Seven Days of Us(71)

Andrew


THE SMOKING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 10:20 P.M.

? ? ?

Andrew stayed sitting on the sofa, thinking. His oldest daughter, who usually shunned him with evasive eyes and brief answers, had opened up. They had had something amounting to a real conversation. Then he remembered why—she’d come to complain about Jesse’s misplaced advice. In twenty-four hours, Jesse had managed to alienate Andrew’s entire family—first Phoebe, then Emma, and now Olivia. Yesterday, Andrew had naively assumed that Jesse was doing rather well. Emma had warmed to him, Olivia appeared to accept him—and no doubt he would have charmed Phoebe in time. If anything, Andrew was the one struggling to make sense of this sunny stranger. But today, Jesse had messed it all up with his well-meant opinions and advice. It made Andrew feel unexpectedly defensive, as if he’d known his son for much longer. Besides, he was convinced Jesse was right about George. He thought of the boy’s vile, openly expressed homophobia—not to mention his obscene Lycra. Phoebe had really had a lucky escape. But when Andrew had put all this to Emma for a second time, before dinner, she’d shut him down. “It’s very normal that you’re making sense of your own son being gay, but that’s nothing to do with George,” she’d said. Bloody condescending. When he’d protested, she’d changed gear and said that Andrew was obviously “infatuated with Jesse.” She never stuck to a linear argument. And he wasn’t infatuated with Jesse. In fact, Andrew decided, he’d show her that right now, by telling Emma about his talk with Olivia. He didn’t really expect Emma to take Jesse’s dubious medical advice seriously. But this was the first thing Olivia had asked of Andrew since she was a child. He wanted to keep his word.





Emma


THE BACK HALL, WEYFIELD HALL, 10:27 P.M.

? ? ?

Emma almost smacked into Andrew in her hurry to the smoking room—just as he was walking out of it. He put a hand on her elbow to steady her. She recoiled, and barked, “Come to the cellar!”

“What?”

“The cellar.” He looked baffled, and she didn’t care. It was a Hartley tradition to have tricky conversations in the cellar—it guaranteed privacy in a house full of servants. Not that she and Andrew needed to consider such things. She switched on her torch as she opened the cellar door and began to descend the stone steps, their edges rounded by her forebears. There was something comforting about the cellar, the buried depths of the house. She breathed the distinctive, musty smell, like a church, looking round the bell-shaped space at the bottom of the stairs. A wine rack to her right still held the last of their wedding claret, which Andrew was saving for God knows what.

“This,” she said, handing him the handwritten letter she’d found in the briefcase lining. He seemed to recognize it at once.

“How did you— Oh, Christ,” he said, sitting on the bottom step and rubbing his forehead.

“Well?” she said, looking at the sheet in his hand.

“Emma, I’m, I’m a fool. I’m so stupid, I—”

“A fool? Incompetent, certainly. I presume you never intended to tell me? You thought that would be an end to it?”

“It just, it seemed better that way. I thought it would cause you needless pain. I was planning to burn it, if you must know. But then—”

“Better to burn it? To lie, to cover your tracks like a snake in the night?” She knew she was muddling her metaphors, and she didn’t care.

“Emma—if you’ll let me finish—I was planning to burn it, but then Jesse arrived and I thought, well, I thought he deserved to see it, one day. It’s all he’ll have of his mother.”

“Oh, right. How noble of you. So you think you deserve a medal, do you?”

“Emma—please don’t be sarcastic. You have to understand, I didn’t even believe that letter when I got it. I thought it was a hoax, or that the woman was delirious. It wasn’t until Jesse e-mailed me that I realized it was genuine, and that—”

“But you’d still kept it all that time?” she interrupted. “Hidden away, for over a year. Just in case?”

“Mmm.”

Neither of them spoke.

“I never replied to her,” said Andrew eventually. “We never had any correspondence.”

“Andrew! You still don’t understand, do you? I wouldn’t have given a flying fig if you’d replied to that poor woman—in fact, that would be the right thing to do, for fuck’s sake!” It was exhilarating to finally swear. Her heart was pummeling her rib cage. “It’s your lying that’s the problem. Hiding things, burning things! What sort of man does that? How can I trust anything you say anymore? Anything you’ve ever said?”

“Emma—”

“Don’t! I don’t want to hear your feeble excuses! I thought you were a decent man, despite everything.”

“I’m sorry? Despite everything?”

She realized she was in too deep to go back.

“Yes. How you’ve treated me, all of us.”

“How I’ve treated you? How have I ever been anything but the supportive husband?” He stood up, looming over her. His face was indignant, now. She was glad. She wanted a fight, a real fight. She needed him to be angry, not contrite.