Seven Days of Us(72)
“Ha! Supportive?” she said. “Do you have any concept of the sacrifices I’ve made for you? D’you know what it’s like to give up everything you’ve worked for, to look after small children, so that you could do what you wanted? And you repay me by, by—” She didn’t want to lose momentum. If she gave him a way in, he’d remind her that she’d stopped working by choice. “You repay me by sulking, snapping, moaning—forcing us all to walk on eggshells every time the subs remove a word from one of your snarky columns.”
“So that’s what you think of my work?” he said quietly. His eyes were slits. “You think this is what I wanted? To be reviewing restaurants, when I could be reporting on the real world? You’re not the only one who gave something up, y’know, Emma!”
“Christ, you still haven’t got over it, have you? I’m sorry I dragged you back from a war zone, when you had two daughters! I’m so sorry I spoiled your fun, because I wanted them to grow up with a father, not a hostage or a . . . a headstone.”
“Civil war isn’t fun, Emma. It is important, though.”
“More important than your own daughters?”
He said nothing.
“Some father you’ve been, anyway,” she added. She wasn’t ready to stop yet.
“What?”
“Surely you’re not oblivious to that, too?”
“To what?”
“You and Olivia! You barely speak to her! You never even try to, not properly. It’s always been you and Phoebe. How do you think Olivia feels? Why d’you think she’s never here?” She wondered if she’d gone too far.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Emma,” he said tightly. “For what it’s worth, Olivia and I had a very enlightening conversation earlier. I was just coming to find you to tell you about it.”
Emma hesitated. She wanted to know what they’d talked about, but didn’t want to ask.
“She hasn’t had an easy time of it, being back,” he went on. “No doubt you’re congratulating yourself on making a fuss of her. But you don’t know the first thing about what she’s going through—what she’s been through.”
“Oh, and you do?”
“I have more idea than you.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew—but what does that have to do with you keeping something like this”—she snatched the letter from him—“secret from me?”
“You brought it up, Emma! And for the record, I’m not the only one in this marriage with secrets. God knows when you were planning to tell me you had cancer. If Jesse hadn’t said—”
“Jesse? Jesse! What about the rest of us? What about me?” She felt her grip on her temper loosening, years of composing herself unlocked. She yanked the neck of a bottle from the wine rack on the wall and held it up above her head, feeling like she was watching someone else—someone unhinged. Everything slowed down as she let go, and it met the stone floor with a crash. Andrew flinched at the explosion of crimson and broken glass, the wine splashing onto his socks and the bottom of his trousers.
“What the hell has got into you?” he shouted, backing up the steps.
Emma looked at the mess and burst into wild tears and giggles, all at once. A tiny voice in her head wondered if the flagstones would stain, and whether she should fetch the salt.
Olivia
THE WILLOW ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 11:03 P.M.
? ? ?
Olivia drew the curtains, stopping for a moment to look out the window. She could just see the puddles on the marshes, gleaming like black glass. Cocoa slalomed through her legs and she gathered him up, leaning her cheek on his silky, prism head. She used to hug him this way as a teenager—whispering grievances in his folded ear, taking his purr as sympathy. It was around that time she’d stopped calling Andrew “Daddy,” half hoping he’d object. But only Emma had seemed to mind. It had been strange to hear him talking as if they were allies, just now. For as long as Olivia could remember he and Phoebe had had their private thing. And Olivia had got used to that. Phoebe was the enchanting one. But perhaps her sister was right—perhaps Olivia and her dad were more alike than she knew. She’d long assumed that Andrew had quit war correspondence by choice, not Emma’s coercion. It was like looking at a room she’d always seen from one side, from the opposite wall. Phoebe and Andrew had all their media in-jokes, but his early work in war zones was a lot more like Olivia’s. And it had seemed, just now, as if he’d wanted her to see that. She felt warmer at the thought. Warmer, and disconcertingly weepy for her teenage self. The too-big fourteen-year-old who used to sit hugging the cat, listening to Andrew and Phoebe leave for yet another restaurant.
? ? ?
Her iPad chimed, and she released Cocoa to refresh her e-mail. Everything inside her jolted at the name in bold at the top of her inbox: Sean Coughlan. She opened the message and began to read.
FROM: Sean Coughlan <[email protected]>
TO: Olivia Birch <[email protected]>
DATE: Thurs, Dec 28, 2016 at 11:00 p.m.
SUBJECT: Re: PHEW!!
Olivia Birch! So I’m back in the land of the living . . . With an iPad and everything . . . I won’t lie, it’s not been the merriest of Christmases. Mostly because I was so worried about you. Are you sure you’re OK? Promise you’d tell me if anything is wrong. I felt awful that I had no way to contact you, or even check if you were all right.