Seven Days of Us(37)
“George? What about the quarantine?”
“Well, he has to stay here now, with us.”
“Oh. Young love! Rather sweet, risking his life.”
“Well, yes, I suppose. Not that there’s a great risk. He must have realized she was low. I was a bit surprised, I must say. You know how I’ve never thought he was all that . . .”
“Sensitive?”
“Mmm. I thought he was a bit more”—she lowered her voice—“stiff upper lip, army type.”
“I thought he was in finance?”
“Well, the father’s military, or was, before he made his millions. And his brother’s in the marines. Anyway, just from what Phoebe’s said, I get the feeling the whole family don’t really ‘do’ feelings. Though I suppose Andrew and Olivia aren’t huge emoters. Phoebe and I make up for them with our waterworks.”
“And how is Olivia?” Nicola was back to her bedside voice. “I saw her new blog today. One doesn’t think about the difficulty of coming home, does one?”
“Her blog? I thought she’d finished it?”
“It was about being back in England.”
“Oh golly, I should have read it. What did it—did she say it was awful to be home and we didn’t understand her?”
“No! Of course not. She just—you know, it’s a huge adjustment, I suppose. You mustn’t catastrophize, Em. It’s not good for you.”
Emma had the feeling Nicola was backtracking. She knew she needed to look the blog up, now. She made an excuse about clearing away lunch, and then wished she hadn’t, because Nicola reminded her to “take it easy” and “be kind to herself,” which was rather irritating. Waiting for the blog to load, she thought of what Nicola had said about young love and how dismayed Olivia had looked at George’s arrival. She wondered if she minded not having a white knight of her own. She did hope Olivia would meet someone and have babies soon. Wasn’t that what life was all about? But Olivia always seemed so self-contained that Emma rather doubted she felt the same. The Internet connecter or whatever it was called seemed to have gone on strike. She would read Olivia’s blog later, she promised herself.
Phoebe
THE BUNGALOW, WEYFIELD HALL, 6:00 P.M.
? ? ?
Phoebe felt sluggish with daytime drinking and more food than she usually allowed herself. She and George were in the bungalow, which backed onto the drive. Her mother always talked about doing it up as a guesthouse, but never had done. Phoebe rarely came here anymore. It belonged to a different, teenage time, serving first for sleepovers with her best friends Saskia and Lara, and later for smoking and snogging. There were still relics of that era—Paris Hilton’s face on old magazines, a Ping-Pong table, and a lingering stench of tobacco and Febreze. Olivia hadn’t been part of the bungalow back then, although Phoebe remembered her attempting a party here with her lame medic friends. Trust her to do stuff a decade late. She hadn’t even got a boyfriend until Cambridge, while Phoebe’s love life had started at a respectable fourteen.
It was much warmer in the bungalow than the arctic main house, once you had both heaters on. Phoebe curled up beside George on the sofa, where, years ago, she had lost her virginity to Seb, a boy from the year above at Westminster. She reached for a chocolate and tried to think of something to tell George or ask him. “Stop me eating!” she said, after a while. “Seriously, I’m going to be obese by the wedding at this rate.” She wasn’t really worried—keeping herself under eight stone was second nature. But she kept finding her eyes drawn to Olivia’s model skinny legs. Her sister was as thin as she had been at school, when Phoebe lived in constant fear of Olivia being scouted (luckily she wasn’t pretty enough). George moved the chocolates and took one of the pearl studs between his finger and thumb. “They’re beautiful. Like you,” he said, wiggling her earlobe. He was being mushier than usual. Now that he was here she’d got over the Dinny Hall hoops. The worst thing was that she knew Olivia was right; it was bad as an adult to care so much about getting the right present, or that George had written “Lots of love” not “All my love” on the gift tag. But she couldn’t help it. So, on top of disappointment, she had to feel ashamed of herself, too—like a sandwich of rank feelings. “I can’t believe you came,” she said again, resting her head on his shoulder. She’d thought he’d barely registered the news about her mother. But perhaps that was just George—he was all about actions, not words. Put that way, it sounded kind of manly and hot. George didn’t answer. He was fiddling with an old lighter from Phoebe’s gap year in Paris. “You sure your parents aren’t freaking out that you’re here?” she said.
“They’re chill. If we get Haag, we’re getting it together,” he said, pulling her closer.
“Your mum sounded pretty anxious when I spoke to her this morning.”
“Did she? She shouldn’t read The Mail. I’ll call them again in a bit.”
“You knew you’d have to stay, right?”
“’Course! That’s why I came. I wanted to be held captive with you.” He kissed the top of her head.
Phoebe nestled into him. This wasn’t like George. Apart from holidays, she wasn’t sure they’d ever spent more than two consecutive nights together. He always needed to get to work, or the gym, or some sporting event. But she liked it. Besides, they’d have to get used to living together when they were married. It was still an unreal thought.