Seven Days of Us(25)

Phoebe


THE GRAY ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 4:05 P.M.

? ? ?

Phoebe had arranged to Skype George at four. She still hadn’t told him, officially, that she wanted the wedding at Weyfield. She balanced her laptop on a pile of books, so that the camera wouldn’t give her a double chin, and mussed up her hair.

“Hey, Phoebles,” said George, appearing on screen. Why, she wondered, when she was so used to him, did she sometimes feel like they were meeting for the first time? Maybe it was the weirdness of speaking on camera. He was wearing an ironic Christmas jumper and hugging Boris, the Marsham-Smiths’ new Labrador. With his skiing tan and Fox’s Glacier Mint eyes, he reminded her of “Mr. December” in her old tween calendars. “You look pretty,” he said. “That color suits you.”

“It’s yours,” she said faux coquettishly, shrugging slightly so that the sweater she was wearing slipped down over one shoulder.

“What?” He leaned closer to the screen. It wasn’t a great angle for his nostrils. “Hey, that’s my Lyle and Scott! I’ve been looking for that. Don’t go giving it booby dents, will you?”

“I wish.” She also wished he wouldn’t say “booby,” but didn’t say so.

“Small but perfectly formed. Like the rest of you.” He grinned.

“I’ll take that. OK—wedmin,” she said. “My dad’s going to try and get us Sexy Fish for engagement drinks, but we should probably send the save the date soon so people can start booking accommodation.”

“Sure.”

“So, also, I was thinking . . . How would you feel about having the wedding here?”

“What, in Norfolk? I thought we agreed that?”

“No, I mean here, at Weyfield.”

“At yours? But if we’re thinking December, we’d have to be inside?”

“Yeah. The drawing room’s massive, if you open the double doors to the dining room. We had my eighteenth here, and Mummy’s fiftieth. And my parents got married here, obviously. Plus people can stay.”

“How many was that?” Even on screen she could see panic in his eyes.

“Easily a hundred and fifty.”

“Sitting down? What about dancing?”

“We had a dance floor for my eighteenth. And Mummy had a sit-down dinner. You just have to move the piano and all the stuff out.”

“OK.” He screwed up his face. “Just . . . I was thinking Gunston Hall. The food’s meant to be awesome. Or Mum suggested Delling Abbey. Will and Poppy got married there.”

“Delling? But that’s just like here, except, you know, we’ve got no connection to it. It’s, like, generic.” Will and Poppy were a pair of deeply basic friends of George—if it was possible to be posh and basic.

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“I don’t want to have a wedding someone else could have,” she said. “I’ve always imagined I’d get married here. Ever since I was little.” She hadn’t expected George to have plans of his own. He’d always seemed quite taken with Weyfield. Usually he was the one joking about her “country pile.”

“Wouldn’t it be a massive ball ache for your parents?”

“No way. They’d love it. Especially Mummy. She’s expecting it to be here.”

“Is she? But we hadn’t, like, talked about it.”

“I know, but, it’s a given. Birch weddings are always here. I mean, Hartley. Can’t believe you’re being funny about it.” She knew she sounded like a sulky child.

“I’m not, Phoebles. It’s stunning, you know, the outside. I’m just not sure it’s kind of wedding-like inside. It’s more of a home, you know?”

“But that’s why I want it. It would be personal. And once you had all the flowers and stuff, it would look weddingy. Anyway, I don’t want my—our wedding to look like ‘a wedding.’ Or to be in some hotel where another couple is getting married the next Saturday.” She stopped, realizing she was on the point of insulting George’s world.

“I thought you liked hotels?”

“I do, but this is different. It’s our wedding.”

“Why is that any different? Plus, just in terms of logistics. The bar, and loos, and stuff. How would it work?”

“Logistics? It’s not a work conference. Anyway, we could sort all that out.” She knew this wasn’t the real problem. He thought the inside of the house was weird. It was true, the decor needed updating, but in photos that passed for shabby chic. And at least it had character—unlike his barn conversion.

He rubbed both hands over his face, up into his hair.

“Will you look at Gunston and Delling, before you write them off?” he said.

“I haven’t written them off. Anyway, what did you get Tom and Matt?” she said as a kind of peace offering. She knew she’d get her way in the end. Arguing wouldn’t help her cause. George was soon recounting a recent pub quiz victory with his brothers, “Team Marsham-S,” and she felt the tension had been put aside.

“Anyway, Phoebles, look, I should go,” he said when he’d finished his story. “We’re heading to the Woolmakers.” George’s Christmas Eve drinks with his siblings was sacred. Phoebe usually went too, and half of her resented Olivia for making it impossible. The other half was relieved to miss an evening with his sister, Mouse, and Tom’s wife, Camilla. Something about the girls’ uniform of rugby shirts and pearl earrings made her feel simultaneously superior and out of place.