Seven Days of Us(12)
And so he had decided, with very little deliberation, to say nothing about the letter to Emma. It would only open a whole vat of worms. The thing was, he and Emma had already been together when Andrew had shagged Leila. Admittedly, he had only been taking Emma out for three months. And, at the time, their romance had been a secret, because of the Uncle Bunty awkwardness. Even so, allowing himself to be seduced by Leila Deeba was wrong. So when Leila’s uncorroborated letter arrived, years later, it had seemed pointless to show his wife. It would just upset her. She would wonder, if he couldn’t keep his hands off other women then, what else he’d been up to. The truth was, nothing. Meeting Emma at the airport after his night with Leila was torture. Emma had been holding a banner that read “A Hero Returns.” Even worse were the ensuing weeks when she had nursed his injured leg (he always thought of his shrapnel wound as punishment from Allah). Afterward, he knew that he never wanted to feel that heinous again. Within a year he’d proposed.
But now that Jesse’s e-mail had proved Leila’s letter true, Andrew wished he had shown it to Emma when it had arrived. By saying nothing for eighteen months, he’d dug himself into quicksand. He opened his draft reply to Jesse. It was a week since the man had written. Andrew had to say something. So far, he had:
Dear Jesse,
Thank you for your e-mail. While it would be a pleasure to meet you, I am afraid December is not a good time, as my family and I are presently in quarantine. My daughter Olivia has been treating Haag victims in Liberia and we have been instructed to avoid contact with anyone but immediate family.
He sighed. He couldn’t really say “immediate family” to Jesse. That was crass. Besides, the draft implied that in normal circumstances Jesse would be welcomed with open arms. He stood up and stared at one of the porcelain spaniels on the mantelpiece, and his own face in the mirror. He suddenly looked about eighty. Then, to clear his mind, he played a long game of online scrabble.
“Lu-unch!” trilled Emma. He would try again after a drink, he decided.
Emma
THE DINING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 2:30 P.M.
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Emma was determined that Olivia’s first meal at home should be perfect. Ordering a special cut of topside, baking the crumble (Olivia’s childhood favorite), and prepping everything so that it could be on the table within ninety minutes of her arrival had been a good distraction from the lump. The horrid thing was, it wasn’t just “the lump” anymore. But after this meal, she could start planning Christmas Eve supper and Christmas dinner. Then, in the days between Christmas and New Year, Emma had decided they would all tackle the attics. And then quarantine would be over, and she could tell everyone. If she pressed her left arm against her body, she could just feel the little nodule, tucked away, in secret. Nicola had made her promise to call if she felt low, which was sweet. But having both daughters home had given Emma a boost. Besides, she knew that if she stopped to think, panic would catch her in its undertow and sweep her away.
They were eating in the rarely used dining room. It was such gloomy weather that Emma had switched on all the lamps, which somehow made the room look even darker. And she’d had Andrew light a fire, but some poor bird must have made its nest in the chimney, because an eye-watering mist hung over the table. Looking at the linen napkins and special wineglasses (given a hasty rinse and check for dead flies), she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to sit in the kitchen. The dining room was meant to feel festive, but now it looked unduly formal. She had spaced four chairs equally around the long, conker-colored table, but with the places so far apart and the joint of meat yards from either end, it reminded her of Beauty and the Beast. She shunted all four plates and chairs up to one end, so that they were just using one half of the table. That was better. They usually had more people here, since Emma liked a full house. Guests made everyone behave better. She knew Andrew resented this, especially when Nicola dominated dinner with her psychotherapy theories, but it diluted the silences that were apt to descend when it was just the four of them. She quickly dismissed this thought, and shouted again to the others.
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The food, at least, was a success. Olivia had helped herself to more garlicky green beans, and the roast potatoes were a triumph (good old Delia Smith). Emma was just anxious that the beef had come out a bit dry. That was the trouble with doing roasts in Weyfield’s range, as Andrew never failed to point out. But the range, a revered AGA, was as much a part of the house as the paneling, or the smoky fireplaces, or the big oak staircase. All houses like Weyfield had AGAs. They couldn’t just rip it out and put in a shiny Smeg oven, like in Camden. She watched Andrew take a mouthful. He frowned slightly as he swallowed, but didn’t look up from his plate. Sometimes she wished he’d never got The World column—it made cooking for him nerve racking, when it hadn’t been before. She used to enjoy the whole process, the chopping and weighing, taking down her faithful orange Le Creuset, stirring comforting stews at the stove. When Andrew was young, returning from war zones, he used to say he dreamed of her chicken chasseur. Now that he had eaten at Michelin-starred places for years, it was different. Phoebe was meticulously cutting bits of fat off her beef, before putting a tiny piece in her mouth. She had refused even one Yorkshire pudding, saying that they reminded her of flannels, which made Andrew snort with laughter. Phoebe’s bons mots made up the bulk of his column these days. Olivia smiled at Emma and said, “This is delicious, Mum.” Emma realized she was sweating, with heat, or nerves, or relief to have Olivia back safely, she wasn’t sure. There was a silence that lasted slightly too long.