Seven Days of Us(36)



“Keep them outside,” said Olivia, sharply.

“I will,” he called back, guts contracting as he rushed through the kitchen, the quickest route to the hall. He jumped as the latch clicked—louder than ever, it seemed.

But before he reached the hall, a voice called out “Meeeeerry Christmas one and all!” and he found George, pulling off his coat.

“Mr. B!” he said, with a slightly crazed grin. “Couldn’t stay away!”

Andrew wondered if the boy was drunk. He seemed to be slurring, but perhaps that was just his obnoxious accent.

“George—” He couldn’t think what to say, but luckily Phoebe appeared.

“Phoebles!” he said.

“Bae! What are you doing here? You’re not allowed!” She was tipsy, too.

She rushed up to him, and he lifted her off the ground. “Thank you for my earrings,” she said. “Love them.” He kissed her, full on the lips, as if he was eating her.

Andrew coughed.

“Charming though this display of festive affection is, children, we Birches are in quarantine. George, should you be here?”

George looked at him. He had Phoebe’s lipstick all over his mouth, but he wore it like victory. Emma and Olivia walked in.

“What the—? He shouldn’t be here,” said Olivia.

“Lovely to see you, too, Liv.”

“We can’t see anyone till the thirtieth. Didn’t you explain?” Olivia said to Phoebe. She sounded unusually flustered.

“Of course I did! He knows. But he can stay till then, right?”

“I’m family! Nearly,” said George, his joker smile widening.

“Well, he has to,” said Olivia. “They’ve just exchanged God knows how much bacteria.”

“He has to stay?” said Phoebe, hopefully.

“Yes! It’s a public health risk if he leaves now,” said Olivia. “And you won’t be able to go anywhere till Friday, you know that, right? Even leave the grounds. We all have to stay here.”

Emma seemed to rediscover her default hostess. “Of course you must stay, George—not that there’s any real risk. How lovely. Will you have some coffee? Take it you’ve had lunch?”

They walked back to the dining room, Phoebe and George whispering behind Andrew.

“I can’t believe you came! You’re literally insane,” she said, in the same little girl voice she used to ask Andrew for money.

“I missed you, Phoebles,” said George. “And I was worried about you. You OK now?”

“Mmm. Thanks for coming.”

Andrew half wondered what George was talking about, but knowing Phoebe, it was probably nothing more than a broken nail. She was always having a melodrama about one thing or another. Still, he was surprised George had risked Haag for one of her crises. Andrew didn’t have him down as the type. Maybe he knew he was in the doghouse about the earrings. Perhaps he was just deeply stupid. Anyway, he supposed he had to get used to having George around.





Emma


THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 5:00 P.M.

? ? ?

Emma stood by the sink, handwashing the special plates. Everything had gone to plan, but the timings of Christmas lunch had left her exhausted. Even for four, it felt like a military operation. She was always afraid the turkey would be undercooked or that she’d end up “nuking it,” in Andrew’s words. Still, Ottolenghi’s sprouts were a success, and the pudding lit up with blue flames like a witch’s spell and, best of all, nobody had argued. Emma had feared the girls would bicker after their quarrel by the tree. She saw both their points and felt stretched between them. Phoebe could be a bit spoiled, but Olivia didn’t know her sister was fragile because of what she’d seen earlier. And Olivia’s way of looking at her iPad, when they were meant to be having family time, was rather rude. On the other hand, she might have some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, like a soldier. Emma knew, from Andrew’s war correspondence, that she could never understand what Olivia had seen. Still, she wished she didn’t have the feeling that Olivia looked down on their Christmas fun as slightly grotesque. She began squirting antibacterial spray over the worktop and had a sudden urge to clean the toaster tray. She wasn’t like this usually, she thought, giving the fridge handle a furtive wipe. She did hope she wasn’t getting that syndrome Phoebe talked about—OCDC, was it? Or was that a band?

The phone rang—it was Nicola.

“Emma, darling, Happy Christmas. How are you?” she said, in her new bedside manner.

“Terrific! We’ve had such a jolly day. Gorgeous weather here, too. And tell me about you, how are all your boys?”

But Nicola would not be drawn on her life. She kept bringing the conversation back to Emma and Weyfield.

“Have you told them? The girls and Andrew?” she said, in a stage whisper.

“Well, not yet—remember I didn’t want to put a dampener on Christmas? But Phoebe found out, unfortunately. This morning. She saw our e-mails from yesterday.”

“Oh, poor thing. Was she terribly upset?” Nicola sounded as if she rather hoped she had been.

“She was, I’m ’fraid. But George turned up to surprise her after lunch, and that seems to have helped. I think she must have told him. I did ask her not to. But discretion was never Phoebe’s forte.”

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