Seven Days of Us(68)

“No!” This line of questioning was annoying Emma. Why did she always call Nicola for sympathy, only to come away feeling cross?

Andrew walked in and she used him as an excuse to hang up. He was holding a cup of tea and mince pie—for her, she guessed, since he never ate between meals. He was still groveling, then.

“Where’s Phoebe?” she asked, as he set the cup down on the dressing table. She fought her mother’s voice, telling him it would make a ring on the wood. He’d never understood about good furniture.

“Earl Grey, madam?” he said.

“Thank you. Where’s Phoebe? Is she all right?”

“She’s on the sofa looking sorry for herself, eating Nutella out of the jar.”

“OK. That’s good. She’s eating.”

“Now you must stop worrying about Phoebe and look after yourself,” said Andrew.

“And where’s Jesse?” she asked, ignoring him. How could she not worry about Phoebe? “You didn’t leave the two of them together, did you?”

“No sign of Jesse. Keeping a safe distance, I’d have thought,” said Andrew.

“I’m sorry, Andrew, but I just can’t believe he would suggest such a thing—to Phoebe’s face. George isn’t gay!”

“It was unfortunate she overheard, I know. You look very regal, sitting there,” he said.

“Unfortunate? It couldn’t have been worse. She’s distraught, thanks to him.”

“Now hang on—it’s George who’s to blame here, not Jesse. Phoebe was hysterical long before he said anything. Anyway, isn’t this whole business a good thing, ultimately?”

“Good?”

“Come on, Emma. Neither of us were wild about George. We only tolerated him because if we’d said anything, it’d just have made Phoebe keener.”

“Well. I know he was a little bit—” She paused, not sure how to say what she meant without sounding snobbish. It was too soon to be having this conversation anyway. George had barely left. They might well get back together.

“A little bit of a cunt?” said Andrew.

“Andrew! You know I hate that word. And no, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, I sometimes worried that he didn’t listen to Phoebe,” she said. She didn’t add, “And his parents were a bit Brexit,” but she wanted to.

“Same difference. Jesse said they struck him as not having quite gelled, as if they were ‘playing’ at being a couple. I thought that was rather incisive.”

“Oh,” she said, not wanting to agree, although he was right—Jesse was spot-on. Andrew rarely praised anyone else’s opinion on anything.

“They did seem a little mismatched, sometimes,” she conceded.

“Emma, they aren’t, weren’t, remotely suited. He’s a rugby-playing Hooray Henry. That’s not Phoebe, cheering on the sidelines with the other little wives. Far better that they get this over with now, than go through a miserable divorce in five years’ time.”

“Well. But still, this gay business. That’s just absurd. And so insensitive!”

Andrew scratched his nose vigorously. “Didn’t you even wonder if Jesse’s right?” he said, turning to face her. “Speaking of rugger buggers?”

“No! Of course he isn’t. We’d know if he was gay. Why would he be with Phoebe?”

“You’re forgetting what kind of people the Marsham-Smiths are. This isn’t Primrose Hill. Or Los Angeles for that matter. His parents would be furious.”

“But he’s nearly thirty! Surely he can be gay if he wants. Honestly! They’ve got all those other sons.”

“Apparently it’s rather common for third sons to be homosexual. No other way to distinguish themselves.”

She decided not to dignify this fatuous theory with a response. It was all a bit near the knuckle anyway. She suspected Andrew was rather shocked that his own son was gay, despite himself.

“Jesse and I were talking about it earlier,” Andrew continued. “He had a dreadful time, coming out as a teenager in the Midwest. Must have taken great courage.”

Emma clenched her toes. Don’t say anything, she ordered herself. But it was hard to hear Andrew quoting Jesse when he struggled to mention Olivia. Besides, where had this enthusiasm for his new child sprung from? Yesterday she’d been pushing Andrew to give Jesse a warm welcome.

“Well, I’m sorry about that, and I know he’s your son, but once this quarantine is over, I think it’s best he leaves,” she said. “Phoebe needs some breathing space—we all do.”

She stood up, taking the cup with her, to show the conversation was over. Andrew might be carrying on as if everything was normal between them, but she needed more time.





Olivia


THE BACK SITTING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:33 P.M.

? ? ?

The queasy feeling had faded to a background hum, as if Olivia had just stepped off a boat. Anxiety—that’s all it was. She had nearly e-mailed Sean after being sick, but it would only freak him out. It hadn’t happened since. And she still had no fever. She’d been tempted to e-mail him after lunch, too. She knew Sean would get why she was so annoyed by Jesse’s ridiculous theories. But she should probably try to play it a bit cool—at least wait for Sean to reply once before writing again. She had no idea if he’d even received her messages, though he ought to have his phone now that he was out of isolation. Her whole body felt edgy with missing him.