Seven Days of Us(46)
They walked on for a while, saying nothing.
“Do you know when Mum is planning to talk about it?” said Olivia.
“Once your quarantine’s over.”
“It’s not just my quarantine.”
Phoebe was about to disagree, when her heel skidded sharply on the icy ground. She grabbed at Olivia’s sleeve to stop herself falling, but her ankle went over sideways under her. She felt something crunch inside.
“Ow, ow, ow. Shit. Ow,” she said, clinging to Olivia’s arm and holding her foot up limply. It was throbbing, the pain spreading over her ankle like heat. She felt slightly dizzy, with pain or the effects of the weed, or both, she couldn’t tell.
“Here, hold this,” said Olivia, turning her bike handlebars toward Phoebe and crouching to look at her foot with the torch. “Can you put any weight on it?”
Phoebe touched the road with her toe and winced as pain shot up her calf.
“Agh, no! It’s broken! I’ve broken it!”
“It’s probably just a sprain. They can be very sore. Take your shoes off,” said Olivia, putting her arm round her back to support her.
“I can’t. I can’t walk. It hurts too much.” She reached down to touch the top of her foot, the flesh already puffy and tender.
“OK, we’ll both go on the bike—you sit in front.”
They began riding slowly back to the house, Phoebe’s knees folded away from the wheels, and Olivia behind her, pedaling.
? ? ?
By the time they’d got into the bungalow and located some ice cubes in the prehistoric freezer, it felt wrong to carry on the argument.
“Sorry about before,” Phoebe said.
“It’s fine,” said Olivia, briskly. “You’ll sleep here, then? Might be better, with no stairs.”
“True. Did Mummy and Daddy know you went after us?”
“I didn’t tell them you’d left, no. They weren’t around.”
“Cool. If you see them now, just say you’ve been hanging out with me and George.”
Olivia looked unimpressed, but agreed.
“And tomorrow, we’ll just say I slipped in the garden, OK?”
“Fine. Keep it elevated.”
Typical Olivia not to say sorry back, thought Phoebe. So much for their sisterly bonding in the attic. She limped into the bedroom. George was already facedown in the pillows, snoring.
Jesse
ROOM 17, THE HARBOUR HOTEL, BLAKENHAM, 11:55 P.M.
? ? ?
It had been a bad birthday. Worse, even, than Christmas Day. Jesse had gone for a bleak run in the morning, half hoping to encounter George. In the afternoon he’d taken a cab to a celebrated town named Cromer, and wandered for an hour checking his e-mail every time he got signal. Still nothing from Andrew. He’d gone to an empty café on the pier and ordered a mug of black tea (what was with the milky tea here?) and a rigid scone, too hungry to forgo refined carbs. Afterward, he’d stood for ages on a shingle beach, watching gulls dive-bomb the charcoal sea. Then he’d sat through a terrible Christmas blockbuster, where he and a shady-looking man in a parka had been the only people in the movie theater. When he’d first arrived in Norfolk, the Regal Cinema would have tickled him, with its tiny screens and commercials for local fish and chip shops. But now, the way everything looked about thirty years old was depressing. He hadn’t taken his camera out of its bag. There didn’t seem to be any point.
Back in the Harbour Hotel, he began to pack. His train didn’t leave until mid-morning tomorrow, but he needed to do something practical. All day he’d toyed with going back to Weyfield. But what would he say if they deigned to open the door? “Oh, hi! I’m your uncouth American bastard, showing up uninvited!” Except—if he didn’t go—what then? Was he really going to quit, fly home, and pretend like the whole trip never happened? Chalk it up to experience: “The lousiest vacation of my life”? And to think he’d pictured himself making a breakout documentary about his journey. He’d barely filmed anything the entire time he’d been here, just a couple of shots of the beach. His camera had been a dead weight, following him around while exactly nothing happened. Nothing except George. And that made him feel kind of gross, looking back. The guy was engaged—the whole thing was sordid, not Jesse’s style. At least it hadn’t gone further than kissing. He e-mailed Dana: “No cell signal, Skype me ASAP.” That should appeal to her sense of drama. It was just midnight, meaning Andrew’s weekly restaurant review would be online. Jesse slumped on the bed, unsure if he even wanted to read it, and clicked on The World’s website. The headline for Andrew’s new column was up on its homepage.
THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR (HO HO)
Chefs, you can stuff your alternative turkey. Kinfolk come first at Christmas, says Andrew Birch, ahead of his week en famille in Norfolk.
Just as he was about to click Read More, Dana’s number and profile picture flashed up in the corner of the screen. He answered, and talked through his dilemma again.
“So now I have no clue what to do,” he finished. “I don’t want to just leave without trying once more, after everything. But when I went to the house yesterday . . . I don’t know, I just can’t go through with it again. Not after no reply. I need some, like, certainty. I need to draw a line under this whole thing.”