Seven Days of Us(34)



“Nothing?”

“Just, I don’t know, silence. I told him I was working in Norfolk, that we could meet somewhere neutral. It’s cool. I had to be here for work anyway. I knew I was taking a chance.”

“Dude, that’s really poor form. Have the decency to reply, for fuck’s sake.”

“He might not have gotten the e-mail.”

George didn’t look convinced. “D’you know where he lives?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah, actually. It’s not far. Do you think I should, like, go to his house?”

“You have his actual address? Then sure, why not? Look—either he got the e-mail and he’s ignoring you, in which case he’s a douche and you should call him on it. Or he never got it, and you’re losing out on the chance to meet your father.”

“I guess. I’m not sure it’s so simple.”

“Mate, what have you got to lose? I always say this, you regret the things you didn’t do, not the things you did do.”

“Right—you’re the first person ever to say that.” Jesse grinned to show he was joking. The conversation had gotten too intense. George smiled back. His lips were stained with mulled wine. Jesse wanted to taste them. He sat up and pulled his sweater over his head, careful to make it look casual. As he emerged, he saw George checking his abs where his T-shirt had ridden up, as he’d known he would. He leaned back on his elbows, too, so that they were both staring straight ahead at Beyonce gyrating on TV. George collapsed down on the quilt beside him. Their legs were still over the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. “I am properly wasted,” said George, into space.

Jesse looked across and down at him. “Room spins?” he said.

“Room fucking teacup ride, mate.”

“You can crash here, if you want.” Jesse lay back, flat out, like George. Their heads were inches apart on the bed.

“Might have to.”

George shut his eyes, so Jesse did, too. He was almost nervous to breathe. Was it his imagination, or was that George’s arm, shifting closer to his, so that he could just feel its hairs mingle with his own, and George’s knuckles, brushing his hand? He pushed back, just enough, with his own hand. They lay like that for what seemed ages. Jesse stretched to switch out the lamp, so that the room was lit only by the flashing TV screen. He could smell the whiskey on George’s breath. He modified his own breathing to sound like he was falling asleep. And then he felt George turn, and his lips against his neck, in the dimness.

They must have slept, because he was woken by the click of the door handle. The clock by the bed said 05:08. George was by the door, with his back to Jesse. He was moving with a kind of hunched stealth that told Jesse he didn’t want to be seen. Jesse shut his eyes again and heard the door creak open, then softly close. George’s steps retreated down the corridor outside. Jesse lay still, wondering if he had imagined everything that had happened in the watery dawn light, until his bladder overcame his need to stay horizontal.





Olivia


THE DRAWING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 11:00 A.M.

? ? ?

Olivia had only checked the news an hour ago, but already her fingers were itching for her iPad, as if it was a link to Sean. There were no updates on his condition today, and the headlines were dominated by forecasts of “the soggiest ever Christmas.” “No news is good news, surely?” her mother had said, as they opened stockings over breakfast.

“It just means he hasn’t deteriorated, or improved. And he was critical yesterday, so that’s not great.”

“I hope you might still manage to enjoy Christmas?”

Olivia made herself smile, and pretended to be interested in the Fortnums marmalade and credit card Swiss Army knife emerging from the red sock in her hands.

Now the four of them were in the drawing room, her father pumping at the hearth with a pair of wheezy bellows. He stopped to tell a story about lighting a fire in the desert with a magnifying glass, during the Soviet-Afghan War. Olivia knew he was going to tell it even before he sat back on his heels to say, “Y’know, this reminds me of . . .” He never talked about the Afghan people, or the politics at the time—just his own Boy Scouts memories. But that was the way it was at home, everyone sticking to a script, wheeling out the same exhausted anecdotes. Carols from Kings was playing again, “Silent Night” bleating from the speakers. The air was dense with wood smoke and a sickly mix of orange peel and furniture polish. It seemed indecent to be sitting here with the radiators on full as well as the fire. The only thing that helped to take her mind off Sean was planning a return visit to Liberia next year. She felt slightly crazed with the need to do something.

Phoebe dived toward the tree, pulling out shiny parcels and distributing them, until everyone had a little mound of presents at their feet. Olivia slid her iPad out from under the sofa and swiped the screen, refreshing her search for Sean Coughlan. Nothing new.

“OK, this is for you from Mummy,” Phoebe said to Andrew, choosing a present for him to unwrap. “And this is for you from me,” she said to Emma. She eyed Olivia’s pile. Unlike when they were children, it was noticeably larger than Phoebe’s, though Olivia would gladly have given Phoebe the lot. “That’s just from Irina,” said Phoebe, pointing at a gaudy gold parcel.

“Who’s Irina?”

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