Seven Days of Us(52)

“But wasn’t Sean Coughlan going into schools, and that’s why he caught it? Plus, Mummy said this morning he was getting better,” said Phoebe.

“Yes. He was. And he is. But still.”

She stopped, as if her own voice was choking her, and at once Phoebe realized.

“You didn’t hook up with him, did you?” she asked. She’d seen the doctor in the papers and he was pretty hot. By her sister’s standards.

Olivia said nothing, but pursed her lips as a single tear leaked over her cheekbone. So that was why she’d been such a bitch all week.

Phoebe shuffled up to hug her, and they sat in a stiff side-on embrace for a moment. It occurred to her that Olivia was a massive hypocrite. She’d been preaching about Phoebe skipping quarantine—when she’d been busy shagging a Haag-infected colleague. It was nice to have the moral high ground, for once.

“I’m sure you’ll be totally fine,” she said, trying to sound confident.

“It’s not only me. I’m worried about Mum now. Just in case,” said Olivia.

“Mummy’s OK. She’s tough. Anyway, you’re not going to get Haag!” Phoebe knew her certainty didn’t ring true. “So was it serious with Sean? Can I see pictures?”

Olivia nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I’ve got loads on my iPad. Show you later.” It crossed Phoebe’s mind that the smear could be contaminated with Haag, and she moved minutely. Sometimes she even shocked herself with how nastily her mind worked. Olivia was right—she was selfish.

“When did you get together?” she said.

“Just five weeks ago. But it feels like we’ve known each other way longer.”

Phoebe thought how often she felt like she was meeting George for the first time. She’d always told herself it was romantic.

“He’s a really, really amazing person,” said Olivia, looking round. “He was in charge of pediatrics. What he did with the ward—it was incredible. He got all the paperwork reorganized, all the protocol. He saved so many children’s lives.” Her voice went thin again.

“Oh Wiv. He sounds amazing. I’m sure he’ll be OK.” She’d never seen her sister like this. Whenever she talked about her ex, Dull Ben, as Phoebe and Andrew privately called him, she sounded like she was talking about a dry relation.

“Yeah. I know,” said Olivia. “He’ll want to go back out there, even after this. That’s the kind of person he is.” A wood pigeon outside cooed its forlorn chorus.

“Don’t tell Mum or Andrew, or George, will you?” added Olivia. “Or anyone? I could get in serious trouble. There was a No-Touch rule out there.”

“’Course not,” said Phoebe. In the past, any glimpse into Olivia’s personal life had been relayed to Emma immediately. Her mother was usually pathetically grateful. This time, though, Phoebe decided to honor Olivia’s secret.

“What about you? Excited about getting married?” said Olivia. She always did this—changed the subject when she’d been talking about herself. It had put Phoebe off asking her stuff years ago.

“Of course,” said Phoebe.

“Are you going to move out of Gloucester Terrace before?”

“Maybe. It’s quite convenient being at home, with all the wedmin. Since Mummy and Daddy are paying.”

“Wedmin?”

“Wedding admin.”

“Ha. Oh right.” Phoebe knew what she was thinking: how can you marry someone you’ve never lived with?

“Anyway,” said Phoebe, “I think it’s kind of nice, to move in together after you’re married. It’s more special, like the olden days.”

“What, like dying in childbirth and getting an allowance from your husband?”

“Exactly! I’d love an allowance. No more shitty TV work.”

“D’you get on with his family?” said Olivia. It had taken her six years to ask this, Phoebe thought.

“Yeah. They’re OK. They’re quite—” She stopped. She knew Olivia wouldn’t get the shorthands she used with friends. “They’re just quite different to us, I suppose.”

“In a good way?”

“Not good or bad. Just different.”

“But he’s British, your age, university educated, they have a second home in Norfolk, and he grew up in London. So not massively different?”

“South London.”

Olivia laughed. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, but for once it sounded affectionate.

“It is different,” said Phoebe. “It’s a huge difference.”

“Where is he anyway?”

“Still asleep. He never gets up before eleven.” She prayed the man downstairs wasn’t her father’s gay lover. She needed to know what was going on, so she could spin an acceptable story for George—or at least something funny. Why did her family have to be so weird?





Emma


THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 11:02 A.M.

? ? ?

Emma leaned her forehead on the worktop. Her mind felt like the old cake mixer beside her, churning and churning, until her thoughts spun together in a gooey clump. Andrew and Jesse had been in the smoking room for over an hour. Emma had been hovering in the kitchen, unable to sit still. She had no idea where Olivia and Phoebe were. She hoped they’d stay away until she’d had a chance to speak to Andrew. Thinking of her daughters, she reminded herself that she was the parent. She’d had a shock, but she mustn’t be hysterical. She pressed her cheek to the cool marble, and tried to get a grip on the facts. Andrew had another child—a son who looked much the same age as Olivia. What if he’d known about this other baby, this other firstborn, all along? Her chest and throat tightened, as she remembered how he hadn’t seemed to share her elation at Olivia’s birth. Perhaps this, at last, was the reason. He had already fathered another child, and he knew it. Then again, she thought, jerking up, Jesse might be younger than Olivia. Which would be worse still, in a sense. Had Jesse’s mother been a one-off or a long-running affair? Had there been a string of other women while Emma was stuck at home with two small children? This was why she despised secrets. When they emerged, as they always did, they opened up a whole labyrinth of other unknowns. She gave a little sob of fury. How had everything spun upside down in the space of an hour? Her fingers slipped into her shirt and under her arm, fondling the bump under the skin like a worry bead.