Seven Days of Us(89)

Caspar walked to the bar and Phoebe leaned back in their booth, watching him. He was taller and wirier than George. She liked how his jeans hung. George’s jeans used to cling to his rugby-player haunches—gross. Lara had kept saying how fit George was, as if she was looking for anything positive to say about him. And although Phoebe knew it was true she also knew, deep down, that she’d never liked the way George’s bulky body felt on top of her—had never felt her insides dip when she looked at him. But the knottiness behind her belly button, right now, wasn’t that how you were meant to feel? She’d noticed people recognize Caspar, and it had gone to her head like the Aperol spritzes.

She checked her phone while she waited—five missed calls. Three were from the Gloucester Terrace landline, one from her father’s mobile, and one from a foreign-looking number. She couldn’t be bothered to listen to the voicemails. Her mother always waffled for ages, and she wouldn’t be able to hear in the bar anyway. It was probably one of her parents’ dumb questions about their own house: “Phoebe, have you seen the Sellotape?” “Phoebs, did you throw away our moldy taramasalata?” She sniggered to herself, rearranging her face into an approximation of sober and sultry as Caspar walked back from the bar, and then ruined it by laughing as he put down their drinks.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, putting his arm round her shoulders as if it belonged there.

“Nothing, just my family. They’re annoyed I didn’t stay for dinner.”

“Ah. Is your dad going to hate me forever?”

They looked at each other for a long, slow-motion second, and then she was tasting his unfamiliar, Aperol-laced mouth, her hands reaching up to the back of his head and neck, and she knew they’d never make it to the party.





Jesse


THE KITCHEN, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 10:12 P.M.

? ? ?

New Year’s with Emma and Andrew had been a strange, subdued evening. Olivia was upstairs, unable to face food or company, and it didn’t feel right to talk about anything else. The three of them kept lapsing into long, sad silences. Jesse had gone up to see her after the news broke, but by the way she remained rigid in his hug, he could tell she wanted to be alone. Nobody had heard from Phoebe, who was still out on her date. It was pretty harsh, thought Jesse, considering Sean’s death had been all over social media. He was beginning to understand how his younger sister operated—she was sweet and fun, for sure, but she always came first.

Nobody had eaten much, though Emma kept imploring them to have some chicken, seeming to forget Jesse was vegan. He was hungry now, but feared that eating would look disrespectful. The batch of sweet potato brownies he’d baked earlier was untouched.

“What about the new year quiz?” said Emma. “I could do with something to take my mind off—off—” She looked as if she was about to cry again, and Andrew grabbed a copy of The World from the side table and began frantically flicking through it.

“It’s a little tradition of ours, Jesse,” said Emma, composing herself. “The World publishes a huge quiz on everything that’s happened over the year. I’m always hopeless, but it’s rather fun anyway.”

“Sure,” said Jesse, thinking it sounded like a bizarre idea in the circumstances. “We do the same at home, Trivial Pursuit at Thanksgiving.” It was like Emma couldn’t decide how to cope—she kept alternating between tears and a kind of forced normality. She was probably in shock. At least Andrew seemed to be keeping it together, unlike when Olivia collapsed. Jesse couldn’t have dealt with taking the lead again.

“Right. Here we are. Now, popular culture: Which female artist sang: ‘He see me do me. Dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt,’” read Andrew, counting the “dirts” on his fingers. “Come on, Jesse, you’re the only member of the younger generation here,” he said, peering over his glasses.

“Was it Princess Gaga?” said Emma anxiously.

They carried on halfheartedly, all of them jumping at any distant creak that might indicate Olivia coming downstairs. It was better than sitting in silence, Jesse guessed. He wished he wasn’t leaving them like this. He knew he would worry about Olivia and Emma. As he’d said earlier to Dana, it was strange how he felt like he’d known his new family for months already. Maybe he could persuade the Birches to come visit next Christmas and meet his family back home. They were better out of Weyfield. The baby would be, what, four months by then? He’d been thinking how much he wanted to be a part of his niece or nephew’s life. Not to be the newcomer in their eyes. Plus his mom adored babies. That was why she’d wanted to adopt, he thought, patting Leila’s letter in his pocket. Just knowing it was there felt good. Andrew interrupted his thoughts by asking: “Jesse, you’ll know this: Which popular health-food snack was found to contain traces of arsenic in February?”





Phoebe


SUGAR RUSH, HOXTON, 10:32 P.M.

? ? ?

“I have to pee,” said Phoebe, as they came up for air. It was like being a teenager, snogging for ages in public. And kissing Caspar was a revelation. She’d always disentangled herself from George’s open mouth and darting tongue within minutes, telling herself it was normal for long-term couples not to kiss. She sidled off Caspar’s lap and out of their booth, trying not to stumble, knowing he’d be watching her back view weave to the loos. Once inside, she Instagrammed a photo of their cocktails with the caption There may be trouble ahead . . . Hopefully George, and everyone else, would realize she was on a date—since Caspar’s hand was in the shot. She scrolled idly through her Twitter feed as she sat on the loo. For a second, her brain, fuddled by alcohol and Caspar, couldn’t compute the hashtag #SeanCoughlan that kept appearing. “Really sad to hear about the Irish doctor”; “Such a shame about Sean Coughlan, the world needs more people like him,” she read. Wasn’t Sean better now? she thought, before she saw an unmistakable “RIP Sean Coughlan, such a waste.” She sat, paralyzed, tights round her knees. No wonder her parents had left all those voicemails. She ought to go home, she knew. But the date was going so well. How could she explain to Caspar without ruining everything? Would Olivia even want her around? She never knew the right thing to say, even to the people she should be closest to. Then again, if she didn’t go home, she’d be “Phoebe who’s oblivious to the news,” like always. Her phone pinged. It was a text from Caspar.