted. Even for four, it felt like a military operation. She was always afraid the turkey would be undercooked or that she’d end up “nuking it,” in Andrew’s words. Still, Ottolenghi’s sprouts were a success, and the pudding lit up with blue fla
mes like a witch’s spell and, best of all, nobody had argued. Emma had feared the girls would bicker after their quarrel by the tree. She saw both their points and felt stretched between them. Phoebe could be a bit spoiled, but Olivia didn’t know her sister was fragile because of what she’d seen earlier. And Olivia’s way of looking at her iPad, when they were meant to be having family time, was rather rude. On the other hand, she might have some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, like a soldier. Emma knew, from Andrew’s war correspondence, that she could never understand what Olivia had seen. Still, she wished she didn’t have the feeling that Olivia looked down on their Christmas fun as slightly grotesque. She began squirting antibacterial spray over the worktop and had a sudden urge to clean the toaster tray. She wasn’t like this usually, she thought, giving the fridge handle a furtive wipe. She did hope she wasn’t getting that syndrome Phoebe talked about—OCDC, was it? Or was that a band?

  The phone rang—it was Nicola.

  “Emma, darling, Happy Christmas. How are you?” she said, in her new bedside manner.

  “Terrific! We’ve had such a jolly day. Gorgeous weather here, too. And tell me about you, how are all your boys?”

  But Nicola would not be drawn on her life. She kept bringing the conversation back to Emma and Weyfield.

  “Have you told them? The girls and Andrew?” she said, in a stage whisper.

  “Well, not yet—remember I didn’t want to put a dampener on Christmas? But Phoebe found out, unfortunately. This morning. She saw our e-mails from yesterday.”

  “Oh, poor thing. Was she terribly upset?” Nicola sounded as if she rather hoped she had been.

  “She was, I’m ’fraid. But George turned up to surprise her after lunch, and that seems to have helped. I think she must have told him. I did ask her not to. But discretion was never Phoebe’s forte.”

  “George? What about the quarantine?”

  “Well, he has to stay here now, with us.”

  “Oh. Young love! Rather sweet, risking his life.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose. Not that there’s a great risk. He must have realized she was low. I was a bit surprised, I must say. You know how I’ve never thought he was all that . . .”

  “Sensitive?”

  “Mmm. I thought he was a bit more”—she lowered her voice—“stiff upper lip, army type.”

  “I thought he was in finance?”

  “Well, the father’s military, or was, before he made his millions. And his brother’s in the marines. Anyway, just from what Phoebe’s said, I get the feeling the whole family don’t really ‘do’ feelings. Though I suppose Andrew and Olivia aren’t huge emoters. Phoebe and I make up for them with our waterworks.”

  “And how is Olivia?” Nicola was back to her bedside voice. “I saw her new blog today. One doesn’t think about the difficulty of coming home, does one?”

  “Her blog? I thought she’d finished it?”

  “It was about being back in England.”

  “Oh golly, I should have read it. What did it—did she say it was awful to be home and we didn’t understand her?”

  “No! Of course not. She just—you know, it’s a huge adjustment, I suppose. You mustn’t catastrophize, Em. It’s not good for you.”

  Emma had the feeling Nicola was backtracking. She knew she needed to look the blog up, now. She made an excuse about clearing away lunch, and then wished she hadn’t, because Nicola reminded her to “take it easy” and “be kind to herself,” which was rather irritating. Waiting for the blog to load, she thought of what Nicola had said about young love and how dismayed Olivia had looked at George’s arrival. She wondered if she minded not having a white knight of her own. She did hope Olivia would meet someone and have babies soon. Wasn’t that what life was all about? But Olivia always seemed so self-contained that Emma rather doubted she felt the same. The Internet connecter or whatever it was called seemed to have gone on strike. She would read Olivia’s blog later, she promised herself.

  Phoebe

  THE BUNGALOW, WEYFIELD HALL, 6:00 P.M.

  • • •

  Phoebe felt sluggish with daytime drinking and more food than she usually allowed herself. She and George were in the bungalow, which backed onto the drive. Her mother always talked about doing it up as a guesthouse, but never had done. Phoebe rarely came here anymore. It belonged to a different, teenage time, serving first for sleepovers with her best friends Saskia and Lara, and later for smoking and snogging. There were still relics of that era—Paris Hilton’s face on old magazines, a Ping-Pong table, and a lingering stench of tobacco and Febreze. Olivia hadn’t been part of the bungalow back then, although Phoebe remembered her attempting a party here with her lame medic friends. Trust her to do stuff a decade late. She hadn’t even got a boyfriend until Cambridge, while Phoebe’s love life had started at a respectable fourteen.

  It was much warmer in the bungalow than the arctic main house, once you had both heaters on. Phoebe curled up beside George on the sofa, where, years ago, she had lost her virginity to Seb, a boy from the year above at Westminster. She reached for a chocolate and tried to think of something to tell George or ask him. “Stop me eating!” she said, after a while. “Seriously, I’m going to be obese by the wedding at this rate.” She wasn’t really worried—keeping herself under eight stone was second nature. But she kept finding her eyes drawn to Olivia’s model skinny legs. Her sister was as thin as she had been at school, when Phoebe lived in constant fear of Olivia being scouted (luckily she wasn’t pretty enough). George moved the chocolates and took one of the pearl studs between his finger and thumb. “They’re beautiful. Like you,” he said, wiggling her earlobe. He was being mushier than usual. Now that he was here she’d got over the Dinny Hall hoops. The worst thing was that she knew Olivia was right; it was bad as an adult to care so much about getting the right present, or that George had written “Lots of love” not “All my love” on the gift tag. But she couldn’t help it. So, on top of disappointment, she had to feel ashamed of herself, too—like a sandwich of rank feelings. “I can’t believe you came,” she said again, resting her head on his shoulder. She’d thought he’d barely registered the news about her mother. But perhaps that was just George—he was all about actions, not words. Put that way, it sounded kind of manly and hot. George didn’t answer. He was fiddling with an old lighter from Phoebe’s gap year in Paris. “You sure your parents aren’t freaking out that you’re here?” she said.

  “They’re chill. If we get Haag, we’re getting it together,” he said, pulling her closer.

  “Your mum sounded pretty anxious when I spoke to her this morning.”

  “Did she? She shouldn’t read The Mail. I’ll call them again in a bit.”

  “You knew you’d have to stay, right?”

  “’Course! That’s why I came. I wanted to be held captive with you.” He kissed the top of her head.

  Phoebe nestled into him. This wasn’t like George. Apart from holidays, she wasn’t sure they’d ever spent more than two consecutive nights together. He always needed to get to work, or the gym, or some sporting event. But she liked it. Besides, they’d have to get used to living together when they were married. It was still an unreal thought.

  “I’m feeling better, by the way.”

  “Sorry?”

  “About Mummy.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, that’s shit.”

  “D’you ever worry about your parents, like, getting ill?”

  They didn’t often have conversations like this, and she wanted to keep it going.

  “Not really. Bit morbid.”

  “I guess. Just, I don’t know what I’d do, if . . . if . . .” Just thinking about saying the words “if Mummy died,” she felt tears jam her throat, like someone was digging in it with a spoon.

  “Hey, stop it. It’s all going to be OK. We’re getting married, remember?”

 
; She sniffed everything back. “Maybe you’ll come round to having the wedding here, after being quarantined?”

  “Like Stockholm syndrome?”

  “What’s that?” She knew what it was, but playing dumb was second nature with George. It seemed to make him happy.

  “Don’t worry.” He kissed her, a slow, determined kiss on the lips. He was stubbly, and as she pulled away, she noticed mauve shadows under his eyes.

  “I love you, Phoebe Birch.”

  “I love you too,” she said. She wanted to jump up and do a victory lap round the bungalow. He had said it. He had finally said the words.

  Jesse

  ROOM 17, THE HARBOUR HOTEL, BLAKENHAM, 7:00 P.M.

  • • •

  After a damp walk and a slimy “vegetarian roast” in the Harbour Hotel’s dining room, Jesse spent the afternoon on his bed. He’d watched the queen’s speech and three episodes of an impenetrable comedy called Only Fools and Horses. This wasn’t how Christmas was meant to be. He was supposed to be at Weyfield Hall with his new family—although the whole idea now seemed stupidly naive. Calling home, lying to his parents that he was having fun and hearing everyone laughing in the background, had only made it worse. Especially the sad note in his dad’s voice, as he said: “Well, take care, son. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

  There was still no reply from Andrew. The Glenmorangie Jesse had bought in the airport, knowing it was Andrew’s favorite, sat on top of the closet. Every time Jesse saw it, he felt small. If he wasn’t so hungover, he’d have opened it himself. He still hadn’t filmed anything. The idea of returning home with reams of footage of Norfolk, and none of his birth father, was too depressing.