Seven Days of Us(9)
Olivia
ARRIVALS, TERMINAL 3, HEATHROW, 8:40 A.M.
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Olivia willed her rucksack not to appear on the luggage carousel too soon, but it was the second bag out. Sean lunged for it and she wanted to tell him not to, to eke out their last moments. Arrivals was blinding. Everything looked so new and efficient. World Duty Free shimmered with oversize Toblerones, pyramids of perfume, and towers of amber bottles. “Who buys that stuff?” she said to Sean. And how can all this be normal again? she wondered. The airport, after the chaos of Monrovia’s streets, sounded strangely muffled. And her feet, calloused in sandals, looked utterly out of place. Almost worse than the onslaught of consumerism was the dingy room where all aid workers were herded to have their temperatures checked. This must be where unlucky drug mules were interrogated, she thought, noting the contrast between the stained walls and the glitter outside. It was like seeing backstage. Sean looked at her and smiled. Not touching him for the entire flight had felt like an unscratched itch. Last night, knowing that they couldn’t even shake hands today, they had lain on the low bed in her apartment, limbs wrapped together so that she forgot where her skin ended and his began. She’d pressed her forehead into his chest and said: “We will, y’know, carry on, once we’re home, won’t we?” It was easier to say it to his nipple than his face.
“For sure, you idiot!” he’d said, his mouth finding the top of her head. Lying there, fan whirring until the generator stopped, she’d felt like they were in a bubble, sealed off from the world. But looking at Sean now, she feared the bubble might have been an illusion. It was only five weeks since they’d first kissed. And for all they’d witnessed together, they’d yet to share real life—yet to tell anyone they were a couple.
It was her turn. The security guard held up the non-contact thermometer, eyes wary. This, she supposed, was what she was in for: suspicious looks, people surreptitiously sanitizing their hands after coming close. The thermometer beeped, and she was waved through. Sean was cleared next. They stood outside the room, facing one another, the requisite two feet apart. “Bye, for now, then,” he said. Her throat seemed to have closed over. She wasn’t like this, usually. Sean reached out to touch her arm, and she backed away instinctively—a reflex in public, after weeks of the No-Touch rule. “It’s fine, nobody’s watching,” he said, smiling. “Going to miss you so much, O-livia.” She liked the way her name sounded in his mouth.
“I’ll miss you too,” she said. It had been ages since she’d let someone in this close. In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d ever told Ben, her lukewarm boyfriend at University College London, that she’d miss him.
She heard a familiar shriek. “Wiv! Wiv! Olivia!” It was her mother. She came stumbling up, impeded by a huge welcome-home sign, hugging and kissing her without hesitation. “Oh sweetheart,” she said into her shoulder. “You’re so thin!”
“Hi, Mum!” she said, trying to sound pleased. “You’re not really meant to kiss me,” she added, extricating herself. She remembered her mother’s mortifying habit of embracing her outside school, long after Olivia had grown to tower over her.
“Oh come on, darling, don’t be silly.” Emma stood gazing up at her as if she was an apparition, oblivious to Sean.
“This is Sean. We were working in the unit together,” said Olivia.
“How lovely!” said Emma, as if Olivia had said they’d met playing croquet.
“Lovely to meet you, too,” said Sean. “Bet you’re glad to have her home?”
“Oh yes, heaven!” said Emma her voice ringing out over the hubbub. Already the claustrophobia of home was taking hold. Nobody said anything for a second.
“Well,” said Sean, scooping up his rucksack, “guess I should go, I’ve a follow-on to catch.”
“Bye, then,” said Olivia. Their good-bye wasn’t meant to be like this. Why had her mother chosen now to appear?
“See you, O-livia. You have a very merry Christmas,” he said to them both.
“You too, Shane,” said her mother.
Olivia watched him walk away, head bobbing above the crowd with his endearing bouncy stride.
“Well, he seemed very nice,” said her mother. “Can I carry anything?”
She wondered for a second if her mother had guessed, but Emma was squinting to read the exit signs.
“Now, you have to get home quick as a flash, is that right? I’ve got snacks in the car—what about the loo, will you be OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine, Mum.” Her patter was as grating as it was touching.
“Don’t you need some proper shoes? It’s freezing outside.”
“We’re just walking to the car, aren’t we?”
“Good-oh.” She always said “Good-oh” when she was on edge.
Her mother’s VW Golf smelled of apple cores and Chanel No. 5, a queasy echo of childhood carsickness. Stuffy, artificial heat soon fogged up the windows until all she could see of the world outside was a waterlogged gray. The passenger seat was set for Phoebe (who still couldn’t drive), so that there was no leg room. Olivia sat, trying to balance the thermos of tea and Tupperware box of flapjacks that her mother had brought for her. “I just knew you’d be missing proper tea,” Emma said triumphantly, as they stopped at a red light. Olivia hadn’t the heart to tell her she’d been able to buy PG Tips at a little shop in Monrovia called the Hole in the Wall, which sold British imports like Marmite and HP Sauce and KitKats that bent in the African sun. Or that, after weeks of stew and soft drinks, she was craving salad and tap water. She looked sideways at her mother, who was wittering about how she intended to reread Nancy Mitford while they were in quarantine. She seemed unduly excited about the entire prospect. By the time they were on the motorway, her commentary dwindled, and Olivia leaned her temple against the cold window and closed her eyes to put Emma off talking. She knew she would never be able to convey what she had seen over the past weeks. Her mother seemed to take the hint, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.