Seven Days of Us(59)

Andrew deleted the lot. He wasn’t in lyrical mode. He began again, this time typing:

Readers of this column will know me as a food critic—the main occupational hazard of my job being heartburn. But between 1977 and 1987, I worked in Beirut as a war correspondent. For all its tortured history, Lebanon remains one of the most

He deleted that, too. He was too drunk to write anything factual. He tried another tack:

You say tabouleh, I say taboul-ah,

He preferred this, except he couldn’t think where to take it from there. There weren’t really two distinct pronunciations of “tabouleh,” anyway. Andrew had always been scornful of writer’s block—if one was a writer, one wrote. But now he was at a loss. Many columnists he knew would use Jesse’s arrival as copy. It would certainly make a neat preamble to a Middle Eastern restaurant. But something was stopping him. The idea that he was the man’s father still made no sense. He hadn’t expected to feel so detached, as unlike Jesse, as he did. The boy seemed so cheerful, so grateful, brimming with “positive energy”—so unlike Andrew. He was a vegan, for Christ’s sake. He was the kind of person that Andrew and Phoebe sniggered at, who probably practiced mindfulness. It couldn’t just be his American upbringing. They were made of entirely different stuff. If anything, Jesse was more like Emma.

Andrew had tried to expand on this observation to Emma earlier, up in their bedroom, but it had sounded pompous. Emma had said sharply: “Andrew, I don’t quite understand. He’s a sweet young man with good manners. I’d have thought you’d be relieved?” When Andrew had protested that he had nothing against Jesse, he just couldn’t believe that the man was his flesh and blood, she had gone back to crisis management, repeating that they owed it to Jesse to welcome him, adding: “It’s the least you can do after all this time. You’re his father.” It was like being punished with politeness. She probably thought Andrew minded Jesse being gay—which, of course, he didn’t. Or, if it did make him feel just slightly off-kilter, it was only because it wedged another difference between them. What did trouble Andrew was Phoebe’s response to Jesse—saying nothing at lunch and then hiding in the bungalow. But when he’d broached this with Emma, she’d got into bed and said: “Andrew, you know Phoebe. She’s had a fright. It’s up to you to lead by example. You’re the adult. Right, I must get some sleep.” He’d taken this as his cue to leave.

He drained the last of the port—it tasted of tomorrow’s headache. How had they reached a point where his wife could be diagnosed with cancer and not tell him?





? 7 ?


   December 28, 2016


   Quarantine: Day Six





Olivia


THE WILLOW ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:18 A.M.

? ? ?


FROM: Olivia Birch <[email protected]>

TO: Sean Coughlan <[email protected]>

DATE: Thurs, Dec 28, 2016 at 9:18 a.m.

SUBJECT: PHEW!!

Just heard the news—you’re officially Haag negative! Jubulani!! How are you feeling? Hope they get you out of isolation ASAP so you can read my e-mail ramblings and write back. Missing you so much. I miss your voice. I miss you saying everything’s “grand,” even when it’s about as un-grand as humanly possible. I’m still fine, by the way, don’t worry.

More drama here in sleepy Norfolk: this American dude came to the house out of nowhere yesterday, claiming to be my dad’s son . . . As in, I have a half brother I never knew about . . . In fact, nobody knew about, not even my dad until recently. Basically, he got some woman pregnant when he was working in the Middle East in the eighties and she had the baby adopted, without telling my dad anything. Probably for the best, since my parents had just got together at the time (don’t judge). Anyway the child—now adult male called Jesse—traced my father and e-mailed him but got no reply (typical of my dad). He probably hoped if he did nothing this illegitimate son would disappear. But instead Jesse goes and finds our address and walks in . . . Which sounds a bit psycho on paper, but I get it. He’d come all the way from California, so he must have been desperate. And then, once he was in the house, the only option was to finish the quarantine with us. Even more improbable, my mother somehow met Jesse and spoke to him at Heathrow on the 23rd—seriously, what are the chances? He landed in London the same day we did, and they were both waiting in arrivals (having said that, she talks to practically everyone). She’s being pretty tolerant of my father’s “indiscretion” (her words). I feel bad for her though, as she must be a nervous wreck as it is. She finally told me about her diagnosis yesterday. But since she’s carrying on being the perfect hostess it’s hard to know how to help. I’d like to be some support, but I find myself defaulting to work mode, like she’s a patient, and I don’t think she wants that.

The weird thing with Jesse is knowing he’s my brother, that we share all this DNA, but seeing a complete stranger. I can’t even view him like a distant cousin—it’s like there’s no connection at all. He seems perfectly nice, though. He asked me some proper questions about Liberia, unlike everyone else here. He must be mid-thirties, and all I know otherwise is that he’s gay, brought up in the Midwest, but now works in L.A.—in film or TV or something. My sister has really taken against him—partly because she’s fundamentally irrational, but also because she’s such a Daddy’s girl and now she has to accept that our father’s not this demi-god . . . Think it’s easier for me because I’ve never hero-worshipped him like she does. Until now I’d sort of forgotten that he used to work in a war zone. Not that I can talk. What we did was pretty silly . . . I’ll never regret it though.