Seven Days of Us(44)

“You need to get out, Phoebles. Charlie Ingram’s having a party tonight,” said George. “He’s only in Glandford. We could walk.”

“Bae! We’re in quarantine.”

“Come on. Really? You said before this whole thing is OTT.”

“I know. But we can’t just leave. Olivia would go psycho.”

“Why can’t we? Seriously, I don’t get how it works,” said George. “She walked through a massive airport and then drove all the way here, right?”

“Yeah, but that was unavoidable. She had to get home somehow.”

“But if it was genuinely a public health risk, surely they’d quarantine her in Liberia?”

George leaned forward, looking at her intently and playing with her left hand. His signet ring gleamed on his little finger. His dad had got them made ten years ago.

“I guess. But—”

“But what? Clearly your sister doesn’t have Haag. So what’s the problem? Why put yourselves through quarantine when no one’s ill?”

“Isn’t there, like, the incubation thingy?”

“Fuck that. I need to get out of here. Your family’s intense.”

“You go, then.” How come he was allowed to comment on her family, when she never criticized the Marsham-Smiths? Not to his face, anyway.

“I can’t go without you! I want everyone to see my stunning bride. Pleeease.” He opened his pale eyes wide, so that he looked like a photo in negative.

“Maybe,” she said, but already she could feel herself giving in. She felt like flirting and getting drunk, forgetting about cancer. Andrew always said parties were her oxygen.

“Go on . . . Escape with me?” he said.

“Guess if I said we were sleeping in the bungalow they wouldn’t find out,” she said.

“Genius! I’ll tell Chingers,” said George, standing up.

She let him. The thought of flouting Olivia’s inflicted rules was too tempting. Served her right for being such a bitch.

? ? ?

Phoebe peered into the mirror in the dank bungalow bathroom. She’d left a note on the kitchen table:

George and I are eating dinner in the bungey. Will stay there tonight, got bedding, etc.

P xxxx

She was 99 percent sure this would put anyone off coming to bother them, with its suggestion of “date night.” She’d blow-dried her hair (it was a useless Weyfield hair dryer but better than nothing), and in her dress felt like she was emerging from a loungewear chrysalis. She’d only met George’s friend Charlie Ingram, aka Chingers, a few times and had always found him a bit awful, but he’d been very drunk. All the other girls there would be like Camilla and Mouse—blond, boarding school, blah blah. She’d probably have met them before and forgotten.

She walked out of the bathroom to find George smoking a joint. He looked her up and down approvingly.

“Where’d you get that?” she said. She hadn’t seen him smoke since his insomniac phase, years ago.

“Present from Matt,” he squeaked, holding down a drag. He held it out for her.

She didn’t want it—weed always sent her to sleep. But to refuse would deflate the conspiratorial mood of the evening. She sat beside him, breathing in his “going out smell” of Chanel égo?ste and chewing gum. Her three pecky tokes went straight to her head. By the time they crept through a gap in the hedge onto the road (safer than walking down the drive), they were sniggering like teenagers. Bent double in the darkness, George nearly tripped over, setting them both off even more. Straightening up on the road, he shouted, “Liberaaaaaation! Yes!”

“You’ve only been here twenty-four hours, you dick!”

“Longest twenty-four hours of my life,” he said, bolting away from her singing George Michael’s “Freedom.”

“Hey, waaaaait! I’m in heels!” She tottered after him, enjoying the night air on her face, and the rush of taking a risk. But as she neared George, she felt a bicycle whizz up behind them and screech to a stop. Olivia got off the bike. She looked so angry that Phoebe burst out laughing again. “You followed us! Ha, I can’t believe you actually followed us.”

“Phoebe! What are you doing?”

“Oops . . .” said Phoebe, trying to stop smirking.

“Oh, it’s funny, is it?” said Olivia.

“Hey, chill,” said George. “We were just going for a walk. We weren’t going to infect anyone with your deadly pox.”

“Right. In high heels,” said Olivia, looking at Phoebe’s feet.

“We got dressed for din—” Phoebe started, but began giggling again at the idea of eating dinner in the bungalow in black tie. The laughter began to take over her body, aching in her chest and ribs and face, until she couldn’t remember why she was laughing anymore and was just trying not to pee.

“You’re drunk,” said Olivia, sounding disgusted.

“I’m not. I’m not. I’m—we,” began Phoebe, but thought better of telling Olivia what they’d been smoking. She’d managed to stop now, but her legs were still weak. Olivia looked furious.

“Fucking hell, Phoebe. When are you going to wake up to yourself? You don’t just go skipping out of quarantine ’cause you feel like it. It’s only a week, for God’s sake! Can’t you put someone else first, just for a week?”