Seven Days of Us(53)

She still couldn’t believe that she’d met Jesse at Heathrow and had that long chat. It would be funny, if it weren’t such a lurid mess. Seeing his luggage by the table, Emma had a thought—his passport would reveal his birthdate. It was wrong, but excusable, to rummage. Unzipping the smaller bag, she found the passport in a pocket, with a bill from the Harbour Hotel. The identity page read “Jesse Iskandar Robinson, DOB Dec. 26, 1980.” He was older than Olivia. But if Jesse was born in December 1980, he must have been conceived during that year. She and Andrew had first kissed on January 4, 1980—the date etched in her memory. Which meant he’d either met this woman soon after Emma or had been involved with her already—while telling Emma he was unattached. Bastard. Bastard. She studied the passport photo again. Jesse looked like a film star. His mother must have been a knockout. So, on top of everything else, Andrew had gone and fathered a child more beautiful than either of their daughters without her. Stop it, Emma! she scolded herself. Don’t you even entertain that thought.

She replaced the passport, palms sweating, and registered that it had been Jesse’s birthday yesterday. Poor thing. What a wretched day he must have had, alone in the Harbour Hotel. She thought back to what he’d told her at Heathrow. Hadn’t he said he wasn’t sure if his birth father knew he had a son? She definitely remembered him saying that his father hadn’t replied to his e-mails. Why on earth hadn’t Andrew replied? And why hadn’t he shown Emma these e-mails? They were married—she had a right to know. No wonder he’d seemed so distracted and taken no interest in Olivia’s homecoming.

She heard the smoking room door open and stepped away from Jesse’s bags, marshaling her face into a smile. None of this is Jesse’s fault, she said to herself again. He deserves to know his father—every child deserves a father. Andrew, of all people, should appreciate that. Besides, hadn’t she been worrying about Jesse all this time? It was hardly fair to shun the boy now, just because his birth father happened to be her husband. The least they could do was give him a proper Weyfield welcome.





Andrew


THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 11:17 A.M.

? ? ?

Emma was still in the kitchen when Andrew came to find her. He’d left Jesse gazing round the smoking room. The news of Emma’s diagnosis, the fact that she’d kept it from him, had been like a punch in the face. How many shocks could a man take in a morning? he wondered, thinking it would make a neat first line to something. Emma was leaning against the AGA with a brittle smile.

“I’ve looked at his passport,” she said. “In case you were going to try and cover that up, too.”

“Emma,” he said, without much idea what he’d say next.

“Who was she?”

Close up, he saw that her eyes were glassy. He realized he hadn’t seen her cry for ages, not since her cousin’s funeral last year. The cousin had died of cancer. Why hadn’t she told him she was ill?

“Emma, listen,” he said, again.

“Actually, you can explain yourself later,” she said. “Where is he anyway? Where did you leave him?”

“In my study.”

“The smoking room?”

“Yes.”

“And now what? Did you tell him that he’ll have to stay, now that he’s here?”

“Well, we touched on it, but we had other—”

“Andrew! You need to explain properly. I’ll go.”

Back in the smoking room, Jesse was standing up, looking at a hunting print.

“You have a beautiful home,” he said to Emma, as they walked in.

“Thank you, Jesse,” she said, smiling warmly. The way she could switch her anger off, for good manners, was formidable. It was a product of her breeding.

“Now, this boring quarantine business,” she began.

“I remember!” said Jesse. “The banner you made for Olivia—we talked about it.”

“You’re too sweet,” she said. “That’s it, you see—now you’re in the house, you really shouldn’t leave until we’re all clear. It’s just until the thirtieth. So you’re stuck with us, I’m afraid.” She laughed, a little wildly. “We’ve been calling it Haag arrest!”

“But, uh, my flight leaves this afternoon.”

“You’ll have to book another one,” said Emma. “We’ll pay, of course. It’s the least we can do. You don’t have anything pressing to get home for, do you?”

“I guess not,” said Jesse. “But are you guys sure? I don’t want to impose. I feel bad, you probably need some space . . .” He tailed off.

“Not at all! It’s our pleasure,” said Emma. “I’d been wondering how you were getting on. What an absolutely incredible coincidence. We’d have insisted you stay anyway; you’re family.”

She was taking the Pollyanna act a bit far now, thought Andrew.

“It’s very low risk,” she carried on. “But we just need to be doubly cautious, because one of Olivia’s poor colleagues went down with it on Christmas Eve. He’s on the mend, but he’s not out of the woods yet.”

“Sean Coughlan?” said Jesse, his eyes widening.

“That’s right, the Irish boy. But he was going into schools and taking all sorts of risks, whereas Olivia’s been terribly careful. Anyhow, I think the Rose Room is ready. Why don’t we go up and you can unpack?”