Seven Days of Us(47)
“Sure. I get that,” said Dana. He was grateful that she didn’t say “I told you so,” even though he knew she was thinking it.
“I can’t send another e-mail. And I can’t find the number for the house anywhere.”
“How ’bout a letter? You could deliver it by hand tomorrow. You know somebody’s home. So you mark it ‘Private’ and ‘Please forward to Andrew Birch’ or whatever. And that way you can be sure he’ll get it, plus—”
The screen darkened, and her speech blurred. “Dana, you’re breaking up,” he said, but Dana’s face was replaced with an error message. The Wi-Fi was down. Again. Fuck this place, he thought. Why did nothing work in Norfolk? Maybe Dana’s suggestion wasn’t so bad. A letter had a certain gravitas. He could deliver it tomorrow morning, before catching the train. Besides, the headline to Andrew’s latest column felt like a sign. He could still see it on The World’s homepage, though the text was now maddeningly out of reach, as the little Wi-Fi fan refused to fill up. He read the headline again. It sounded like Andrew was definitely here in Norfolk. And it didn’t sound like his usual cutting tone. “Kinfolk come first at Christmas.” That had to be a message from fate, right? He took a sheet of the Harbour Hotel’s notepaper and began to write.
? 6 ?
December 27, 2016
Quarantine: Day Five
Olivia
THE WILLOW ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 7:00 A.M.
? ? ?
Olivia lay in the dark, knees drawn up to her chest. She’d barely slept. The row last night shuttled round her head like a trapped wasp. Usually arguing with Phoebe left Olivia feeling vindicated, but yesterday had caught her off guard. She kept hearing her sister say: “If you were a good doctor, you’d have noticed.” Emma seemed no different to usual, though. Frenetic, but that was her default setting. Still, Olivia felt shaken. Her mother was never ill.
On top of everything else, her latest blog about Sean had garnered a stream of spiteful comments. Olivia had first seen them when she’d taken her temperature yesterday, on her way down from the attics. She felt bad now for taking her anger out on Phoebe’s bridal collage. Her sister was obviously just looking for distraction, unable to deal with anything more than a tiara dilemma. Which made it even stranger that Emma had confided in Phoebe—the last person Olivia would want in a crisis. She knew why Emma hadn’t told her, though. Phoebe was right, Emma was afraid it would put Olivia off doing her quarantine at Weyfield. That she’d skip another Christmas. It wasn’t a comfortable thought.
Hunger growled inside her. Or was it a hungover, sick feeling? Her stomach, which had definitely shrunk in Liberia, must be thrown by the onslaught of rich food and daytime drinking. It was probably stress, too. Stress always went to her stomach, Olivia reminded herself, recalling how she used to throw up, without fail, before exams. She took her temperature just to be safe, despite the normal reading an hour earlier. The thermometer seemed to take forever. She realized she was holding her breath. Eventually, it flashed a cheerful 98.6. See? she told herself. You’re fine. Feeling a bit off post-Christmas is hardly remarkable. Don’t be paranoid. You need to stay rational, for Sean. The pips on the radio signaled the news, and Olivia groped to turn it up. She had taken to keeping the World Service on all night, so that when nightmares jerked her awake she met the soothing burble of the shipping forecast. The newsreader’s voice shifted gear, indicating a positive story. “Sean Coughlan, the Irish doctor diagnosed with Haag, is said to be improving. Doctors say he is in a stable condition, sitting up, eating, and able to read.” Olivia yanked her iPad off its charger. All the headlines said the same, Sean was stable—still Haag positive, but likely to make a full recovery. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, lit by the white glow of the screen, beaming madly.
FROM: Olivia Birch <[email protected]>
TO: Sean Coughlan <[email protected]>
DATE: Wed, Dec 27, 2016 at 7:05 a.m.
SUBJECT: READ THIS FIRST! Not previous e-mails!
Hi Pekin,
You’re OK! So, so happy to hear the news this morning (you’re a hot topic, by the way). I know you won’t see this today, as you’ll still be in isolation with only HEAT magazine and other combustible reading matter. But I’m writing anyway, so you get this as soon as you’re out. I want to be your first message. I’ve been so worried about you, baby. This will probably come out wrong, but you testing positive made me realize how much I care about you. I mean, not that I didn’t realize! Agh, I told you it would come out wrong—I’m rubbish at this stuff. I just can’t believe that four months ago I didn’t even know you existed, and now I’m never not thinking about you.
Sorry in advance for my hysterical e-mail on Christmas Eve (which if you’ve followed instructions in this subject line you won’t have seen yet. On second thoughts, maybe ignore it altogether).
How are you feeling? Rough, I expect. Like I said, I’ve been going quietly mad here, wishing I could do something, or just be with you. But besides that I’m fine, don’t panic. Fingers crossed I’d know by now if anything was wrong. It’s been so strange reading about you and hearing your name but not being able to speak to you, or even tell anyone about us. Hoping you haven’t said either? There didn’t seem to be any point freaking my parents out, potentially getting us in shit, etc. But it’s been pretty hard to act normal—or as normal as anyone could be expected to act, post Red Zone. Not that my dear family seem to get that. Thanks for ruining the nation’s Christmas, by the way. Joking.