Seven Days of Us(62)
“I’m sorry?” said George, looking up as if he’d been alone.
“You and Phoebe.”
“At uni, in Edinburgh,” said George. “Car-lege, to you,” he added in a strange American accent that sounded more West Country.
“Did you know she was ‘the one’ right away?”
“She did,” said George.
“They were peas in a pod from the word go,” said Emma, feeling this was the right thing to say, with George being so terse. In fact, the start of the relationship had been fraught with uncertainty. Emma remembered thinking it wouldn’t last. But, somehow, she’d been proved wrong, and George had become a permanent fixture. She’d never fully discussed it with Andrew. The times she’d tried, he’d always said any disapproval would make Phoebe keener. She suspected that this was a veiled dig at her own parents and had taken the hint.
“Where did you take her for your first date?” said Jesse.
“What is this, twenty questions?” said George. “There was no ‘date.’ We hooked up at a dive called the Mock Turtle. Gangstas and Hoes night.” He smirked. Emma couldn’t think what Gangstas and Hoes might involve. Was it some kind of hoedown? Jesse seemed to know, so it must be American.
George stood up, tossed the banana skin into the bin, and pulled down his hat. Emma made a mental note to move the peel to the compost later.
“I’ll go and get Phoebs,” he said.
Neither Emma nor Jesse said anything, as his loafers slapped down the hall.
“Are you happy she’s marrying him?” said Jesse, when the sound stopped.
Maybe Jesse was a bit too direct, thought Emma.
“Well, it’s not up to us. And he’s a good influence on her. He doesn’t put up with any of Phoebe’s nonsense.” This had long been her line on George. It was true, in a sense.
“Who doesn’t?” said Andrew, coming in.
“George. Isn’t that right?”
“One way of putting it,” said Andrew. He put an arm around her waist and sniffed the pan she was stirring. She froze slightly in his grasp.
“And that,” he said, “smells absolutely delicious. D’you realize, Jesse, in all the years I’ve been reviewing Michelin-starred chefs, Emma’s food is still the best I know?”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Jesse.
“Considering what a meanie you are about most places, I’m not sure I take that entirely as a compliment,” said Emma. Andrew’s body against hers felt at once alien and familar. What were they doing, carrying on as if everything was hunky-dory?
“Now that’s hardly fair,” said Andrew. “If a dreadful place opens, the public deserves to be warned. There are few greater letdowns than a bad dinner out.”
“You don’t hold back, that’s for sure,” said Jesse. “I was kind of intimidated to meet you, after reading your columns.”
“I do hope I didn’t disappoint?” said Andrew.
“You’re different, in person,” said Jesse, after a pause. “You seem, I don’t know, kind of frustrated, in your reviews.” The way he stressed the first syllable, “frus,” made the word sound more exasperated. It was odd to see a stranger get to the point so easily.
“Journalism is a frustrating business,” said Andrew, releasing Emma. “Everyone tinkering with your words. D’you know, in my last column they took the word ‘briny’ out of my phrase ‘flap of briny irrelevance’?” He looked at them both, eyes wide with disbelief. Then he added, not sounding at all like himself, “You’re right, though. It’s not worth fussing over. We have more important things to worry about. Speaking of which, how are we on the coffee front?” He took the spoon from Emma and pulled the bench out for her, before silencing them with blasts from the coffee grinder. She sat, pretending to read a wedding magazine. So this was how they were going to ride this storm. Least said, soonest mended.
Olivia
THE SHELL BATHROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 10:30 A.M.
? ? ?
Olivia shifted on the little stool she and Phoebe used to stand on to brush their teeth. She was pretty sure that she wasn’t going to be sick again. Slowly, she raised her head from between her knees and breathed. The bathroom smelled of Pears soap and the moldy patch on the wall. After a moment she felt steady enough to stand up. She found an old mercury thermometer in the cabinet over the sink, and checked her temperature. It was normal. Should she say something anyway? No. No point. It would only panic everyone—especially her mother, which was the last thing Emma needed on top of Jesse’s arrival. They’d demand she get checked out, and she’d have to tell them about her and Sean, and before she knew it an air ambulance would be landing on the croquet lawn, costing the NHS thousands, and she and Sean would be crucified by the press—and most likely it would all be for nothing. After all, she didn’t have any other symptoms (tiredness didn’t count—of course she was tired). It had to be the wine last night. Besides, being sick wasn’t even unusual for her. In any other circumstances she’d put it down to stress. The acid taste in her mouth took her back to being little, her mother stroking her back when she was ill. She remembered a miserable night when she had eaten a bad mussel, and they had sat in this bathroom together until dawn. She could hear her mother downstairs now, trilling above everyone else. She’d have to go and join them at some point, she thought, leaning her forehead on the window and trying to rally herself. Tears threatened, as she yearned for Sean’s big chest and orangutan arms wrapped tight around her. Surely home shouldn’t feel so lonely?