Seven Days of Us(74)
Jesse
THE ROSE ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:21 A.M.
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Jesse had never felt so homesick. Or so hungry. He’d barely eaten since breakfast yesterday. And he’d been awake nearly all night, replaying everything in his head. Whichever way he turned, the multiple sheets and blankets tangled round his shins, like a net. Didn’t the British have quilts? Now, staring out at the gray morning, he yearned to press rewind. He didn’t belong here, and he was dumb to think he could fit in. The whole idea of his “adoption story” documentary seemed laughable.
He knew he had to leave the Rose Room. But the thought of encountering any of the Birches flooded him with fresh shame. Dinner, last night, had been quietly excruciating. He contemplated fleeing, like George, but if he left now he would effectively end any relationship with Andrew—period. Besides, it would infuriate Olivia, who was so big on finishing quarantine. He had to stay and salvage things, today. That was what his mom and dad, back home, would tell him to do. He would apologize to Phoebe, and again to Emma. And he would try to redeem himself in Olivia’s eyes by asking again about Liberia, the way none of the others seemed to. That was the plan.
Now was a good time to grab something to eat, because he’d seen Phoebe limp down the drive five minutes ago. He felt so bad for her. He remembered how he’d felt when Cameron had left him. He’d stayed in bed for two days—Phoebe was doing well to get up at all. Knowing he was the likely catalyst for George’s decision made him feel even shittier. But the whole relationship was doomed, he reminded himself, engagement ring or not. If it hadn’t been Jesse, it would have been someone else.
He checked his reflection in the fussy gilt mirror before leaving the room. His skin looked like oatmeal. He needed to get back to the sun. He took a long centering breath and opened the door.
Olivia
THE DRAWING ROOM, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:29 A.M.
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The e-mail came from Dennis White, Olivia’s supervisor at HELP who had coordinated the volunteer program in Liberia. Seeing the subject “Sean Coughlan,” she assumed it was a group e-mail to all the volunteers on their final day of quarantine. She would open it in a second, she thought, shutting her eyes against the screen. The hum of nausea was back, more insistent now. Was that saliva pooling in her mouth? She curled up on the rug to ease the fatigue in her legs, and forced back the thought that sickness, drooling, and exhaustion were textbook early Haag symptoms. If she had caught it from Sean, she would know by now. In just a few hours, quarantine would officially be over. She opened Dennis’s e-mail to distract herself. It was addressed to her alone.
FROM: Dennis White <[email protected]>
TO: Olivia Birch <[email protected]>
DATE: Thurs, Dec 29, 2016 at 9:15 a.m.
SUBJECT: Sean Coughlan
Olivia,
I have been trying to call, but your mobile appears to be switched off. I have reason to believe that you and Sean may have been physically involved in Monrovia. Not wishing to approach Sean in his current state, I’m approaching you in the first instance.
I need hardly explain what a serious breach of protocol this constitutes. Please could you call me, as a matter of urgency, to confirm whether or not you and Sean were in a relationship, and, if you were, how strictly you have observed quarantine over the past week. Once I hear from you, I will be obliged to discuss what action to take.
Dennis
Olivia sat straight up, her heart hammering. How could Dennis know? She thought of Sean’s offhand comment about his nurse’s crush on him. Could this nurse have snooped through his e-mails? Sean had always been less careful than Olivia. She remembered the time she’d WhatsApped him a photo of herself in a bikini, and he’d left it out in full view of their colleagues. She scrolled back through all their messages, wondering if she could claim they had become close, but hadn’t had any physical contact. It was obvious they were a couple. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the world to disappear, to leave her alone with nobody except Sean.
The door opened and Jesse came in, holding a mug. The last thing she felt like was small talk. She stood up, and as she did so a warm, churning nausea flushed through her again—from her scalp down to her knees. Stars danced at the edge of her vision, and as she reached out for the sofa, the whole room blurred. She heard the blood swoosh in her ears, and Jesse’s voice, sounding a long, long way away, as if he were calling down a tunnel, saying, “Olivia? Olivia, are you OK?”
Andrew
THE HALL, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:35 A.M.
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When Andrew heard the thud, he assumed a Hartley portrait had taken a kamikaze leap off a wall. He hurried down the passage to the drawing room, where he thought the sound had come from. From upstairs, Emma shouted, “What was that?” At least, then, it hadn’t been his wife hurling an oil painting in a fit of pique. He had a gruesome vision of Cocoa flattened by a Victorian bureau. But when he got to the drawing room, the cat was cowering outside. Then he heard Jesse saying, “Hey, hey, can you hear me?” and saw Olivia lying facedown on the floor by the Christmas tree. His mind grappled to catch up with the scene his eyes were relaying. Had she tripped over, been knocked out? Young women didn’t have strokes or heart attacks, did they?
“Call 911!” Jesse barked at him. “Now!”