Seven Days of Us

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Seven Days of Us Page 27

by Francesca Hornak


  “Maybe,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she liked the idea or not. After a moment he added, “I’m sure he’ll be an excellent father. Better than me.”

  He glanced at her, but she was staring at the windscreen. He’d always thought she had the misfortune to look like him and not Emma, but she had Emma’s nose, he realized—straight, guileless. It was Phoebe who’d inherited his beak, albeit in miniature.

  “You’re not that bad!” she said, looking round as if he’d been joking.

  “I could have been better. Almost missed Jesse altogether.”

  “There’s plenty of time. You’ve only just met.”

  “There is, there is,” he said. “With you all,” he added, in a half mumble.

  They sat at a red light.

  “And where does Sean live when he isn’t in Liberia?” said Andrew.

  “Dublin. But we talked about that. He’s going to move here in the spring, ready for the baby. There’s room in my flat for now.”

  “Good for him,” said Andrew. But he was thinking, She’s staying put. She’s not trying to escape anymore.

  • 10 •

  New Year’s Eve 2016

  Emma

  THE HALL, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 2:00 P.M.

  • • •

  It was early afternoon before Emma got round to the snowdrift of post by the front door. On top of the late Christmas cards and Oxfam flyers about Haag was a white, bill-shaped envelope, addressed to her. She knew it was her test results, before she had seen the “Private & Confidential” stamp or Dr. Singer’s address on the back. She stood looking at it for ages, not wanting to know what it held. She would open it alone, she decided, in the loo on the landing. She was still holding it when Olivia came down the stairs. “Is that your results?” she asked, as if she was psychic. Or perhaps she’d just seen enough patients in Emma’s position to know the signs. She was wearing the jumper Phoebe had given her, not her usual hoody.

  “Mmm,” said Emma. “Yikes!” It was meant to sound cheery, but it came out strangled.

  “Why don’t we open it together in the kitchen?” asked Olivia. “Then we can look at your options.” She sounded different to usual, sort of professionally positive. It was rather nice. Like a doctor, thought Emma, before remembering that her daughter was a doctor.

  “Um. Yes,” she said. “Yes, OK then.”

  • • •

  “Happy Noo Year’s!” boomed Jesse, coming into the TV room holding brown paper grocery bags, like the male lead in a rom-com. Somehow, it was already teatime. Emma and Olivia had slouched on the sofa for hours, while the others flitted in and out, offering cups of tea. “Hey, guys, I found my favorite tofu balls!” said Jesse. Phoebe had sent him to Whole Foods on Parkway for a vegan alternative to the chicken Andrew was preparing. He looked disproportionately thrilled by this outing. “Man, London is so beautiful! I just walked to the top of Primrose Hill. Seriously, it reminds me of that movie 101 Dalmatians. I love this time of year! It’s, like, a chance to start fresh.” He was right. Emma felt galvanized. A new baby was something to live for. She looked at Olivia, her face the most relaxed Emma had seen it in ages, despite the daunting chat they’d had earlier over her results. Still, the plan Olivia had drawn up for her chemo, down to designated drivers for Emma’s appointments, was better than the limbo of the past days. Better, too, than Jesse’s well-meant but rather cranky-sounding theories. All Nicola’s fighting talk around cancer suddenly seemed appropriate. I may lose my eyelashes, she thought, but it’s a small price for knowing my grandchild.

  “The hill’s so pretty at sunset, isn’t it?” said Emma.

  “Incredible!” said Jesse. “How’re you feeling, Olivia?”

  “Better, thanks,” she said. “Though I have new sympathy for pregnant women.”

  “Right! So, Andrew and I are waiting on you ladies tonight. You two need to rest up. No helping, Emma. We’ll take care of everything.”

  He left. Olivia and Emma looked at each other, and for once she felt like they were sharing a joke.

  They carried on watching Poirot in easy silence, until Phoebe appeared in the doorway, wearing a kimono. Her hair was wrapped in a towel turban, eyes pulled into slants like a bad face-lift. She managed to make even this look rather chic. “Mummy, really sorry, but I don’t think I can stay for dinner now. Party starts earlier than I thought, so . . . Plus I’m getting ready at Lara’s.”

  “Oh, Phoebs! That’s a bit rotten. The boys are doing everything specially. D’you have to get there right at the start?”

  “No, but I’m meeting this guy first. He wanted to take me for dinner, but that seemed a bit intense, so we’re going for a drink and then on to this party. Anyway, I haven’t been out for a week. Literally. Or a date, for six years.”

  “Caspar?” said Olivia.

  “Mmm-hmm,” said Phoebe, not looking at all like a girl who’d just been chucked. Emma was rather amazed that she seemed to be moving on so quickly. It was a good sign, of course, but she couldn’t help feeling deflated. She knew Andrew wanted supper to be a special family meal, to mark everything that had happened in quarantine. Olivia kept her eyes trained on the TV.

  “Well, do let Daddy know,” said Emma weakly. “I’m sure he’d like to open some bubbles before you leave.” Andrew could probably persuade Phoebe to stay for supper, she thought. Besides, she ought to line her stomach.

  “OK. But it’ll have to be soon,” said Phoebe, turning to leave.

  “All right, lamb,” said Emma, trying not to sound disappointed.

  Jesse

  THE KITCHEN, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 4:10 P.M.

  • • •

  Andrew was already in the kitchen when Jesse came in with the groceries. He marked a page in a yellowing paperback and smiled. Lately, just since yesterday, Jesse had come to see his own face more in Andrew’s. Emma had said the same.

  “D’you know Claudia Roden?” said Andrew, holding up the book.

  “Is she, like, a British chef?”

  “British Egyptian. She really brought Middle Eastern food here, in the eighties. There’s a wonderful chicken recipe in this book that Emma and I used to do. And here’s the pilaf I thought we might have with it,” he said, showing Jesse a page headed: Saffron Rice with Raisins and Almonds. “That falls within your remit, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure,” said Jesse, scanning the recipe. He had gotten used to the way Andrew talked now. He made a mental note to tell Dana that he actually spoke a lot like he wrote, that the prose wasn’t fake, though he was less catty in person. More real, once you knew him.

  “Excellent. I thought we should do something from that part of the world, for your final evening,” said Andrew. It was the third time he’d said so since breakfast. Tonight must be a big deal for him.

  Jesse made a start on his contribution, sweet potato brownies, while Andrew chopped herbs and weighed out spices, putting everything in tiny bowls as if they were on a cookery show. He was whistling “Driving Home for Christmas,” with nerves or contentment, or both, Jesse couldn’t be sure.

  “I read your article about your mom,” said Jesse, between pulses of the Magimix. “She sounds awesome.”

  “Did you? She was, she was. In the true sense of the word,” said Andrew. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet her. She was very fond of Olivia and Phoebe. Olivia, in particular. They were rather alike, in fact. Fiercely self-reliant.”

  “Right. That figures.”

  “She had to be both parents, to me, in a sense. I never really knew my father,” said Andrew. “But I knew of him. I imagine being adopted, that must be—ah—complicated in a different way. Just, not to know.”

  “I guess. My parents—my adoptive parents—were always very open, but there was literally nothing they could tell me about you. Until I looked up your name you were just, like, a void.”
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  Andrew’s mouth twitched as if he was about to say something quippy, but then didn’t.

  “I was planning to make a film about it,” Jesse continued. “I was hoping to shoot some more at Weyfield. But I kind of got sidetracked.”

  “Events intruded, rather, last week.”

  “For sure!”

  “Well, if you do make it, I hope you’ll consider a cameo from Camden. Over Skype or something. We’re very glad you came,” he said, looking intently at the digital scales.

  Jesse took this as his chance.

  “So what was she like, Leila? My birth mom?”

  Andrew’s neck reddened as he looked up, and for a moment Jesse wondered if he’d crossed a boundary. But his face relaxed as he said: “Well. Terrific-looking, I recall. Good move on your part, taking after her. And bright, going places. But I can’t tell you a great deal beyond that, I’m afraid,” he said, looking sheepish. “We didn’t, um, talk an awful lot.”

  Jesse laughed. “I get it. Where did you meet, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “My hotel bar. Sounds dreadful, put like that. But a war zone, human crisis, it heightens everything. Makes one behave out of character. Take risks, I suppose. Look at Olivia and Sean.”

  “Right. ‘Carpe diem.’”

  “Quite. I didn’t make a habit of, er, picking up women in bars, by the way,” he said, looking uncharacteristically earnest. Jesse guessed this was his way of saying he’d been faithful to Emma throughout their marriage.

  “But look what it brought us!” said Andrew, reverting to his usual wry tone and holding up his mug to Jesse.

  “Hey, you were a young guy.” It was funny how he felt like he could talk to Andrew as another adult, but Andrew clearly couldn’t quite do the same. Jesse knew he would never see him as his father, the way he saw his dad, Mitch, but that was OK. Healthier, probably.

  “She was a news anchor, right?” said Jesse.

  “Yes, at the time. She became quite a senior producer at Al Jazeera, I believe. But you probably know more than me. You googled her, I imagine?”

  “I did, but there wasn’t a whole lot.” He was surprised Andrew had kept tabs on Leila Deeba.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you, actually,” said Andrew, turning a pan down to a simmer. “Now’s as good a time as any. Come up,” he said, and Jesse followed him to the first floor.

  He hadn’t seen Andrew’s study yet. It was nothing like the dark, cluttered smoking room. A bay window overlooked Primrose Hill, and two walls were lined floor to ceiling with books, even over the door. The only furniture was a spartan desk and ergonomic chair. The whole effect reminded him of somewhere, he thought, before realizing it was his own apartment. Dana and his folks had always teased him about being the neat freak in a sloppy family.

  Andrew opened his desk drawer and unfolded a sheet of cream paper.

  “I should have shown you this when you first arrived,” he said. “But, well, it was complicated because I stupidly hadn’t mentioned it to Emma. She knows now, though. Have a look. You should keep it. It’s for you, really, I think.”

  Jesse took the sheet of paper and saw it was a handwritten letter. He looked at the signature—it was from her. His birth mother.

  Dear Andrew,

  It has been many years, but I hope you remember meeting me, Leila Deeba, in Beirut. I am writing to tell you that, after we met, I discovered I was pregnant with your baby. He was born December 26, 1980. I chose to have him adopted, as I felt unable to raise a child alone. I would like to sincerely apologize for not having informed you. I was young and afraid, and my career, at that time, was my obsession. Beirut was a dangerous place for a child. I thought it would be easier for you if you didn’t know.

  But I am writing to you now, Andrew, because I am sick. I have a terminal disease. I have accepted that I will probably die without meeting my son. For many years I hoped he would try to find me, but he has not. I never had any other children.

  If, some day, he contacts you, please tell him that not a day passed when I didn’t think of him. My dying wish is that he has been happy. Please believe this letter, for his sake. You will know him if you see him. He was beautiful. I named him Iskandar.

  Yours,

  Leila

  He heard each line over and over in his head. He had always assumed the orphanage staff had called him Iskandar—“defender of the people”—but it had been her all along. “Not a day passed when I didn’t think of him.” He leaned against the desk, forgetting Andrew and everything in the room. The dull, empty sadness he’d felt on hearing she was dead was back. But this time there was something else, too. She had named him. She had hoped for him. She had never forgotten him. And it felt like a circle completing—a circle that had been a C shape, for as long as Jesse could remember.

  Andrew looked away, straightening the post on the windowsill. “Wow,” said Jesse, when he trusted his voice. Andrew put a clumsy hand on his shoulder. “Lucky, I’d been planning to—” he said, and then seemed to change tack. “Drink?”

  Phoebe

  THE STAIRS, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 5:15 P.M.

  • • •

  Phoebe paused by the kitchen door. She’d felt bad, seeing her mother look crestfallen earlier. Especially after the big chat they’d all had about her treatment. The outlook was good, apparently, but Emma would need chemotherapy. Phoebe had made it her resolution to stock the freezer with Marine Ices sorbet, which Olivia said was all chemo patients could stomach, and to be a grown-up, and not freak at Emma’s hair blocking the drain. But still, she didn’t have to cancel Caspar, did she? Nobody knew, but the two of them had had a long-running game of eye contact across the office. She wondered how he’d got her number, liking the idea of him searching it out. He’d left a voicemail earlier, confirming their date, and she’d found herself listening to it over and over. If she canceled their drink, or changed the plan to meeting at the party, it would send the wrong message. Surely Andrew would be fine with her skipping dinner. Then again, after that cheesy column, he might try to guilt-trip her into staying. Everyone else had cheered when he’d announced he was quitting The World. Phoebe had been secretly sad—she loved their one-on-one meals in restaurants she couldn’t afford. Even the bad ones were fun, forming jokes for years afterward. She’d hugged him and said it was the right decision, because her mother and sister were saying so. But it stung that she hadn’t got a mention in his parting column, when everyone else had. She was the daughter who’d always been there—if you were getting all #familyfirst about it. Olivia had only come home because she had nowhere else to sit out her quarantine.

  She opened the kitchen door. Jesse and her father were surrounded by ingredients, both wearing aprons that barely reached their thighs. Andrew was refilling two glasses of whiskey and ice cubes. The smell reminded her of the Southern Comfort George drank at Edinburgh. He called it “SoCo,” she remembered, cringing. The urge to confront him about Jesse’s theory had already faded. He’d never admit it, even if it was true.

  Andrew raised his glass as she came in. “Daddy,” she said, “dilemma—it’s not a big deal for me to miss dinner tonight, right?”

  “What?” he said jovially.

  “It’s OK if I’m out tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Of course—so long as you’re here for the fatted calf. Corn-fed chicken, rather.”

  “The thing is, I’m meant to be getting ready at Lara’s to catch up on everything, and then I’m meeting Caspar for a drink at nine, so . . .”

  “I don’t quite follow,” said Andrew. The new, alien smile dropped a fraction.

  “I’m just going to take a shower. You’re good to do the zucchini, right, Andrew?” said Jesse, moving past them discreetly.

  “Quite right,” said her father, sounding distracted.

  Phoebe thanked Jesse silently—sh
e needed Andrew alone if she was to get her way. She perched on a stool at the island, waggling geranium toenails.

  “I mean, I can’t stay for supper. I don’t have time,” she said, beginning to feel frustrated. “It won’t work. I can’t suddenly change the plan with Caspar. Sorry, Dada. I assumed we wouldn’t bother doing a big thing for New Year.”

  “It’s not quite a normal New Year. I’m sure Caspar will understand, in the circumstances.”

  “But I was really looking forward to it. Why is tonight a major thing? We’ve all been in each other’s pockets all week.”

  “I thought you said you had a dilemma. You seem to have made your mind up.”

  “You don’t have to be like that about it,” said Phoebe. “I’m just trying to get out there again. It’s not easy, you know, finding out the last six years of your life was a sham.” The last bit came out as a tremble, and his eyes softened. They always did when she threatened to cry.

  “I know you’re keen to get out on the razzle again,” he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his forehead. “But there’s plenty of time. It would be a nice gesture to join us tonight. Jesse and I planned to do a sort of feast, you see. Fatted calf, as I said.”

  She said nothing, not wanting to snap, or cry.

  “Prodigal son? Scripture lessons? Ring any bells?” he said.

  “Yes, I get it. It’s Jesse’s last night. But it’s not like we’re never going to see him again. I thought you had the whole plan to visit next year?”

  “Not Jesse—Olivia,” said Andrew, looking down at a recipe.

  “What? Because of the baby?”

  “No, Phoebe. Don’t you see? Until now, your sister and I—well, suffice it to say, she rarely came home, as you know. Even at Christmas. And when she did, she and I, we didn’t, uh, chat very much—to one another, I mean. And this week, we’ve, er, we’ve found we have more common ground than we realized. What with working abroad, and, well, yes, our work.”

 

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