Jesse stopped. He wanted to be honest, but he was making Andrew and his family sound bad. Dana’s judgments were swift and lasting. If he confessed to feeling as out of place as excited at Weyfield, she would never warm to the Birches. Especially if he told Dana that one of his birth sisters appeared to hate him. Phoebe had barely looked at him during lunch, and he hadn’t seen her or George all afternoon. At supper, the two of them had eaten separately in the summer house they called the bungalow. It made Jesse feel pretty shitty. He had eaten with the other three in the big, cozy kitchen—Andrew quizzing him about Donald Trump, as if to avoid discussing anything personal. Olivia didn’t say much, even when Jesse tried to engage with her, although he got the feeling that was normal. It was kind of strange in a doctor, though. Weren’t they meant to be able to communicate? Even stranger was the way nobody mentioned Emma’s cancer. His own family would be the opposite. When his mom had a minor operation last year, everyone had pulled together, fussing over her, restocking the refrigerator, doing extra chores so she could rest up. But perhaps silence was the British coping mechanism.
On top of everything, there was the George situation. Jesse still hadn’t told Dana what had happened on Christmas Eve, just that he’d befriended some British guys. He felt even more uncomfortable about it now. He definitely wasn’t about to start explaining all that shit today. All Dana needed to know was “so far, so good.”
The door opened and Jesse jumped, pulling the blankets over his crotch. It was George. He came in, turned the rusty key in the lock, and stood with his back against the door.
“Hey,” began Jesse. “About before—”
“Listen, mate,” said George. His eyes looked a little crazy. Jesse wondered if he was drunk again. “The other night, it didn’t happen, OK?” he said, lowering his voice. “I was shitfaced. I don’t know what I was—that wasn’t me, OK?”
“Sure, sure. I get it. I was your experiment.”
“You weren’t anything! Nothing happened, mate. I never met you.”
“Fine. So I’ve never seen you in my life.”
“Right.”
“OK. Wait, how come you were out? I thought the quarantine started on the twenty-third?”
“I wasn’t here then. I came over on Christmas Day to surprise Phoebs.”
Guilty conscience, thought Jesse. “And you’re sure you want to go through with this?” he said.
“Through with what?” said George.
Jesus, the guy was obtuse. “With getting married.”
“What the fuck? Of course I do! Like I said, that wasn’t me that night. Haven’t you ever done anything stupid when you were pissed?”
“Pissed” meant drunk here, Jesse reminded himself.
“Sure, but I never stopped being gay.”
George took a deep, angry breath through his nose, his little nostrils quivering. Jesse wondered how he had thought he was cute. He looked like a flushed, balding pug.
“If you say anything about any of this,” said George, tendons flexing in his outsize neck, “I will personally fucking kill you. OK?”
“Dude, calm down. I’m not about to say anything. That’s your call. I just think you have some pretty deep thinking to do. You’re getting married—” Down the passage, a door closed. He lowered his voice. “You’re marrying Phoebe and that is a huge commitment. You don’t want to be having doubts as she walks down the aisle. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I don’t have doubts! Listen, I don’t know what you’re playing at just rocking up here, but Phoebs is devastated.”
“Hey, you told me to come here, remember?”
“I’m sorry? Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Forget it. What do you mean, Phoebe’s devastated?”
“What d’you think? You’ve destroyed her entire image of her daddy. She worships the ground he walks on, and now you show him up as the prick he really is. She just told me the whole story.”
“Hey, that’s my father you’re talking about.”
George made a snorting noise. “Ha! Your father for all of five minutes. Why couldn’t you have written to him first, like a normal adopted person, and met in private, for fuck’s sake?”
Somewhere, a flush set off a symphony of gurgling pipes.
“Anyway,” said George, in a tight whisper. “Just don’t say anything, OK?”
“Believe me, I won’t.”
“Good.”
He left, and Jesse lay looking at the scalloped valance. He felt bad for Phoebe, marrying such a dick. He wondered if the other Birches liked George. The things he’d said about Phoebe made Jesse feel terrible. He hadn’t planned any of this, the front door had opened, literally, and somehow it had all just happened. Besides, if Andrew had replied to his e-mails, he would have met up with him in private. An alert flashed up on his iPad—Jesse still hadn’t read Andrew’s latest column. The review was of a pub called the Perch, but mostly it was about being in quarantine. The “family first” headline was misleading. If anything, Andrew sounded kind of scathing about families. It was interesting to read his birth father’s writing again, having finally met the man. He had the same arch tone in person, but Jesse felt there was something warmer underneath. It was just buried.
Andrew
FIRST-FLOOR CORRIDOR, WEYFIELD HALL, 11:48 P.M.
• • •
Walking out of the Green Bathroom, Andrew was surprised to find George in the passage. He’d been under the impression that the lovebirds had defected from the main house altogether. George was kicking a spider by the skirting board, but looked up and said, “Just getting Phoebs an extra blanket. Bungalow’s a bit cold,” before marching into the Gray Room. Andrew wondered what George, with his painfully conventional worldview, must make of Jesse’s arrival. He hoped Phoebe wasn’t too mortified, but he feared she would be. For all her bravado, his younger daughter could be rather conservative—hence her choice of husband. Andrew walked down to the smoking room. His next column wasn’t due for days, but he’d told Emma he had an early deadline to avoid coming to bed. The thought of lying beside her, neither of them speaking, was grim. Easier to go up once she was snoring. Or perhaps he’d just camp in the smoking room. He knew he’d never sleep anyway.
Andrew poured himself a large glass of port, aware that he’d already drunk more than enough, and sat at the desk in near darkness. He took a long, sickly swig, as he tried to recall a meal at a new Middle Eastern place in St. John’s Wood. He remembered Phoebe turning heads in a short dress, and how proud he’d felt of her, and the owner making her balk by assuming she was his trophy wife. He remembered talking to her about how the media wasn’t what it once was, and that she’d do well to extricate herself. And he remembered her saying that she just wanted to do something fun and funny for work, like Andrew did, and that life was too short to do a serious job. But he couldn’t remember a single thing about the food. Had it been small plates (Phoebe’s favorite) or Emma’s beloved sharing platters? Or his personal bugbear, “street food.” His meal blanks struck more and more often, these days. He began to write anyway—he could ask Phoebe what they’d eaten tomorrow. If she’d answer him.
HOURANI & CO., Wellbeck Street
Food: ?? • Atmosphere: ??
Beirut, 1980. The sun bathes the carcass of a primary school in silvery dawn light. The droning adhan, blasted through loudspeakers, heralds a new day. A man balances a beaten copper tray of cakes on his head, cubes of filo and pistachio drenched in perfumed honey, as he picks his way through the rubble
Andrew deleted the lot. He wasn’t in lyrical mode. He began again, this time typing:
Readers of this column will know me as a food critic—the main occupational hazard of my job being heartburn. But between 1977 and 1987, I worked in Beirut as a war correspondent. For all its tortured history, Lebanon remains one of the most
He deleted that, too.
He was too drunk to write anything factual. He tried another tack:
You say taboul-eh, I say taboul-ah,
He preferred this, except he couldn’t think where to take it from there. There weren’t really two distinct pronunciations of “tabouleh,” anyway. Andrew had always been scornful of writer’s block—if one was a writer, one wrote. But now he was at a loss. Many columnists he knew would use Jesse’s arrival as copy. It would certainly make a neat preamble to a Middle Eastern restaurant. But something was stopping him. The idea that he was the man’s father still made no sense. He hadn’t expected to feel so detached, as unlike Jesse, as he did. The boy seemed so cheerful, so grateful, brimming with “positive energy”—so unlike Andrew. He was a vegan, for Christ’s sake. He was the kind of person that Andrew and Phoebe sniggered at, who probably practiced mindfulness. It couldn’t just be his American upbringing. They were made of entirely different stuff. If anything, Jesse was more like Emma.
Andrew had tried to expand on this observation to Emma earlier, up in their bedroom, but it had sounded pompous. Emma had said sharply: “Andrew, I don’t quite understand. He’s a sweet young man with good manners. I’d have thought you’d be relieved?” When Andrew had protested that he had nothing against Jesse, he just couldn’t believe that the man was his flesh and blood, she had gone back to crisis management, repeating that they owed it to Jesse to welcome him, adding: “It’s the least you can do after all this time. You’re his father.” It was like being punished with politeness. She probably thought Andrew minded Jesse being gay—which, of course, he didn’t. Or, if it did make him feel just slightly off-kilter, it was only because it wedged another difference between them. What did trouble Andrew was Phoebe’s response to Jesse—saying nothing at lunch and then hiding in the bungalow. But when he’d broached this with Emma, she’d got into bed and said: “Andrew, you know Phoebe. She’s had a fright. It’s up to you to lead by example. You’re the adult. Right, I must get some sleep.” He’d taken this as his cue to leave.
He drained the last of the port—it tasted of tomorrow’s headache. How had they reached a point where his wife could be diagnosed with cancer and not tell him?
• 7 •
December 28, 2016
Quarantine: Day Six
Olivia
THE WILLOW ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:18 A.M.
• • •
FROM: Olivia Birch
TO: Sean Coughlan
DATE: Thurs, Dec 28, 2016 at 9:18 a.m.
SUBJECT: PHEW!!
Just heard the news—you’re officially Haag negative! Jubulani!! How are you feeling? Hope they get you out of isolation ASAP so you can read my e-mail ramblings and write back. Missing you so much. I miss your voice. I miss you saying everything’s “grand,” even when it’s about as un-grand as humanly possible. I’m still fine, by the way, don’t worry.
More drama here in sleepy Norfolk: this American dude came to the house out of nowhere yesterday, claiming to be my dad’s son . . . As in, I have a half brother I never knew about . . . In fact, nobody knew about, not even my dad until recently. Basically, he got some woman pregnant when he was working in the Middle East in the eighties and she had the baby adopted, without telling my dad anything. Probably for the best, since my parents had just got together at the time (don’t judge). Anyway the child—now adult male called Jesse—traced my father and e-mailed him but got no reply (typical of my dad). He probably hoped if he did nothing this illegitimate son would disappear. But instead Jesse goes and finds our address and walks in . . . Which sounds a bit psycho on paper, but I get it. He’d come all the way from California, so he must have been desperate. And then, once he was in the house, the only option was to finish the quarantine with us. Even more improbable, my mother somehow met Jesse and spoke to him at Heathrow on the 23rd—seriously, what are the chances? He landed in London the same day we did, and they were both waiting in arrivals (having said that, she talks to practically everyone). She’s being pretty tolerant of my father’s “indiscretion” (her words). I feel bad for her though, as she must be a nervous wreck as it is. She finally told me about her diagnosis yesterday. But since she’s carrying on being the perfect hostess it’s hard to know how to help. I’d like to be some support, but I find myself defaulting to work mode, like she’s a patient, and I don’t think she wants that.
The weird thing with Jesse is knowing he’s my brother, that we share all this DNA, but seeing a complete stranger. I can’t even view him like a distant cousin—it’s like there’s no connection at all. He seems perfectly nice, though. He asked me some proper questions about Liberia, unlike everyone else here. He must be mid-thirties, and all I know otherwise is that he’s gay, brought up in the Midwest, but now works in L.A.—in film or TV or something. My sister has really taken against him—partly because she’s fundamentally irrational, but also because she’s such a Daddy’s girl and now she has to accept that our father’s not this demi-god . . . Think it’s easier for me because I’ve never hero-worshipped him like she does. Until now I’d sort of forgotten that he used to work in a war zone. Not that I can talk. What we did was pretty silly . . . I’ll never regret it though.
Anyway, hope all this adds some interest to your convalescence. Probably seems like nothing to you, with your tribe of fifty-seven siblings (all of them 100 percent legitimate, of course). Next installment, coming soon.
Love you and miss you too much,
O x
Olivia pressed send. Writing her one-way e-mails to Sean came naturally now, but the thought that she might get something back this time was making her smile inanely, alone in bed. She nearly added a PS explaining that Phoebe had guessed their secret, but decided against it. Sean could be indiscreet—if he knew she’d told her sister, he might start telling people before it was safe. The news had taken her mind off the sick feeling she’d woken up with again. It wasn’t like she was actually about to vomit or anything. It was more like a clawing inside, as if her stomach was slowly turning inside out. She pushed away the thought that nausea was the major first Haag symptom. Besides, she’d felt fine yesterday, once she’d had breakfast. Most likely it was just another hangover—her father had been topping everyone up compulsively last night.
There was a knock on her door. It was her sister. She never usually came into Olivia’s room.
“Hey. What’cha doing?” said Phoebe.
“Writing an e-mail.”
“To Sean?”
“Yes. Nosy.”
“Is he OK?”
“Yeah, he tested negative—it’s all over the news!” Olivia was too relieved to berate her for knowing nothing. Or to grill her on how she’d “found out” about Emma’s diagnosis.
“Oh! Cool! So he’s better?”
“Not better better. But he’s not high risk anymore. They’ll be able to move him out of isolation.”
“Amazing. Yay,” said Phoebe, wanly. She sat on the edge of the bed, and sighed.
“What?”
“I don’t know. I just, I don’t like him. Jesse.”
“You don’t like him, or you don’t like the fact that he exists? What Andrew did?”
“Him, everything about him! And that. Both, I guess. It’s scary to have everything you believed in, just, shattered.” She flopped on her back, her hands behind her head, at Olivia’s feet. “To find out we were all living a lie.”
“We weren’t ‘living a lie.’ There were just things we didn’t know. That’s how it is in families.”
“Is it? Anyway, whatever, Daddy isn’t who we thought he was. Can’t believe he would do that to Mummy.”
“He made a mistake when he was young. I know it’s hard to think of him like that. But nobody’s perfect.”
“I’d never do that. I wouldn’t marry someone and not tell them I’d cheated.”
“But he
probably knew it would just upset her. If something meant nothing, why make someone miserable by bringing it up years later? It’s not like he knew the woman got pregnant. And it sounds like he and Mum had only just met.”
“Doesn’t it make you wonder what else he’s done?”
“Not specially. He’s worked from home since you were born. When would he have had these torrid affairs?”
Phoebe examined a split end, not looking at her.
“Anyway, you can’t expect to understand other people’s relationships,” Olivia added. That was the thing with Phoebe. She thought she had a right to know everything about everyone.
“Liv! They’re not ‘other people’—they’re our parents!”
“Still. Everyone’s entitled to privacy. Just like Mum didn’t want to talk about her diagnosis until she was ready. She told me yesterday, by the way.”
She looked straight at Phoebe, wondering if she’d admit to lying about the way she’d found out. But Phoebe was on a roll.
“That’s different,” she said indignantly. “It’s got nothing to do with it. Anyway, she was always going to say, just not before she had to. She didn’t want to upset everyone before Christmas.”
“Isn’t that exactly what Andrew did? Why would he mention it until he had to, if it would only upset everyone?”
“So we could have all been prepared! I just think Mummy’s right, Daddy should have replied to Jesse’s e-mails. Then it wouldn’t have been such a shock. For us.”
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