Seven Days of Us(63)
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By the time she made it downstairs, only Emma and Jesse were in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. She paused in the doorway for a second, as she realized what they were talking about.
“They’ve proven that cancer cells feed on sugar,” said Jesse. “They did this study where they had one group of cancer patients eat their regular diet and another group go sugar free, and their tumors practically vanished.”
“Golly,” said Emma. “Oh dear. Me and my sweet tooth.”
“Hey—no—don’t blame yourself. Sugar is disguised. It’s everywhere—ketchup, bagels, even fruit. People assume fat is the bad guy, but it’s sugar we need to cut back.”
“Well, I don’t eat a vast amount of ketchup, at least!” said Emma, with a forced laugh.
“You should look up this TED Talk. I’ll e-mail you the link,” said Jesse.
“Oh yes, fab!” said Emma. Olivia could bet she had no idea what a TED Talk was.
“There are actually a ton of natural remedies for cancer, but nobody knows about them because it’s not in the pharmaceutical companies’ interests. There’s like a whole underground movement for fighting cancer without chemo.”
“Really? Is that wise?” said Emma.
“It’s extreme, sure. But it has to be up to the individual. Nobody should feel obligated to accept an aggressive treatment—right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Even just alkalizing your diet a little can be helpful.”
Olivia backed out of the kitchen before they’d seen her. She stood by the door, wondering what to do as they prattled on and on about superfoods and juice fasts—Emma cooing as they googled “eat to beat cancer.” Usually, Olivia would have walked in and confronted Jesse—asked him to back up his vacuous theories with proof, shown him some WHO survival rates. But he was her dad’s son, her new brother, it would be massively awkward. And right now, she felt too drained for an argument. Still, maybe Phoebe had a point about him after all.
Phoebe
THE DRAWING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 11:00 A.M.
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One more day of this hell, thought Phoebe, lying on the sofa. One more day, then she and George could flee to London. She’d skipped breakfast to make a point and was hungry now, but she could hear her mother and Jesse still in the kitchen. It wasn’t fair that she was forced into hiding in her own house. At least she’d lose weight, avoiding so many meals. She leaned forward to prod her puffy foot, half enjoying the pain that roared back, and peeled away her sock to examine the bruise. The skin was a storm of green and lilac, slightly pearlescent, like cheap eyeshadow. She lay back, letting Cocoa lounge on top of her, and stared at the Christmas tree. Everything seemed so different, so grown up. She’d given George the backstory to Jesse last night, and it hadn’t gone well. She knew he was judging. When she tried to explain why Jesse riled her, George just said she couldn’t deal with a gay brother. That wasn’t the problem—Jesse was. His happy-clappy California-ness was the problem. The eager vegan, she thought, knowing this would make her father laugh, in different circumstances. Even Jesse’s J. Crew catalog face was annoying. Olivia didn’t understand stuff like that, but at least she was prepared to talk about him—unlike George. Come to think of it, her sister still hadn’t made it downstairs. Phoebe considered going to check if she was OK. But her foot hurt too much. Olivia was probably reading the news somewhere.
She watched a couple of YouTube first dances to take her mind off everything. The couples were all cheesily American, like Jesse. Then she leafed through the copy of Brides. It always fell open at the same page, headed “How to Make Your Wedding More YOU.” She’d decided on her Winter Wonderland theme, but she couldn’t seem to get beyond that. Whenever she pictured the wedding, she always imagined walking up the aisle with Andrew, or everyone crowding round her—alone—at the reception. George never figured in her mental images. She’d thought being quarantined together would be a chance to brainstorm ideas. But every time she mentioned the wedding he said, “Bit early, isn’t it?” He’d been tetchy since yesterday, after being so soppy at Christmas.
She wondered idly if Olivia and Sean would get married, remembering how besotted Olivia had sounded yesterday. She’d never seen her sister like that. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been like that herself, about George. Reaching for her laptop, she googled “Shaun Cofflan” before she could dwell on this thought. It replied reproachfully: “Did you mean Sean Coughlan?” There was a picture of Sean, surrounded by laughing black children, wearing Saintly-Person-in-Hot-Country clothes: combat shorts and Velcro sandals. He had a big nose, but nice eyes and a good body.
Olivia came in, and Phoebe minimized the search. Her sister looked tense, even for her. “Can we go somewhere private?” she said. “Attic? I need to see a different four walls.”
“Sure. If you help me with the stairs.”
Phoebe was surprised that Olivia was coming to talk to her, for once. And pleased, she realized, as they climbed the final flight arm in arm.
They went into the room where they’d found the time capsule and sat on some lumpy eiderdown quilts—the ones that would cost fifty pounds each in Portobello.
“I’m worried Jesse’s giving Mum quack advice,” said Olivia. She was panting more than Phoebe. All those evening runs with George must have paid off.