Seven Days of Us

by Francesca Hornak

  “Seriously, Wiv, it’s no trouble. I like to know where all my bits and pieces are. You go and sit down.” The last thing Emma wanted was to cede control of the house now that her diagnosis was out. Sometimes it felt like the kitchen, her realm, was all she still had to herself. At least Andrew had slunk off after the unpleasantness at lunch.

  Olivia put a spatula into the pot of wooden spoons by the AGA, and Emma moved it to the drawer where she kept spatulas.

  Olivia sighed, as if Emma was a contrary child. “OK,” she said. “Shout if you need any help.”

  “I’m fine, Wiv,” said Emma. People never understood how domesticity could be soothing. She couldn’t have abided her grandmother’s Weyfield with servants doing everything for her.

  She carried on clearing up, mulling over George’s horrid note, and the quarrel, just now, with Jesse. Poor Phoebe had been inconsolable afterward. Emma had seen a new side to Andrew’s handsome son—at best idiotically insensitive, at worst, a stirrer. She’d always had reservations about George, but he’d never struck her as in the closet. What Emma couldn’t get over was how the note had come with no warning. Just this morning George had seemed his usual (admittedly slightly obnoxious) self. She thought of the squabble over the banana. It was rather frightening that someone could carry on as normal, cool as a cucumber, when they were planning such a thing. Sociopathic, almost. Surely that was the problem, not his being gay.

  With the dishwasher purring, Emma went upstairs to call Nicola. She’d had a long chat with her only last night about Jesse’s arrival, swearing her to secrecy for the time being. Nicola’s view on Jesse (typically) had been that Emma must “talk her emotions through” with Andrew. All very well in theory, but easy as talking to a donkey in practice. Nicola had also kept asking if Andrew had been “behaving at all unusually,” as if Emma should have seen all this coming. Rather tiresome, but then Nicola was tiresome—in the sweetest possible way. It was only because she cared. Emma dialed her number, barely waiting for Nicola’s too-loud “Hullo?”

  “Nic, it’s Emma. The wedding’s off. George has left Phoebe.”

  “What? He’s left? No! Oh poor little Phoebs! What happened? It never stops at Weyfield, does it?”

  Emma explained about the note, and the cross words at lunch.

  “Well, George might be gay, I suppose,” said Nicola. “And Jesse might be more able to pick up on it than Phoebe—or you lot.”

  “D’you think? He’s not the least bit effeminate. Though gays can be very macho, too, can’t they?”

  “Isn’t he rather homophobic?” said Nicola. “There might well be an element of denial.”

  “But why would he propose, if he wasn’t sure?”

  “Well, presumably he doesn’t want to be gay—if he is. That’s the problem. Otherwise he wouldn’t have spent all this time with Phoebe. Do you know if their sex life was fulfilling? Did Phoebe ever talk about it?”

  “No!” This line of questioning was annoying Emma. Why did she always call Nicola for sympathy, only to come away feeling cross?

  Andrew walked in and she used him as an excuse to hang up. He was holding a cup of tea and mince pie—for her, she guessed, since he never ate between meals. He was still groveling, then.

  “Where’s Phoebe?” she asked, as he set the cup down on the dressing table. She fought her mother’s voice, telling him it would make a ring on the wood. He’d never understood about good furniture.

  “Earl Grey, madam?” he said.

  “Thank you. Where’s Phoebe? Is she all right?”

  “She’s on the sofa looking sorry for herself, eating Nutella out of the jar.”

  “OK. That’s good. She’s eating.”

  “Now you must stop worrying about Phoebe and look after yourself,” said Andrew.

  “And where’s Jesse?” she asked, ignoring him. How could she not worry about Phoebe? “You didn’t leave the two of them together, did you?”

  “No sign of Jesse. Keeping a safe distance, I’d have thought,” said Andrew.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew, but I just can’t believe he would suggest such a thing—to Phoebe’s face. George isn’t gay!”

  “It was unfortunate she overheard, I know. You look very regal, sitting there,” he said.

  “Unfortunate? It couldn’t have been worse. She’s distraught, thanks to him.”

  “Now hang on—it’s George who’s to blame here, not Jesse. Phoebe was hysterical long before he said anything. Anyway, isn’t this whole business a good thing, ultimately?”

  “Good?”

  “Come on, Emma. Neither of us were wild about George. We only tolerated him because if we’d said anything, it’d just have made Phoebe keener.”

  “Well. I know he was a little bit—” She paused, not sure how to say what she meant without sounding snobbish. It was too soon to be having this conversation anyway. George had barely left. They might well get back together.

  “A little bit of a cunt?” said Andrew.

  “Andrew! You know I hate that word. And no, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, I sometimes worried that he didn’t listen to Phoebe,” she said. She didn’t add, “And his parents were a bit Brexit,” but she wanted to.

  “Same difference. Jesse said they struck him as not having quite gelled, as if they were ‘playing’ at being a couple. I thought that was rather incisive.”

  “Oh,” she said, not wanting to agree, although he was right—Jesse was spot-on. Andrew rarely praised anyone else’s opinion on anything.

  “They did seem a little mismatched, sometimes,” she conceded.

  “Emma, they aren’t, weren’t, remotely suited. He’s a rugby-playing Hooray Henry. That’s not Phoebe, cheering on the sidelines with the other little wives. Far better that they get this over with now, than go through a miserable divorce in five years’ time.”

  “Well. But still, this gay business. That’s just absurd. And so insensitive!”

  Andrew scratched his nose vigorously. “Didn’t you even wonder if Jesse’s right?” he said, turning to face her. “Speaking of rugger buggers?”

  “No! Of course he isn’t. We’d know if he was gay. Why would he be with Phoebe?”

  “You’re forgetting what kind of people the Marsham-Smiths are. This isn’t Primrose Hill. Or Los Angeles for that matter. His parents would be furious.”

  “But he’s nearly thirty! Surely he can be gay if he wants. Honestly! They’ve got all those other sons.”

  “Apparently it’s rather common for third sons to be homosexual. No other way to distinguish themselves.”

  She decided not to dignify this fatuous theory with a response. It was all a bit near the knuckle anyway. She suspected Andrew was rather shocked that his own son was gay, despite himself.

  “Jesse and I were talking about it earlier,” Andrew continued. “He had a dreadful time, coming out as a teenager in the Midwest. Must have taken great courage.”

  Emma clenched her toes. Don’t say anything, she ordered herself. But it was hard to hear Andrew quoting Jesse when he struggled to mention Olivia. Besides, where had this enthusiasm for his new child sprung from? Yesterday she’d been pushing Andrew to give Jesse a warm welcome.

  “Well, I’m sorry about that, and I know he’s your son, but once this quarantine is over, I think it’s best he leaves,” she said. “Phoebe needs some breathing space—we all do.”

  She stood up, taking the cup with her, to show the conversation was over. Andrew might be carrying on as if everything was normal between them, but she needed more time.

  Olivia

  THE BACK SITTING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:33 P.M.

  • • •

  The queasy feeling had faded to a background hum, as if Olivia had just stepped off a boat. Anxiety—that’s all it was. She had nearly e-mailed Sean after being sick, but it would only freak him ou
t. It hadn’t happened since. And she still had no fever. She’d been tempted to e-mail him after lunch, too. She knew Sean would get why she was so annoyed by Jesse’s ridiculous theories. But she should probably try to play it a bit cool—at least wait for Sean to reply once before writing again. She had no idea if he’d even received her messages, though he ought to have his phone now that he was out of isolation. Her whole body felt edgy with missing him.

  Phoebe was still hiding, and dinner with Jesse and her parents had been strained. At least Jesse had had the grace to keep quiet. His comments on George, based on no evidence, still infuriated her. It reminded her of his anti-chemo advice, and how Phoebe had asked her to speak to Andrew about it earlier. She felt bad for her. Phoebe had looked terrified when Jesse had implied George was gay. Olivia wanted to get back at him. How dare he kick her little sister when she was down?

  • • •

  “Yes?” said Andrew, when Olivia knocked on the smoking room door, and then: “Olivia! To what do I owe this pleasure?” She wished he didn’t always speak to her in that fake, formal way. He didn’t do it with Phoebe. A pillow and blanket were pushed to one end of the sofa. He must have slept down here last night. Perhaps things between her parents weren’t as amicable as they appeared.

  “Um, I wanted to talk to you about Jesse. About some ideas he has.” Why did she sound so timid? She needed to be the grown-up she was at work, to imagine her father was a colleague.

  “Ah. His gay-dar, you mean?”

  She was still hovering by the door, while he craned round from the desk.

  “Not that. Though perhaps it’s part of the same thing.”

  “Come in then, child.”

  She sat on the old linen sofa, avoiding the gray head-shaped patch on the back. Its springs gave under her weight, folding her knees up to her chin. The room, with its teak paneling and heavy rugs, still smelled of cigars and chestnuts—so that even the air felt dark brown.

  “He was spouting all this pseudo-science at Mum this morning—about her diagnosis.”

  “Was he?”

  “Total rubbish, about how you don’t need chemo. That you can ‘beat’ cancer with an ‘alkalizing diet,’ whatever that means. All this alternative holistic stuff.”

  “But Emma doesn’t buy into that, surely?” he said.

  “She seemed to be. They were googling juice fasts and everything.”

  “I expect she was just humoring him, being her usual charming self. And a few kale smoothies can’t do any harm, can they?”

  “If they stop her accepting chemo they can. Cancer patients can be very suggestible. They’re desperate.”

  Andrew said nothing, but walked over to the sofa. A cloud of dust motes mushroomed up as he sat down.

  “I’m sure he means well, you know,” he said. “He’ll only be trying to help.” Close up, he looked drawn and unshaven. He’d dropped the formal tone now.

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t stop it being irresponsible. He doesn’t have a clue about medicine. The stuff he’s advising, the World Health Organization has officially discredited it. There are no significant studies on alternative cancer treatments; it’s just a load of charlatan nutritionists with no idea what they’re talking about.” She stopped—it wouldn’t help to rant.

  “Olivia, you don’t need to convince me. I’m a rationalist, too. We journos like facts, proof—just like you scientists.”

  “But Mum doesn’t think like that. If it’s in a magazine, it’s true.”

  She realized too late that she had just undermined his vision of journalism.

  “Will you talk to her about it?” she added. “She’ll listen to you.”

  “I can try—but, your mother and I . . .” He hesitated and seemed to change tack. “I mean, after all that business with Phoebe earlier, she’s very down on Jesse. I don’t think you need worry about her hanging on his every word.”

  “Oh. OK, that’s good, I suppose.”

  “Well. Perhaps, in this instance. But it’s a pity things appear to have turned sour so quickly.”

  He said this to the fireplace, instead of to her.

  “It was always going to be complicated,” she said tentatively. Her father looked very tired. She felt a bit sorry for him.

  “You’re a mistress of understatement,” he said, using the artificial voice again, but looking up at her and smiling. His face bore shadows of Jesse’s, when he smiled. She caught a glimpse of the young man he must have been.

  “I hope this quarantine hasn’t been too arduous for you,” he said after a moment. “I know you’re not a fan of the Weyfield Christmas. I used to feel the same. Usually engineered to be working by the twenty-seventh. Something else we journalists and medics have in common—always on call.”

  “Well, it’s definitely been eventful. And now Phoebe and George. He really shouldn’t just be out there when I’m not clear yet.”

  “Don’t fret about that. I’m sure it’ll be fine. As far as I’m concerned, he can give his dreadful family Haag.”

  She found herself smiling, despite herself. His certainty was comforting.

  “And you?” he said abruptly, looking straight at her. “Not easy coming home, is it?”

  “Did you, did you used to find it hard, too?” she asked.

  “Of course. Made all the harder by the fact that it ought to be a relief, to have running water, safe roads, decent food, all the rest of it. But it isn’t, necessarily. One gets used to the simple life, I found. And your mother, fussing over me, with the best will in the world. I see how she does that to you now.”

  “Mmm. It’s mostly Sean. Coughlan, I mean,” she said, although he’d perfectly summed up the strange discomfort of Western luxury.

  “Of course. It must be difficult, hearing his name on the news. I hope you don’t mind me drawing comparisons, but my cameraman was shot in Beirut, and seeing his name everywhere was—well, it twisted the knife.”

  “Was he OK?”

  “No. No, he died. I was with him at the time.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It wasn’t much fun.”

  “Was that why you stopped?”

  “Partly. It was more that your mother demanded it, when Phoebe was born. You didn’t used to recognize me when I came home, and she minded that.”

  “Really? Sorry. I never knew that.”

  “Don’t be—you were tiny. Why should you when I was always buggering off?”

  “Still. Was it hard to stop?”

  “Well. It’s not easy to give up something you feel strongly about. If the press hadn’t been in Lebanon, lots of people would have ignored the whole conflict. Emma didn’t really want to know the details. She was just terrified I’d be kidnapped, become the next Terry Waite.”

  “Has Jesse made you remember things?”

  “In a sense. Not that I’d ever forgotten. I was in and out of Beirut for ten years. But memory is very odd, or mine is anyway. You block out the worst moments, for the most part. Sometimes almost as they happen, just to get through it. And then you think of them out of the blue, years later.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. It was like he’d read her mind, or her PPE blog. He reached out and patted her hand, awkwardly. She remembered how small her palm used to feel in his when they crossed the road, after Phoebe was born and he came home.

  Emma

  THE ORCHARD, WEYFIELD HALL, 10:02 P.M.

  • • •

  Emma walked back from the bungalow, a torch lighting her through the mulchy orchard. Phoebe had refused to sleep in the main house. Emma knew it was because Jesse was there, though Phoebe hadn’t said so. Why else would she want to sleep alone in the poky bungalow? As it was, Jesse had hidden in the Rose Room all afternoon, only joining them for supper, when he’d barely eaten. He’d apologized for speaking out of turn—and Emma didn’t
doubt he was sorry. But still. Her spring of forgiveness was starting to run dry. It was agonizing to see her youngest so miserable. She wished Phoebe could still be comforted with hot chocolate and Harry Potter.

  Passing the remains of the bonfire, something made Emma pause. She remembered what a jolly time they’d all had there yesterday. That had been the last time they’d stood together as a family of four—the last time they ever would, in a sense. Just us, she thought. Blissfully ignorant. Or, rather, she and the girls had been blissfully ignorant. Who knew what Andrew had been thinking, with Jesse’s e-mails on his conscience. Nicola’s question from the other day came floating back. “Had Andrew been behaving unusually?” Because now that Emma thought about it, standing in this spot again, she had noticed Andrew seeming not quite himself by the bonfire. All that stuff about writing a book—a novel she couldn’t remember him ever mentioning before. And he’d kept patting his pockets, the way he did when he was looking for something, so that she’d almost asked him what he’d lost. But she’d been distracted by Phoebe limping up with her sore foot, and then by the fun of the fire, and then it had begun to rain, and then—well, then Jesse had appeared and she’d forgotten everything else. Thinking back, though, Andrew had seemed nervy yesterday. It reminded her of the way he’d come rushing into the attic on Boxing Day, and grabbed his briefcase from her. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. She’d had no reason to, then. But he’d looked rattled, which wasn’t like him. And what had he been doing in the little garret afterward? He’d stayed in there for ages. She stood staring at the heap of ash and charred wood, mulling it over. And after a while, the urge to go and look in the briefcase—right now—became impossible to ignore.

  • • •

  The attics were as cold as the garden. In the near darkness, she almost tripped over the zigzag of boxes still on the floor of the main room. Andrew had taken the briefcase into the righthand garret, hadn’t he? She walked into the tiny tent-shaped room, shutting the door behind her, and switched on the top light—its shade flecked with dead moths. Scanning the floor, she saw the briefcase immediately. It was under the bed, just in view between her old school trunk and some gummed-up tins of Farrow & Ball. She swallowed, throat dry. What was it doing there? Why try to shove it out of sight? She’d known she was right. Feminine intuition. For all they might have drifted, she could still tell when Andrew was hiding something. The thought gave her a kind of grim satisfaction.