Seven Days of Us(32)
“OK. But do you promise to tell Daddy, straightaway, afterward? And Olivia? She’s the doctor, for God’s sake. She’ll probably piss off to Africa otherwise.”
“Phoebe. That’s not nice. Yes, I promise. Now you go back to bed. I need to do some last bits and bobs down here.”
“Shouldn’t you go back to bed, too?”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Can I help you? Lay the table or whatever?”
“No, no. Just being you cheers me up.”
Emma sat for a while after Phoebe had gone upstairs. The effort of sounding upbeat had left her drained. She made a cup of Earl Grey and looked out of the window at the croquet lawn. She thought of her own parents and her childhood Christmases here. All at once she wanted, more than anything, to talk to her mother. It was funny how, even once you had children, you never stopped needing your mother. If anything, they made you need her more.
Phoebe
THE GREEN BATHROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 7:30 A.M.
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Phoebe knew she’d never be able to get back to sleep. She ran a rose-fragranced bath and lay looking out of the window at a square of white sky. The words she had seen on her mother’s iPad made her feel squeamish: tumor, growth, biopsy, CAT scan. They were words that belonged in other people’s lives. She realized that a tiny, awful part of her resented Christmas being ruined. And next year. It was meant to be her year, the run-up to the wedding, and instead everything would be clouded. She could hardly ask her mother to redecorate Weyfield now. She knew this was not a generous way to think. She considered calling George, but he would still be asleep. She pushed down the voice that piped up: “You should be able to call your future husband at any time, especially with something like this.” Instead, she went outside for a jog—turning up a gym playlist full volume. Miley Cyrus sounded tinnily out of place on the croquet lawn. As she ran laps, she found herself obsessing about whether George had got her the Dinny Hall hoops—the last thing she should be thinking about. But the thought that he might get her present wrong, like he’d got the ring a bit wrong (OK, a lot wrong), made the crying lump rise up in her throat again. Worst of all, she hated herself for still being such a brat. Would she ever grow up and be like Olivia, and stop caring about stuff?
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Olivia really annoyed her at breakfast. Even while they were doing stockings, she kept sneaking looks at her iPad under the table. Phoebe wanted to shake her and say: “This could be Mummy’s last Christmas! At least look at her, instead of the news, for five minutes.” She didn’t say anything, though, even when Emma had to ask Olivia three times if she wanted panettone.
Afterward, she went upstairs to call George. His phone rang to voicemail, as it had done twice last night. She would have to call the Marsham-Smiths, which meant talking to George’s mother.
“Hello, Dalgrave Barn?” trilled Linda.
“Hi, Linda, it’s Phoebe. Happy Christmas.”
“Phoebe! The bride to be! Merry Christmas! How are you?”
It was odd how her voice was different to George’s watertight drawl. Linda always sounded too loud and too posh, bar the occasional clanging vowel.
“Fine! Quarantined, haha, but fine.”
“Of course you are. How’s your sister? Must have been pretty primitive over there? Do they have running water, toilets?”
“She’s fine. She just has to take her temperature the whole time.”
“Does she? That’s good. Did she know the Irish boy?”
“Sorry?”
“You know. The one who got it.”
“Oh right, er, yes, a bit, I think.” Why did Linda always have to ask a billion questions?
“He really should’ve been more careful, shouldn’t he? It’s just irresponsible, putting us all at risk like that. Now let me see if George is up yet. They all had rather a late night.”
“Ah,” Phoebe tried to sound knowing. She heard Linda shouting for George.
His “Hey, Phoebles” when he answered was hoarse.
“Hey. Happy Christmas.”
“Oh yeah. Happy Christmas, babe.”
“Your mum said it was a big one last night.”
“Did she? Not specially, just the Woolmakers.”
“Oh. Anyway, George, can you go somewhere on your own?”
“I am.”
“OK, I have bad news. I just found out”—she paused, to make sure he registered the crisis in her voice—“that Mummy has cancer.”
“What? Your mum? Shit.” He sounded distracted.
“Yes. Hodgkin’s lymphoma. No, wait, non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”
“What, she does or she doesn’t?”
“It’s called ‘non,’ that’s like the name of the cancer.” She found tears rising again and exaggerated her sobs slightly to make sure George didn’t think she’d just gone silent. She didn’t often cry in front of him, considering how easily she wept with her family.
“Don’t cry. She’ll be OK,” he said, stiffly.
“What if she’s not? This is like my nightmare! She can’t, she can’t not be OK.”
“Don’t think like that.”
“I just found out by mistake. I was looking at her iPad and I saw all her searches, and then this e-mail from Nicola.”