FROM: Olivia Birch
TO: Sean Coughlan
DATE: Wed, Dec 27, 2016 at 7:05 a.m.
SUBJECT: READ THIS FIRST! Not previous e-mails!
Hi Pekin,
You’re OK! So, so happy to hear the news this morning (you’re a hot topic, by the way). I know you won’t see this today, as you’ll still be in isolation with only HEAT magazine and other combustible reading matter. But I’m writing anyway, so you get this as soon as you’re out. I want to be your first message. I’ve been so worried about you, baby. This will probably come out wrong, but you testing positive made me realize how much I care about you. I mean, not that I didn’t realize! Agh, I told you it would come out wrong—I’m rubbish at this stuff. I just can’t believe that four months ago I didn’t even know you existed, and now I’m never not thinking about you.
Sorry in advance for my hysterical e-mail on Christmas Eve (which if you’ve followed instructions in this subject line you won’t have seen yet. On second thoughts, maybe ignore it altogether).
How are you feeling? Rough, I expect. Like I said, I’ve been going quietly mad here, wishing I could do something, or just be with you. But besides that I’m fine, don’t panic. Fingers crossed I’d know by now if anything was wrong. It’s been so strange reading about you and hearing your name but not being able to speak to you, or even tell anyone about us. Hoping you haven’t said either? There didn’t seem to be any point freaking my parents out, potentially getting us in shit, etc. But it’s been pretty hard to act normal—or as normal as anyone could be expected to act, post Red Zone. Not that my dear family seem to get that. Thanks for ruining the nation’s Christmas, by the way. Joking.
So just as you get better, I’ve had bad news. It turns out my mother was diagnosed with an NHL last week. I had no idea—my sister sprang it on me last night. Basically her boyfriend, George, gatecrashed our quarantine on Christmas Day, so he’s now staying here with us (not sure if the whole thing was planned, wouldn’t put it past them). Anyway, last night the two of them got pissed and decided to go out . . . I know . . . I saw them leave and followed them on my bike, and Phoebe and I ended up having a massive row, and she dropped this bombshell in the middle of it. Apparently my mum didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to “ruin Christmas,” which is typically mad of her. But, obviously it’s not ideal that she’s in the house with me, with her immunity, when I’m high risk. I don’t want to scare everyone by mentioning you and me, though, when there are only two days to go. Phoebe said my mum’s waiting for test results, so will probably start treatment ASAP. Hard to know whether to say anything, because she wants it kept secret and I feel like I should respect that. But since I only got my sister’s garbled version, I have no idea what stage she is, how fast it’s moving, etc. Often feels like I’m the last to know anything about my own family. As in, the fact that I have a life and don’t live at home with arrested development like my sister, means they don’t need to tell me stuff. OK rant over. Sorry to dump all this on you when you’re probably still drugged up. It’s just a relief to put it all down in words. Your parents must have been so worried. Are they in London, at least? I promise I’ll come and see you as soon as you’re out of your isolation tunnel, and I’m free from this madhouse. Can’t wait.
Get lots of rest. I love you.
Olivia XXXX
PS: Not quite sure how I’m going to break the news to my parents—remember Sean Coughlan off the news? We hooked up in Liberia. And I’m crazy about him. Hohoho.
She pressed send and turned the iPad over—the screen was burning her eyes. “Wiv,” her mother called from downstairs. “Are you up? We need to do the bonfire before it rains! Come down! I’ve done scrambled eggs.” Olivia’s stomach turned slightly at the thought of warm, lumpy egg. She couldn’t refuse Emma’s giant breakfasts now, though. Feeding the troops was probably all that was keeping her mother sane.
• • •
The bonfire was a Weyfield Christmas ritual. Olivia remembered hopping around it as a child with Phoebe, both in manic Rumpelstiltskin mode, but as a teenager she’d pleaded the need to study instead. She was surprised the others were persisting with it now. Still, it was good to be outside in the fresh air. She felt fine now that she was up, so it must have been low blood sugar earlier. Her father had built the fire in the usual spot at the bottom of the orchard. He was walking down the grassy slope from the house now, carrying a stack of boxes. Her mother was standing beside the heap of branches, looking through old magazines and schoolwork from the attic. Surprisingly little had been deemed disposable in the end. “Fabulous,” said Emma. “This is going to be really cathartic. Now, haven’t you got any Haagy bits and pieces you want to burn, sweetie?” Clearly her mother hadn’t quite grasped the concept of contamination. But she must have a lot on her mind, Olivia reminded herself. “Everything got burned or bleached while we were out there,” she said.
“Of course, of course. Silly me. Perhaps I should go and get Phoebs,” said Emma, half to herself. Olivia tried to observe her professionally. She didn’t appear to have the visible fatigue that typically affected cancer patients—or any discernible weight loss. Andrew staggered toward them, almost dropping his load. “Golly, you’ve done well!” said Emma. “I had no idea you had so much down here.”
“I was ruthless. It’s mostly work junk. And one appalling attempt at a novel. A thriller, I’m afraid. Christ knows why. Did I tell you at the time? Can’t remember now. Anyway, the less said about my foray into fiction, the better. Right then, pyrotechnics!” he said, beginning to arrange the branches into a wigwam shape. Olivia thought of him sneaking out for a walk on Christmas Eve. Sometimes she felt like she had no respect for her father. He was as bad as Phoebe—both worshipping the frivolous, making careers out of it, pleasing themselves above all else. The fact that he was apparently oblivious to his wife’s cancer only confirmed his grotesque ego. A small, bobble-hatted figure came limping over from the bungalow.
“George’s still in bed,” said Phoebe, when she got near enough to be heard.
“Good-oh,” said her mother, running over to take her arm. “Nobody need feel they have to do anything. We’re very relaxed. How’s your poor foot?”
So Phoebe had filled everyone in on her injury, thought Olivia. Just as well, since she hadn’t wanted to lie for her. Phoebe kept making agonized grimaces as she clung to Emma, and then moved onto Andrew. She was wearing sparkly mittens and avoiding Olivia’s eye. She probably hadn’t forgiven her for last night. Typically childish. Especially after Olivia had got her home, sorted out her foot, and agreed not to tell anyone. Andrew threw a match into the pile of dry wood and paper, and the fire launched with a greedy crackle. “Seems extraordinary that we had to make do with a magnifying glass in that camp,” he said. Her mother began tipping boxes onto the flames, with little whoops. Phoebe seemed to forget her foot in the thrill of igniting French textbooks, too. Olivia stood back, breathing through her mouth to avoid the acrid smell. It reminded her of the mass cremations the Liberian government had ordered in November. Was the whisper of nausea back? Don’t think about cremations, she ordered herself. Sean’s getting better, and you’re fine. Stop being silly.
Jesse
THE DRIVE, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:32 A.M.
• • •
Weyfield Hall was different in daylight. Jesse stood at the turning in the drive looking up at it. The air felt swollen with impending rain, and pale light slanted through low, gray clouds. Against it, the house looked spectacular. Even the weeds on the drive struck him as romantic. He took the letter from its unsealed envelope for a final read.
December 27, 2016
Dear Andrew,
I am writing this letter because I believe you are my birth father. My late birth mother was a Lebanese woman named Leila Deeba, who I think you met as a reporter in Beirut, 1980. My mother had me ado
pted soon after giving birth, and I was raised by my adoptive parents in Iowa.
I sent you two e-mails reaching out before Christmas, as I have been working in Norfolk over the holiday season. I was hoping you might be curious to meet, but since I didn’t hear from you, I can’t be sure if you didn’t receive my e-mails, or if you would prefer not to make contact. I hope it is the former, but I understand if you don’t feel comfortable meeting me. I have no idea if you even knew my birth mother had gotten pregnant, so I appreciate that this letter may come as something of a shock. However, since I am in Norfolk, and I can’t be certain my e-mails made it, I am taking the liberty of delivering this letter by hand. I hope you will forgive my forwardness.
Some background on me: I now live in Los Angeles, where
I produce documentaries, primarily on health and well-being.
I am gay and currently single. Like you, I enjoy great food
and travel (I never miss your column!). My e-mail address
is [email protected], should you wish to
make contact.
With best regards,
Jesse
It would have to do. He’d gotten so late, writing and rewriting it this morning, that he’d wound up stopping at Weyfield on his way to catch the train. He still wasn’t sure of the final paragraph, which read like a dating profile, but he needed Andrew to know something about him, in case this was the end. A speck of rain blotted the paper, and he stuffed it into the envelope as the drops quickened. He walked up the drive, feeling naked. There was only one light on, but the same cars were parked in the drive as on Christmas Day. Perhaps they were sleeping in.
Out of nowhere sheet lightning lit up the house, followed by a shudder of thunder. Jesse was used to storms in Iowa, but the torrent that fell next took him by surprise. He dashed the last twenty yards to Weyfield’s front door, pulling his coat over his head, and pushed the envelope through the letterbox, eye to eye with the lion knocker. It was done. Gone. He turned to shelter under the shallow porch for a moment. The pediment barely covered him—rain was blowing sideways, soaking his hair and clothes. He pressed his back harder against the door and, as he did so, felt it shift under his weight, so that he half fell into the house. Grabbing for the door frame to steady himself, he straightened up. He knew he ought to walk back out into the rain, pulling the door to, as it had been left. His letter lay on the mat. He had done what he came here to do. But something made him pick the envelope up, instead, and look round into the shadows of the hall.
Olivia
THE ORCHARD, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:40 A.M.
• • •
The four of them hurried up the garden toward the house, Olivia in the lead. The rain was different to the fat, warm drops in Liberia, lashing down in icy rods. The front door was open, as usual, and she rushed straight through into the hall. Her scream of surprise at the tall man standing inside sounded uncharacteristically girlish. “Sorry! I’m sorry—I startled you,” he said in an American accent. He was holding an envelope and looked about her age. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw his face properly. There was something disconcertingly even about it, so that he didn’t look quite real. He had large, dark eyes, like a manga cartoon.
“Hey,” he said. “Is this—are you Olivia?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Uh, is Andrew home? I was hoping to speak with him.”
“Look, you shouldn’t be here. How did you get in?”
“I, the door was, like, open.”
She was about to answer when her father appeared. The color left his face. He and the man stood staring at each other, as if they were alone. Andrew opened his mouth, but just made a kind of croaking “ah” noise as Emma walked in.
“Golly, I’m drenched!” she said, shaking out her sleeves, and then saw the man.
“Hull-o!” she said, sounding shocked but delighted, as if they’d met before. “How did you—?”
“Oh, shi-it,” he said, dark eyebrows shooting up his forehead, and his eyes bulging like headlamps. “Oh my god, this is crazy. This is insane. I didn’t realize, I mean, I had literally no idea—”
“What’s going on?” said Olivia. “We’re in quarantine, we can’t—”
“Shh,” said her father. “This is—” He hesitated. “This is—”
“Jesse,” said the man.
“I know,” said Andrew.
“Oh—wait—oh my god,” said Emma, her face falling. “Oh Christ, Andrew!” She looked at Andrew beseechingly.
“What’s happening?” said Phoebe, from the doorway. “Hi,” she said, seeing the man and switching on her strangers smile. She pulled off her hat, reaching up to smooth her hair.
“Girls, go upstairs please,” said Emma.
“Why? What’s going on?” said Phoebe.
“Nothing,” said Emma. “Just, could you go upstairs, darling?”
The man was looking even more uneasy, his doe eyes flitting around the four of them.
“He shouldn’t be in the house—” Olivia tried again. Why did none of her family grasp what quarantine meant?
“Olivia, please. Just go upstairs. We’ll sort all that out,” said Emma.
Her mother’s face told her she had no choice.
“Come on,” Olivia said to Phoebe.
She put an arm out for her sister as they climbed the stairs. Nobody in the hall said anything. When she and Phoebe reached the first landing, they heard their father say, “Have you two, have you already met?”
“Wait—shh,” said Phoebe, stopping. She leaned over the banister to listen, so that Olivia had to stop, too.
“At Heathrow, when I was fetching Olivia,” said Emma, shrilly. “We spoke! Now, do come on through, Jesse. Tea, tea, tea.”
“What? Who is he?” whispered Phoebe. Her little hand was viselike on Olivia’s arm.
“What’s she doing, just inviting him in?” said Olivia.
“Miserable weather!” they heard Emma say, as their parents walked into the kitchen with the man. The door closed and the voices faded. Phoebe sat down on the top step. “Who is he?” she said again.
Andrew
THE SMOKING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:59 A.M.
• • •
Sitting by the fire, Andrew kept scanning Jesse’s face for the girl he remembered, dimly, from Beirut. He couldn’t really see her, though, and he certainly couldn’t see himself—besides the man’s height. He could just see a startlingly handsome, young American, separate from them both. Jesse was sitting on the sofa, Andrew on the armchair. On the table between them were two mugs of very sweet tea, which Emma had made as if they were in EastEnders. He could hear her now, clattering around in the kitchen where they’d left her. The absurdity of Jesse meeting his wife at Heathrow hit Andrew afresh. Never mind EastEnders—this was pure telenovela.
Emma bustled in and out again, with hushed apologies for interrupting and two wedges of Christmas cake. Her offerings sat untouched beside the envelope, which Jesse explained he had been planning to leave for Andrew. His letter said more or less the same as his e-mails, but struck a defeated note. It read more like a good-bye than a greeting, with its sad little summary of hobbies, marital status, and sexual preference. Andrew tried to put this last fact aside to deal with later. Not that it had to be “dealt with.” Andrew had lots of gay friends, and not just through work. He was an open-minded metropolitan, a writer—oh, shut up, Birch, he told himself. Just shut up.
Jesse leaned forward and took a polite sip of tea.
“Sorry about that,” said Andrew, gesturing at his mug. “It’s a British response to shock—dreadful tea. Brandy might be more to the point.”
Jesse laughed. He was wonderful-looking, Andrew kept thinking, rather stunned that he could have produced such a perfect specimen. The picture he’d found online hadn’t done his son justice. Even his eyebro
ws were extraordinary—as if someone had stenciled them onto his face. And he had those very white American teeth like piano keys. Jesse’s adoptive parents must have seen to that.
“I’m a shock?” he said.
“Well. It’s not every day a long-lost son comes out of the woodwork, so to speak.”
Why was he taking up this odd, jovial tone? he wondered.
“So you didn’t get my e-mails last week?” Jesse asked, after a second, looking at the letter.
“Ah, I did, I did. I’m sorry. I should have replied sooner. I was going to. I had every intention of doing so. But we’re in rather an, um, unusual situation here. Did you read my column this morning?” He was gabbling. He tried to breathe from the diaphragm.
“Your column?” Jesse looked confused. “Uh, I tried to, but I couldn’t get online since last night. Did you write about my e-mails?”
“Your e-mails? God, no. No, my column was about us Birches being in what’s called voluntary quarantine. My daughter Olivia has been working in Liberia, you see, treating Haag victims, and we’re supposed to avoid contact with anyone for a week—or the next three days now.”
“Oh shi—shoot, I totally forgot,” said Jesse.
Andrew was thrown. “Forgot?”
“Emma told me when we met at the airport. Is it, like, OK that I’m here?” said Jesse, glancing at the door.
“Oh yes. Absolutely. It’s really a formality. The NGOs are just being doubly careful. No need to panic.” Now that Jesse was here, he could hardly send the boy back out into the rain. And he wanted him to stay, he realized. Still, what a mess. And quite a shock to find he’d fathered someone who inserted “like” between every word.
“So you didn’t reply because you didn’t want to infect me with Haag?” said Jesse.
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