“I get it. He didn’t want to rock the boat. Not until we were done with quarantine.”
She got out of bed, and as she did so felt another lurch of queasiness. Her stomach plummeted, as saliva pooled in her mouth. She’d confront Phoebe about her lie later.
“Are you OK?” said Phoebe, nervously.
“Fine. Just—it’s weird, I feel really hungover. I didn’t know I’d even drunk that much.”
Forming words felt like an enormous effort. She tamped down the nausea rising in her throat.
“Oh my god, I know what you mean. I’m such a lightweight. I can have literally one glass and feel like shit the next day. It’s probably ’cause you’re so skinny now.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” said Olivia, pulling on her dressing gown. Her hands felt clammy as she tried to knot it.
“Porridge always sorts me out,” said Phoebe, following her out of the room. It reminded Olivia of how she used to tag along everywhere when they were little.
As they walked downstairs, the smell of bacon drifted up from the kitchen, and Olivia knew, abruptly, that she had no choice but to be sick. She mumbled something to Phoebe about getting her iPad and sprinted to the bathroom. Three foul heaves hijacked her body. She knelt by the loo, trying to slow her ragged breathing, eyes clamped shut so she wouldn’t have to see the contents of her stomach in the bowl. After a moment she stood up and looked in the mirror, gripping the sink to stop her arms from shaking. Her face was a greenish yellow, and her eyes were shot with blood from choking up her empty insides. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she thought.
Emma
THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 10:12 A.M.
• • •
Cooking, and Jenni Murray’s voice on the radio, felt like anchors to normality. Emma had made one pan of mushrooms and tomatoes for Jesse, and another of bacon and eggs for everyone else. With breakfast sizzling, she started to prepare lunch, a vegan curry she’d found on Google. Andrew had slept in the smoking room last night. Emma had found him already up and dressed with Jesse when she’d come down earlier. The two of them had gone to look at the gun room, at Andrew’s suggestion, so Emma had begun to cook for everyone on her own. At least Andrew was making an effort, after whining last night—idiotically—that he and Jesse had nothing in common. She realized that a small, rather mean, part of her wanted it to be hard work for Andrew. He never did anything he didn’t want to.
Phoebe appeared, enveloped in one of George’s jumpers. Emma hadn’t seen her since lunch yesterday. She hoped she’d come round to Jesse soon. It was embarrassing, her daughter sulking like a teenager.
“What’s that?” said Phoebe, inspecting the casserole on the AGA.
“Aubergine curry. Not a speck of meat.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes.
“I thought you were rather keen on vegan food?”
“Me? No. Although ‘hashtag clean eating’ is a handy cover for anorexia,” said Phoebe, in the faux chirpy voice that made Andrew laugh. She had a lot on her plate, Emma reminded herself.
George came in, wearing a little wooly hat. He kept it on, even though the kitchen was steamy. She suspected it must be to hide his receding hairline, poor thing. How awful to lose one’s hair, she thought, and then remembered her looming chemotherapy.
“Morning, Mrs. B. Yo, Phoebles,” said George. “Thought I smelled bacon.”
Emma still hoped he might change his mind about having the wedding at Weyfield. Perhaps she could play the cancer card. Linda Marsham-Smith wouldn’t have much to answer to that.
“Where’s Daddy?” Phoebe asked Emma.
“In the gun room. Showing Jesse Papa’s shooting things.”
“Guns? Guess he is American,” she said, as if it was an embarrassing medical condition. George straddled the bench by the table, and Phoebe sat on one of his thighs. Cocoa, who was lying by George’s foot, stood up and stalked off.
“Thought he’d be too gay for firearms,” said George.
Phoebe tittered. It wasn’t like her—she had several sweet gay friends she referred to as her “walkers.” George took a banana from the fruit bowl and shoved most of it into his mouth in a single bite. Emma had to stop herself from saying: “I’m just cooking a lovely breakfast and you’re going to spoil your appetite.”
Instead, she said, “Anything wrong with being homosexual?” She kept her tone light, but realized she was holding a wooden spoon rather threateningly.
“Hey there,” said Jesse, coming in. His grin suggested he hadn’t overheard—thank goodness. But George looked unusually alarmed, like a trapped animal. There was a strained pause until Phoebe squawked: “Hey, is that the last banana? It is, you knob! I always have one with my porridge—you know that.”
“Sorr-eee,” said George, batting his eyelids and offering her the bit in his hand.
“Waitrose doesn’t deliver again till tonight,” she said.
“Oopsies.”
Phoebe said nothing, but managed to execute a hobbled flounce out of the room. George gave his hat a nervous tug, as Phoebe shouted back, “I’m going to have a shower. In the bungalow. Stairs hurt too much.”
Emma wondered if she ought to go after Phoebe, encourage her to eat breakfast, but decided against it. Yesterday, seeing how Phoebe had taken Jesse’s arrival, she’d realized she babied her youngest. Perhaps it was because Olivia had always refused to be coddled. And the result was that Phoebe threw a wobbly over a banana. Still, it wasn’t terribly chivalrous of George.
“Aren’t you going to check that she’s OK?” said Jesse. He was fabulously direct, thought Emma.
“Phoebs? She’s fine. Just needs to chill—read a bridal magazine or something.”
Emma looked at George, engrossed in the jigsaw she had started down one end of the table. He had the kind of face that wouldn’t age well, she feared. She remembered how the snub nose and fine jaw had looked boyish when he and Phoebe had met, but a heaviness was settling around the features now. His eyes were still very pretty, though she’d always found their wolfish pallor rather disconcerting.
“Can I help, Emma?” asked Jesse, but she batted his offer away.
“So, uh, how did you guys meet?” said Jesse to George, sitting on the bench, his back against the table. His legs trailed over the floor and he crossed one over the other, just like Andrew did, as if to tidy them away.
“I’m sorry?” said George, looking up as if he’d been alone.
“You and Phoebe.”
“At uni, in Edinburgh,” said George. “Car-lege, to you,” he added in a strange American accent that sounded more West Country.
“Did you know she was ‘the one’ right away?”
“She did,” said George.
“They were peas in a pod from the word go,” said Emma, feeling this was the right thing to say, with George being so terse. In fact, the start of the relationship had been fraught with uncertainty. Emma remembered thinking it wouldn’t last. But, somehow, she’d been proved wrong, and George had become a permanent fixture. She’d never fully discussed it with Andrew. The times she’d tried, he’d always said any disapproval would make Phoebe keener. She suspected that this was a veiled dig at her own parents and had taken the hint.
“Where did you take her for your first date?” said Jesse.
“What is this, twenty questions?” said George. “There was no ‘date.’ We hooked up at a dive called the Mock Turtle. Gangstas and Hoes night.” He smirked. Emma couldn’t think what Gangstas and Hoes might involve. Was it some kind of hoedown? Jesse seemed to know, so it must be American.
George stood up, tossed the banana skin into the bin, and pulled down his hat. Emma made a mental note to move the peel to the compost later.
“I’ll go and get Phoebs,” he said.
Neither Emma nor Jesse said anything, as his loafers slapped down the hall.
“Are you
happy she’s marrying him?” said Jesse, when the sound stopped.
Maybe Jesse was a bit too direct, thought Emma.
“Well, it’s not up to us. And he’s a good influence on her. He doesn’t put up with any of Phoebe’s nonsense.” This had long been her line on George. It was true, in a sense.
“Who doesn’t?” said Andrew, coming in.
“George. Isn’t that right?”
“One way of putting it,” said Andrew. He put an arm around her waist and sniffed the pan she was stirring. She froze slightly in his grasp.
“And that,” he said, “smells absolutely delicious. D’you realize, Jesse, in all the years I’ve been reviewing Michelin-starred chefs, Emma’s food is still the best I know?”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Jesse.
“Considering what a meanie you are about most places, I’m not sure I take that entirely as a compliment,” said Emma. Andrew’s body against hers felt at once alien and familar. What were they doing, carrying on as if everything was hunky-dory?
“Now that’s hardly fair,” said Andrew. “If a dreadful place opens, the public deserves to be warned. There are few greater letdowns than a bad dinner out.”
“You don’t hold back, that’s for sure,” said Jesse. “I was kind of intimidated to meet you, after reading your columns.”
“I do hope I didn’t disappoint?” said Andrew.
“You’re different, in person,” said Jesse, after a pause. “You seem, I don’t know, kind of frustrated, in your reviews.” The way he stressed the first syllable, “frus,” made the word sound more exasperated. It was odd to see a stranger get to the point so easily.
“Journalism is a frustrating business,” said Andrew, releasing Emma. “Everyone tinkering with your words. D’you know, in my last column they took the word ‘briny’ out of my phrase ‘flap of briny irrelevance’?” He looked at them both, eyes wide with disbelief. Then he added, not sounding at all like himself, “You’re right, though. It’s not worth fussing over. We have more important things to worry about. Speaking of which, how are we on the coffee front?” He took the spoon from Emma and pulled the bench out for her, before silencing them with blasts from the coffee grinder. She sat, pretending to read a wedding magazine. So this was how they were going to ride this storm. Least said, soonest mended.
Olivia
THE SHELL BATHROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 10:30 A.M.
• • •
Olivia shifted on the little stool she and Phoebe used to stand on to brush their teeth. She was pretty sure that she wasn’t going to be sick again. Slowly, she raised her head from between her knees and breathed. The bathroom smelled of Pears soap and the moldy patch on the wall. After a moment she felt steady enough to stand up. She found an old mercury thermometer in the cabinet over the sink, and checked her temperature. It was normal. Should she say something anyway? No. No point. It would only panic everyone—especially her mother, which was the last thing Emma needed on top of Jesse’s arrival. They’d demand she get checked out, and she’d have to tell them about her and Sean, and before she knew it an air ambulance would be landing on the croquet lawn, costing the NHS thousands, and she and Sean would be crucified by the press—and most likely it would all be for nothing. After all, she didn’t have any other symptoms (tiredness didn’t count—of course she was tired). It had to be the wine last night. Besides, being sick wasn’t even unusual for her. In any other circumstances she’d put it down to stress. The acid taste in her mouth took her back to being little, her mother stroking her back when she was ill. She remembered a miserable night when she had eaten a bad mussel, and they had sat in this bathroom together until dawn. She could hear her mother downstairs now, trilling above everyone else. She’d have to go and join them at some point, she thought, leaning her forehead on the window and trying to rally herself. Tears threatened, as she yearned for Sean’s big chest and orangutan arms wrapped tight around her. Surely home shouldn’t feel so lonely?
• • •
By the time she made it downstairs, only Emma and Jesse were in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. She paused in the doorway for a second, as she realized what they were talking about.
“They’ve proven that cancer cells feed on sugar,” said Jesse. “They did this study where they had one group of cancer patients eat their regular diet and another group go sugar free, and their tumors practically vanished.”
“Golly,” said Emma. “Oh dear. Me and my sweet tooth.”
“Hey—no—don’t blame yourself. Sugar is disguised. It’s everywhere—ketchup, bagels, even fruit. People assume fat is the bad guy, but it’s sugar we need to cut back.”
“Well, I don’t eat a vast amount of ketchup, at least!” said Emma, with a forced laugh.
“You should look up this TED Talk. I’ll e-mail you the link,” said Jesse.
“Oh yes, fab!” said Emma. Olivia could bet she had no idea what a TED Talk was.
“There are actually a ton of natural remedies for cancer, but nobody knows about them because it’s not in the pharmaceutical companies’ interests. There’s like a whole underground movement for fighting cancer without chemo.”
“Really? Is that wise?” said Emma.
“It’s extreme, sure. But it has to be up to the individual. Nobody should feel obligated to accept an aggressive treatment—right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Even just alkalizing your diet a little can be helpful.”
Olivia backed out of the kitchen before they’d seen her. She stood by the door, wondering what to do as they prattled on and on about superfoods and juice fasts—Emma cooing as they googled “eat to beat cancer.” Usually, Olivia would have walked in and confronted Jesse—asked him to back up his vacuous theories with proof, shown him some WHO survival rates. But he was her dad’s son, her new brother, it would be massively awkward. And right now, she felt too drained for an argument. Still, maybe Phoebe had a point about him after all.
Phoebe
THE DRAWING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 11:00 A.M.
• • •
One more day of this hell, thought Phoebe, lying on the sofa. One more day, then she and George could flee to London. She’d skipped breakfast to make a point and was hungry now, but she could hear her mother and Jesse still in the kitchen. It wasn’t fair that she was forced into hiding in her own house. At least she’d lose weight, avoiding so many meals. She leaned forward to prod her puffy foot, half enjoying the pain that roared back, and peeled away her sock to examine the bruise. The skin was a storm of green and lilac, slightly pearlescent, like cheap eyeshadow. She lay back, letting Cocoa lounge on top of her, and stared at the Christmas tree. Everything seemed so different, so grown up. She’d given George the backstory to Jesse last night, and it hadn’t gone well. She knew he was judging. When she tried to explain why Jesse riled her, George just said she couldn’t deal with a gay brother. That wasn’t the problem—Jesse was. His happy-clappy California-ness was the problem. The eager vegan, she thought, knowing this would make her father laugh, in different circumstances. Even Jesse’s J. Crew catalog face was annoying. Olivia didn’t understand stuff like that, but at least she was prepared to talk about him—unlike George. Come to think of it, her sister still hadn’t made it downstairs. Phoebe considered going to check if she was OK. But her foot hurt too much. Olivia was probably reading the news somewhere.
She watched a couple of YouTube first dances to take her mind off everything. The couples were all cheesily American, like Jesse. Then she leafed through the copy of Brides. It always fell open at the same page, headed “How to Make Your Wedding More YOU.” She’d decided on her Winter Wonderland theme, but she couldn’t seem to get beyond that. Whenever she pictured the wedding, she always imagined walking up the aisle with Andrew, or everyone crowding round her—alone—at the reception. George never figured in her mental images. She’d thought being quaran
tined together would be a chance to brainstorm ideas. But every time she mentioned the wedding he said, “Bit early, isn’t it?” He’d been tetchy since yesterday, after being so soppy at Christmas.
She wondered idly if Olivia and Sean would get married, remembering how besotted Olivia had sounded yesterday. She’d never seen her sister like that. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been like that herself, about George. Reaching for her laptop, she googled “Shaun Cofflan” before she could dwell on this thought. It replied reproachfully: “Did you mean Sean Coughlan?” There was a picture of Sean, surrounded by laughing black children, wearing Saintly-Person-in-Hot-Country clothes: combat shorts and Velcro sandals. He had a big nose, but nice eyes and a good body.
Olivia came in, and Phoebe minimized the search. Her sister looked tense, even for her. “Can we go somewhere private?” she said. “Attic? I need to see a different four walls.”
“Sure. If you help me with the stairs.”
Phoebe was surprised that Olivia was coming to talk to her, for once. And pleased, she realized, as they climbed the final flight arm in arm.
They went into the room where they’d found the time capsule and sat on some lumpy eiderdown quilts—the ones that would cost fifty pounds each in Portobello.
“I’m worried Jesse’s giving Mum quack advice,” said Olivia. She was panting more than Phoebe. All those evening runs with George must have paid off.
“Quack?”
“Misinformed.”
“About what?”
“Her diagnosis!”
“Oh,” said Phoebe. The last thing she wanted to discuss now was cancer. Mostly she managed to push any tumor thoughts down, like a horrible jack-in-the-box. She wished she’d never told Olivia. She kept thinking of how Nicola’s e-mails had referred to a “growth.” Just the word made her feel sick.
“I mean, I overheard him in the kitchen saying she could ‘beat’ cancer with superfoods. Even talking about refusing chemo. And he has no medical training. It makes me so angry.”
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