Seven Days of Us(86)

“The thing is, I’m meant to be getting ready at Lara’s to catch up on everything, and then I’m meeting Caspar for a drink at nine, so . . .”

“I don’t quite follow,” said Andrew. The new, alien smile dropped a fraction.

“I’m just going to take a shower. You’re good to do the zucchini, right, Andrew?” said Jesse, moving past them discreetly.

“Quite right,” said her father, sounding distracted.

Phoebe thanked Jesse silently—she needed Andrew alone if she was to get her way. She perched on a stool at the island, waggling geranium toenails.

“I mean, I can’t stay for supper. I don’t have time,” she said, beginning to feel frustrated. “It won’t work. I can’t suddenly change the plan with Caspar. Sorry, Dada. I assumed we wouldn’t bother doing a big thing for New Year.”

“It’s not quite a normal New Year. I’m sure Caspar will understand, in the circumstances.”

“But I was really looking forward to it. Why is tonight a major thing? We’ve all been in each other’s pockets all week.”

“I thought you said you had a dilemma. You seem to have made your mind up.”

“You don’t have to be like that about it,” said Phoebe. “I’m just trying to get out there again. It’s not easy, you know, finding out the last six years of your life was a sham.” The last bit came out as a tremble, and his eyes softened. They always did when she threatened to cry.

“I know you’re keen to get out on the razzle again,” he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his forehead. “But there’s plenty of time. It would be a nice gesture to join us tonight. Jesse and I planned to do a sort of feast, you see. Fatted calf, as I said.”

She said nothing, not wanting to snap, or cry.

“Prodigal son? Scripture lessons? Ring any bells?” he said.

“Yes, I get it. It’s Jesse’s last night. But it’s not like we’re never going to see him again. I thought you had the whole plan to visit next year?”

“Not Jesse—Olivia,” said Andrew, looking down at a recipe.

“What? Because of the baby?”

“No, Phoebe. Don’t you see? Until now, your sister and I—well, suffice it to say, she rarely came home, as you know. Even at Christmas. And when she did, she and I, we didn’t, uh, chat very much—to one another, I mean. And this week, we’ve, er, we’ve found we have more common ground than we realized. What with working abroad, and, well, yes, our work.”

He kept looking at the recipe as he spoke. Sweat glistened on his temple. She knew she should give him a break, but something made her mean instead.

“God, I could have told you that. You’re just both too stubborn to realize it.”

“No doubt. You and Emma always see these things. But still, something to celebrate, no?”

The new touchy-feely Andrew was making her feel weird. She preferred the old, grumpy one. Only she could make that Andrew laugh.

“I just want to go out and have fun, forget everything. I’m so stressed about Mummy.”

She didn’t feel wonderful about playing this card, despite it being true. It seemed to work, though. He took a sip of whiskey. “Fine. Of course,” he said, the new smile returning. “Well, off you go. I hope this Caspar character knows his luck.”





Emma


THE TV ROOM, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 5:55 P.M.

? ? ?

Emma heaved herself up after a whole afternoon surrendered to the sofa. It was a novelty to be banished from the kitchen, and she had to peek. She hoped Andrew wouldn’t be attempting anything too ambitious, or messy. But she was met with a surprisingly professional smell of frying garlic, and much clearer surfaces than she managed. Jesse was stirring a pan on the stovetop, and Andrew was stuffing a chicken.

Elvis came crooning over the radio. “You were always on my miiiiinnnd!” warbled Andrew, looking up at her. He’d been almost facetiously jolly since giving his notice with that glorious last column. It was as if the unreal scene in the cellar, and their conversation by the window yesterday—even her diagnosis—had all been leading up to this change. Making love that morning, then watching Andrew whistle while he frothed her cappuccino, she’d been transported back to their honeymoon in Puglia. Perhaps Jesse’s Californian sunniness had melted Andrew’s sharp edges, she thought, watching the two of them harmonize.

“May I have this dance?” said Andrew, striding up to Emma.

“Haven’t you just had your hands up a hen’s bottom?”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Andrew, taking her hand, and clasping the small of her back. “We avoided Haag. Can’t let a spot of salmonella stand in the way of romance.”

He began moving her back and forth, and she remembered what a good dancer he’d been when they used to go to Soho jazz clubs, knowing they wouldn’t be spotted by anyone Emma knew. It was like dancing with clockwork, after the Bertie Wooster types she usually met. With Andrew, you just let yourself be led. Jesse whooped in a very American way as Andrew dipped her, and said: “Still got it, Emma!” which was rather sweet.

“Sorry I couldn’t persuade Mademoiselle to stay,” said Andrew. “No stopping her.”