Seven Days of Us(13)

“So, Olivia,” said Andrew. “High points?”

Olivia looked at him, hands paused mid-cutting. “It wasn’t really that kind of trip,” she said.

Andrew’s neck colored. “Well. There are always highs to any travel,” he said, taking a sip of wine. It was a special bordeaux, retrieved from the cellar after much deliberation between wine and champagne.

“We so enjoyed your blog,” said Emma, before Olivia could answer him.

“Thanks,” said Olivia. “It was helpful to write.”

“It’s not easy to write about such horrid things and be entertaining,” said Emma. “Why did you make it anonymous, though? Wouldn’t it be nice for everyone to see what you’re doing?” Olivia looked terribly thin. She had Andrew’s rangy build, unlike Phoebe, who was small like Emma—and might have had Emma’s bosoms and hips, if she weren’t so disciplined about food. Emma had never managed to diet. Perhaps cancer would help, she thought grimly.

“Blog . . .” said Andrew. “Such an ugly word.”

“It’s blogs that people read now,” said Olivia.

“I still like to hold a page,” said Phoebe.

“Quite,” said Andrew. “That’s exactly it, Phoebe. Besides the fact that the majority of blogging is tripe. Most of these people can’t write for toffee. Not yours, of course,” he added. “I thought the one about Haag stigma in rural areas was particularly good.” This was the blog that Emma had forced under his nose yesterday, since he’d holed himself up in the smoking room. He had told her he didn’t want to hear what Olivia was doing, because it was “too hellish to contemplate.” She sympathized, of course. But considering his years in foreign correspondence, she’d expected him to take more interest. She’d even hoped the two of them might “bond” a bit over Olivia’s African adventure—this being the first time Olivia had come home immediately after a trip. Now, she didn’t feel this would happen.

“I liked the one about the locals calling your friend ‘Pekin doctor,’” said Phoebe. Emma could tell she was nervous.

“Thanks,” said Olivia, helping herself to more gravy.

“George used to get called ‘Mzungu’ when he was in Kenya,” said Phoebe.

“And what was George doing there?” asked Andrew. “Defending the Empire?”

He still said George’s name as if he was trying it out for the first time.

“Building a primary school or something, I think. Some gap year cliché.”

“Well, that sounds wonderful,” said Emma.

“It’s what everyone does,” said Phoebe. “When they don’t know what else to do before Edinburgh.”

“Kenya’s quite different to Liberia,” said Olivia.

“I know, I just meant, it’s also in Africa,” said Phoebe.

“It’s quite a big continent . . . ” said Olivia.

Emma wished they were still young enough for her to say “Olivia, don’t be condescending,” but how could she, now they were grown-ups?

“Remind me, why did it stop being Keen-ya?” she said, instead. For some reason, Olivia visibly clenched her jaw. Emma hoped she hadn’t inadvertently served her gristle.

? ? ?

The crumble had salvaged lunch—the hot, spiced fruit seeming to thaw Olivia, and tempt Phoebe to chance a few calories. Even Andrew, who disliked pudding on principle, complimented the star anise in the custard. Emma had thought they might all walk round the grounds before it got dark, the way she used to with her parents, but once she’d cleared the sticky plates, everyone had gone separate ways. Phoebe flopped on the sofa in the back sitting room, “too full to move.” Olivia had already vanished, iPad in hand, saying she needed to read the news. “Wouldn’t you like a break from it all?” Emma had asked, but Olivia had stared at her, as if she’d said: “Forget those dying people. You’re here now, with us.” Which was what she had meant, in a sense. It was like when Andrew used to come home from Lebanon and sit glued to the TV. At least in those days the news used to stop.

Andrew had declined a stroll too, saying he must uproot the Christmas tree while it was still light. They used the same tree every year, dug up on December 23 and replanted on Epiphany, as Emma’s parents had done. It was rather sweet, how seriously he took this one masculine job. Besides, it was the only Hartley tradition he seemed to embrace, so she left him to it.





Olivia


THE WILLOW ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 4:30 P.M.

? ? ?

Reaching for her phone to text Sean, Olivia remembered there was no signal at Weyfield. In some ways, Norfolk was more backward than Liberia. It already felt like they’d been apart for ages, that she’d stored up a hundred things to tell him. She’d got used to having him close, or just a WhatsApp message away. For the past fortnight he’d spent every night in her room, the two of them sleeping naked under her lightest sarong. She knew her bed was going to feel too cold, and too big, tonight. She started an e-mail to him instead.


FROM: Olivia Birch <[email protected]>

TO: Sean Coughlan <[email protected]>

DATE: Fri, Dec 23, 2016 at 4:30 p.m.

SUBJECT: Home Sweet Home . . .