Seven Days of Us(61)
As they walked downstairs, the smell of bacon drifted up from the kitchen, and Olivia knew, abruptly, that she had no choice but to be sick. She mumbled something to Phoebe about getting her iPad and sprinted to the bathroom. Three foul heaves hijacked her body. She knelt by the loo, trying to slow her ragged breathing, eyes clamped shut so she wouldn’t have to see the contents of her stomach in the bowl. After a moment she stood up and looked in the mirror, gripping the sink to stop her arms from shaking. Her face was a greenish yellow, and her eyes were shot with blood from choking up her empty insides. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she thought.
Emma
THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 10:12 A.M.
? ? ?
Cooking, and Jenni Murray’s voice on the radio, felt like anchors to normality. Emma had made one pan of mushrooms and tomatoes for Jesse, and another of bacon and eggs for everyone else. With breakfast sizzling, she started to prepare lunch, a vegan curry she’d found on Google. Andrew had slept in the smoking room last night. Emma had found him already up and dressed with Jesse when she’d come down earlier. The two of them had gone to look at the gun room, at Andrew’s suggestion, so Emma had begun to cook for everyone on her own. At least Andrew was making an effort, after whining last night—idiotically—that he and Jesse had nothing in common. She realized that a small, rather mean, part of her wanted it to be hard work for Andrew. He never did anything he didn’t want to.
Phoebe appeared, enveloped in one of George’s jumpers. Emma hadn’t seen her since lunch yesterday. She hoped she’d come round to Jesse soon. It was embarrassing, her daughter sulking like a teenager.
“What’s that?” said Phoebe, inspecting the casserole on the AGA.
“Aubergine curry. Not a speck of meat.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes.
“I thought you were rather keen on vegan food?”
“Me? No. Although ‘hashtag clean eating’ is a handy cover for anorexia,” said Phoebe, in the faux chirpy voice that made Andrew laugh. She had a lot on her plate, Emma reminded herself.
George came in, wearing a little wooly hat. He kept it on, even though the kitchen was steamy. She suspected it must be to hide his receding hairline, poor thing. How awful to lose one’s hair, she thought, and then remembered her looming chemotherapy.
“Morning, Mrs. B. Yo, Phoebles,” said George. “Thought I smelled bacon.”
Emma still hoped he might change his mind about having the wedding at Weyfield. Perhaps she could play the cancer card. Linda Marsham-Smith wouldn’t have much to answer to that.
“Where’s Daddy?” Phoebe asked Emma.
“In the gun room. Showing Jesse Papa’s shooting things.”
“Guns? Guess he is American,” she said, as if it was an embarrassing medical condition. George straddled the bench by the table, and Phoebe sat on one of his thighs. Cocoa, who was lying by George’s foot, stood up and stalked off.
“Thought he’d be too gay for firearms,” said George.
Phoebe tittered. It wasn’t like her—she had several sweet gay friends she referred to as her “walkers.” George took a banana from the fruit bowl and shoved most of it into his mouth in a single bite. Emma had to stop herself from saying: “I’m just cooking a lovely breakfast and you’re going to spoil your appetite.”
Instead, she said, “Anything wrong with being homosexual?” She kept her tone light, but realized she was holding a wooden spoon rather threateningly.
“Hey there,” said Jesse, coming in. His grin suggested he hadn’t overheard—thank goodness. But George looked unusually alarmed, like a trapped animal. There was a strained pause until Phoebe squawked: “Hey, is that the last banana? It is, you knob! I always have one with my porridge—you know that.”
“Sorr-eee,” said George, batting his eyelids and offering her the bit in his hand.
“Waitrose doesn’t deliver again till tonight,” she said.
“Oopsies.”
Phoebe said nothing, but managed to execute a hobbled flounce out of the room. George gave his hat a nervous tug, as Phoebe shouted back, “I’m going to have a shower. In the bungalow. Stairs hurt too much.”
Emma wondered if she ought to go after Phoebe, encourage her to eat breakfast, but decided against it. Yesterday, seeing how Phoebe had taken Jesse’s arrival, she’d realized she babied her youngest. Perhaps it was because Olivia had always refused to be coddled. And the result was that Phoebe threw a wobbly over a banana. Still, it wasn’t terribly chivalrous of George.
“Aren’t you going to check that she’s OK?” said Jesse. He was fabulously direct, thought Emma.
“Phoebs? She’s fine. Just needs to chill—read a bridal magazine or something.”
Emma looked at George, engrossed in the jigsaw she had started down one end of the table. He had the kind of face that wouldn’t age well, she feared. She remembered how the snub nose and fine jaw had looked boyish when he and Phoebe had met, but a heaviness was settling around the features now. His eyes were still very pretty, though she’d always found their wolfish pallor rather disconcerting.
“Can I help, Emma?” asked Jesse, but she batted his offer away.
“So, uh, how did you guys meet?” said Jesse to George, sitting on the bench, his back against the table. His legs trailed over the floor and he crossed one over the other, just like Andrew did, as if to tidy them away.