Seven Days of Us(18)

“How’s quarantine?”

“Annoying. Already. We were just decorating the tree, and—”

“Hang on a sec, Phoebles.”

Phoebe waited while George said, “Cheers, mate, have a good one,” in the voice he used for cab drivers and people in shops. He must be paying for something. She hoped it was the Dinny Hall earrings she’d told his sister she wanted—and then remembered he’d already given her a wrapped present for Christmas Day. It was small and square, but she had a feeling it wasn’t the hoops. Trust Mouse to mess it up. She didn’t get that kind of thing.

“So quarantine’s a ’mare, you were saying,” he said.

She’d lost the urge to rant about Olivia now. It would be hard to explain anyway.

“Yeah, just, you know. Families. When are you driving down?”

“Tomorrow morning. Back for New Year’s. Short and sweet.”

“Cool.” She couldn’t think of anything else to tell or ask him, so she said, “OK, well, talk later.”

“Talk later, Phoebles. Chin up.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

She hung up, pushing away the thought that, in six years, George had never actually said “I love you.” He’d proposed, for God’s sake. The “I love you” issue was becoming another intrusive thought. She reached for a towel—it was rough and smelled of festering laundry, like all the towels at Weyfield. She made a mental note to keep it in her bedroom, just in case Olivia used this bathroom. Whatever her sister said about there being no risk, she was still a teeny bit nervous about catching Haag. At least she’d lose loads of weight for the wedding, if she did.





Jesse


SHERINGHAM STATION, NORFOLK, 8:12 P.M.

? ? ?

Sheringham (did you pronounce the second h? Jesse had no clue) was the end of the line. Jesse trundled in from Norwich on a ludicrously small train, practically a toy train. There wasn’t even a station, just an unlit platform, with a rickety gate separating it from the sidewalk. He inhaled cold, salt-spiked air, thinking how crazy it was that he had started this day by the Pacific, and now here he was beside another ocean in Norfolk, England. No, wait, in Britain there was no ocean. Just the quaint-sounding “seaside.” Sheringham High Street had the trippiest Christmas lights—twinkling red shrimps and yellow crabs revealing a time warp of shop fronts below. He took a couple of pictures on his phone to WhatsApp to Dana, before seeing he had no signal. There was a tiny cab office with a sign that read “Cliffords Taxi’s” by the platform, and he was soon in the back of a beaten-up Ford, headed for the Harbour Hotel, Blakenham. “You from Ameeerica?” asked the driver, as the car looped round the coast road. His accent was like nothing Jesse had ever heard. It had this insane lilt, rising at the end of every sentence—not Kardashian-style, just kind of wistful. He would have to interview some locals for his film. “Yeah, but I have English blood. I’m visiting family here,” he replied. He was about to explain that he was looking for his birth father, but the man just grunted and turned on the radio. That was cool. He had to learn to hold back some more anyway. He’d already gone and told the lady in the airport the whole thing, in a red-eye stupor. He and Calgary were always working on this need to blurt. Or, as Dana put it, his “obsessive-compulsive sharing syndrome.” But somehow, it still happened. He’d see something like the cute sign and hear himself remark on it, before he’d even realized he was thinking out loud. It was like the emotional outbursts he’d worked hard to tame, but which still—on occasion—erupted. His adoptive parents, both so measured, jokingly blamed these traits on Jesse’s “hot-blooded” Lebanese heritage. Now, Jesse wondered if he’d inherited them from Andrew. His birth father had no problem sharing his personal life, and he definitely had some anger issues.

The car slowed as they entered Blakenham “town.” This turned out to be two tiny, winding streets—literally cobbled—leading to the quay and his hotel. Getting out, he saw an ornate facade like a Victorian seaside postcard, overlooking a moonlit harbor. Inside, the lobby smelled of bleach and stale beer, the floor carpeted in maroon swirls. The Band Aid Christmas song chanted quietly in the background. A girl with painful-looking acne, wearing a Santa hat, gave him his key. “What number is room service?” he asked. He was starving, having shunned all the junk in Norwich station. She looked blank, and he had to repeat the question three times, asking first for “concierge,” then “the menu” and finally “dinner.”

“Ohh,” she said. “Kitchen’s closed, sorry. Closes at eight.”

“Can I get, like, some chips?” he asked, feeling slightly desperate. Clearly, his standards would have to drop.

“Chips? No, kitchen’s closed.” She was starting to look at him as if he was very stupid.

“I mean, crisps, potato crisps,” he said, remembering that “chips” meant “fries” in Britain.

“Ooooh, crisps. Yeah, we got Pringles in the minibar, if y’like? Or, I s’pose we could do you a soooup?” she said, seeming to take pity on him.

“Soup would be awesome! Thank you, you’re a doll!” he said, putting a note on the bar. She looked bewildered. “We’ll put it on your bill,” she said.