Seven Days of Us(54)



It wasn’t the time to correct Emma’s theories on Sean Coughlan. As far as Andrew could make out the man had been unlucky, not reckless, but presumably Emma felt safer thinking this way.

They followed her up the back stairs, Andrew carrying the luggage, Jesse caressing the banister as if it were solid gold. He probably thought he’d landed in a stately home, thought Andrew, rather than a drafty, slightly decrepit manor house. Up in the Rose Room, Jesse turned, beaming. “This is so nice! Thank you,” he said. The Rose Room was Andrew’s least favorite in the house. It was too chintzy, and dominated by a mahogany wardrobe the Hartleys called Monster. Opposite the bed was a portrait of Granny Gwendoline, who used to glare at Andrew over torturous afternoon teas.

“You’re welcome,” said Emma, with a faint American nasality. It always happened when she spoke to foreigners. It was her empathy, her selflessness, he thought, with a rush of admiration. Emma was a trouper.

“You’re in the green bathroom with Phoebe—it’s on the left, just down the passage. I’ll put clean towels in there. Is there anything else you need?”

“I’m good for now. Thank you so much, Emma, I appreciate it. I’ll rebook my ticket, give you guys some time. You’ll need to talk to Olivia and Phoebe, right?”

“We shall,” said Emma. “But do make yourself at home. Lunch at one-ish.”

? ? ?

Outside, Andrew followed her mutely to their bedroom. She shut the door and sat on the chaise longue. He stayed standing, arms crossed, shifting from foot to foot.

“So. When were you planning to tell me?” she said. “Or did you think, if you ignored him, he’d go away?”

“Emma. Honestly, I had no idea about any of this. He e-mailed me out of the blue, before Christmas, and that was the first I’d heard of him—ever.”

“Honestly? You’d never heard of him?”

“Honestly. You saw the dates. When it—uh—happened, you and I had only just met. And I can’t tell you how insignificant it was. A drunken, one-night, utterly meaningless mistake. I was in Lebanon, missing you. I mean, we were so young. And it just sort of happened, I don’t know why. I’d never met her before, never saw her again. No wonder she never told me.”

“She wasn’t a—you didn’t pay for her, did you?”

“Christ, no! Emma! What d’you think I am? Look, I know I should have said something at the time. I wanted to. But I’d only taken you out a few times. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was afraid I’d lose you. It wasn’t worth that. I’d only have been telling you to assuage my conscience. It would have been selfish, in fact.”

“But Andrew! It’s not so much that it happened; it’s that you didn’t tell me. It makes me wonder what else you haven’t told me.” He wanted to bring up her unmentioned cancer, but perhaps it wasn’t the moment.

“There’s never been anything else, or anyone else, I swear to you, Emma. On Phoebe’s life. I loathed myself afterward. Truly. I’ve never forgiven myself.” He knelt down to be level with her, and his kneecaps screamed in protest. She said nothing, but as he looked straight into her large, light brown eyes, he felt that she believed him. There was relief in coming clean, after so many years. Almost clean. Clean enough.

“Well, it’s all so long ago, I suppose,” she said, eventually, picking at a thread on the chaise longue. “But what about poor Jesse’s e-mails? You should have told me the minute you heard from him. I’m your wife, Andrew. We’re meant to share everything! And you should have replied to him. Whatever else, I didn’t think you were a coward, or that you’d—”

“Now hang on,” he interrupted. “That’s not quite fair. I’m not the only one with secrets. Jesse told me about your diagnosis. For God’s sake, Emma! If we’re meant to share everything, I’d say that was pretty important.”

He saw the shock flash behind her eyes—it was rather satisfying. She opened and shut her mouth like a goldfish. Phoebe did the same, when you caught her out on a fib. Funny how genetics worked.

“That’s entirely different,” said Emma.

“How?”

“I was going to tell you. I just didn’t want to ruin Christmas.”

“Emma—I’m not a child! If I’d found a, something, or been diagnosed with anything, you’d be the first to know.” I’d need you to know, he thought. I’d need your help. Why didn’t she need him?

“Well, you know now. I start treatment in the New Year. Right, I should speak to the girls,” she said flatly, standing up.

He didn’t feel they’d resolved anything. But if she was prepared to explain everything to Phoebe and Olivia, he wasn’t going to stop her. He wouldn’t have known where to begin.

“Shall I come with you?” he asked, knowing she’d say no.

“Rather you didn’t,” she said. She left, and he stayed kneeling on the rug. She was right. He was a coward.





Phoebe


THE DINING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 1:12 P.M.

? ? ?

“Gosh, I just can’t get over all this,” said Emma, folding napkins with a slightly panicky precision. Phoebe felt like she was stuck in a messed-up dream. She wished her mother hadn’t laid the table in the dining room. It always made meals weirdly formal—as if lunch with Jesse wasn’t going to be awkward enough. Her father appeared to be hiding. The thought of him shagging some random woman made Phoebe feel like throwing up. Even worse, her first thought on seeing her half brother was that he was hot.

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