Seven Days of Us(38)

“I’m feeling better, by the way.”

“Sorry?”

“About Mummy.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, that’s shit.”

“D’you ever worry about your parents, like, getting ill?”

They didn’t often have conversations like this, and she wanted to keep it going.

“Not really. Bit morbid.”

“I guess. Just, I don’t know what I’d do, if . . . if . . .” Just thinking about saying the words “if Mummy died,” she felt tears jam her throat, like someone was digging in it with a spoon.

“Hey, stop it. It’s all going to be OK. We’re getting married, remember?”

She sniffed everything back. “Maybe you’ll come round to having the wedding here, after being quarantined?”

“Like Stockholm syndrome?”

“What’s that?” She knew what it was, but playing dumb was second nature with George. It seemed to make him happy.

“Don’t worry.” He kissed her, a slow, determined kiss on the lips. He was stubbly, and as she pulled away, she noticed mauve shadows under his eyes.

“I love you, Phoebe Birch.”

“I love you too,” she said. She wanted to jump up and do a victory lap round the bungalow. He had said it. He had finally said the words.





Jesse


ROOM 17, THE HARBOUR HOTEL, BLAKENHAM, 7:00 P.M.

? ? ?

After a damp walk and a slimy “vegetarian roast” in the Harbour Hotel’s dining room, Jesse spent the afternoon on his bed. He’d watched the queen’s speech and three episodes of an impenetrable comedy called Only Fools and Horses. This wasn’t how Christmas was meant to be. He was supposed to be at Weyfield Hall with his new family—although the whole idea now seemed stupidly naive. Calling home, lying to his parents that he was having fun and hearing everyone laughing in the background, had only made it worse. Especially the sad note in his dad’s voice, as he said: “Well, take care, son. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

There was still no reply from Andrew. The Glenmorangie Jesse had bought in the airport, knowing it was Andrew’s favorite, sat on top of the closet. Every time Jesse saw it, he felt small. If he wasn’t so hungover, he’d have opened it himself. He still hadn’t filmed anything. The idea of returning home with reams of footage of Norfolk, and none of his birth father, was too depressing.

He thought about George saying: “What have you got to lose?” It had sounded trite, but maybe the guy had a point. Perhaps, aside from a brief physical thrill, the universe had sent George to Jesse for that exact reason—to prompt him to go see Andrew Birch. He looked up at his dumb duty-free gift and felt a new defiance stirring inside him. Perhaps he was still drunk. Whatever, why not just go to Weyfield? If not to knock on the door, at least to see the place, maybe get some fresh inspiration for his film. Besides, he needed to know the house was real, that this whole thing wasn’t in his head.

Finding Weyfield Hall was not as straightforward as he’d assumed. Since he had no cell signal, he was forced to use the tiny, photocopied map in his room information pack. The sidewalk seemed to fizzle out as he left Blakenham, and there were no signs anywhere. He asked the two couples he passed for directions. The first were French and couldn’t help. The second kept saying “Just bear left and head for the sea,” which was hardly more use. It was dark, and a few lone flakes of snow bobbed in front of him. His feet were rigid. Too bad he hadn’t inherited the British imperviousness to cold. Just as he was about to give up, half relieved, he saw four chimney stacks sticking out of a cluster of trees, across the field by the road. That had to be the house. By the map, it looked like it was in the right spot. His pulse began to pick up. Fuck the roads. He ducked under the barbed-wire fence and strode straight across the frosted stubble.

Beyond the field he found the entrance to a gravel drive. The gates looked like they were always open, one hanging off its hinges and overgrown with ivy. There was a note tucked into the gatepost, which read: “Please leave all deliveries here, as we are unable to sign. Thank you.” Bizarre. Maybe they weren’t here after all. The whole place was more run-down than he had expected. It was actually kind of ghostly in the twilight, skeletal trees like black lace against the sky. Or was that just his nerves? Before he could chicken out, he began walking briskly up the drive, past some outbuildings, reminding himself he could always turn and run if he saw anyone. He rounded a corner, and there, twenty yards away, was the house. For a moment, he just stood looking up at the huge rectangular facade, several windows glowing with life. His heart was pumping like he’d done an hour in the gym. It was definitely Weyfield, he recognized it from the Country Living shoot. It reminded him of the dollhouse Dana had as a kid, like you could just swing the whole front wall open. He walked closer, slowing down, trying to stop his feet crunching too loud in the silence. The house came into focus—redbrick, with long stately windows and a shallow stone porch, coated with lichen. He stood by the front door a while, holding his breath, straining to hear sounds from indoors over his own pulse. But all he could hear was the wind in the bare trees, and the whoosh of distant cars. My father is in this building, he said, in his head. My father is on the other side of this door. He decided against the mossy doorbell and lifted his hand to touch the knocker instead, just to feel it, not sure if he had the balls to knock. It was shaped like a lion, a sprig of mistletoe clamped between its bared teeth. A light snapped on in the window directly above the door, followed by the sound of steps inside. He froze. They were the urgent steps of someone hurrying, right up to the door, as if they knew he was outside. Who was coming? What the fuck should he say? He was on set with no script—totally unrehearsed and unready. He jumped back, as the letterbox spat out a piece of paper, and caught a glimpse of fingernails as it clicked shut. The note by his feet was scrawled in gold pen: “Hi. We can’t answer the door. Call landline.” Jesse suddenly felt utterly freaked out. What had he been thinking, coming here, unprepared? What was this place, where people wrote in liquid gold and refused to answer the door or accept the mail? He turned and hurried down the drive, certain he was being watched. When he came to the field, he broke into a run across the open ground. He found the spot where he’d ducked the wire fence before, and this time vaulted over it, accidentally grabbing a barb and swearing out loud—with frustration as much as pain. Already he was cursing himself for being such a pussy, for not shouting out to the person on the other side of the door. But what else could he have done? It was a relief to see headlights swinging down the coast road, and the cottages near his hotel, windows flashing with Christmas TV. It was even good to be back in his crappy little room, he thought, rinsing the graze on his palm under the weak tap. The British were seriously eccentric. At least he’d have a story for Dana.