THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 2:30 P.M.
• • •
“Let me do the dishwasher, sweetie,” said Emma to Olivia. Her daughter was putting everything away in the wrong place—no doubt a misplaced effort to make Emma relax.
“It’s fine, Mum. Why don’t you sit down, or go and check on Phoebe, or something?”
“Seriously, Wiv, it’s no trouble. I like to know where all my bits and pieces are. You go and sit down.” The last thing Emma wanted was to cede control of the house now that her diagnosis was out. Sometimes it felt like the kitchen, her realm, was all she still had to herself. At least Andrew had slunk off after the unpleasantness at lunch.
Olivia put a spatula into the pot of wooden spoons by the AGA, and Emma moved it to the drawer where she kept spatulas.
Olivia sighed, as if Emma was a contrary child. “OK,” she said. “Shout if you need any help.”
“I’m fine, Wiv,” said Emma. People never understood how domesticity could be soothing. She couldn’t have abided her grandmother’s Weyfield with servants doing everything for her.
She carried on clearing up, mulling over George’s horrid note, and the quarrel, just now, with Jesse. Poor Phoebe had been inconsolable afterward. Emma had seen a new side to Andrew’s handsome son—at best idiotically insensitive, at worst, a stirrer. She’d always had reservations about George, but he’d never struck her as in the closet. What Emma couldn’t get over was how the note had come with no warning. Just this morning George had seemed his usual (admittedly slightly obnoxious) self. She thought of the squabble over the banana. It was rather frightening that someone could carry on as normal, cool as a cucumber, when they were planning such a thing. Sociopathic, almost. Surely that was the problem, not his being gay.
With the dishwasher purring, Emma went upstairs to call Nicola. She’d had a long chat with her only last night about Jesse’s arrival, swearing her to secrecy for the time being. Nicola’s view on Jesse (typically) had been that Emma must “talk her emotions through” with Andrew. All very well in theory, but easy as talking to a donkey in practice. Nicola had also kept asking if Andrew had been “behaving at all unusually,” as if Emma should have seen all this coming. Rather tiresome, but then Nicola was tiresome—in the sweetest possible way. It was only because she cared. Emma dialed her number, barely waiting for Nicola’s too-loud “Hullo?”
“Nic, it’s Emma. The wedding’s off. George has left Phoebe.”
“What? He’s left? No! Oh poor little Phoebs! What happened? It never stops at Weyfield, does it?”
Emma explained about the note, and the cross words at lunch.
“Well, George might be gay, I suppose,” said Nicola. “And Jesse might be more able to pick up on it than Phoebe—or you lot.”
“D’you think? He’s not the least bit effeminate. Though gays can be very macho, too, can’t they?”
“Isn’t he rather homophobic?” said Nicola. “There might well be an element of denial.”
“But why would he propose, if he wasn’t sure?”
“Well, presumably he doesn’t want to be gay—if he is. That’s the problem. Otherwise he wouldn’t have spent all this time with Phoebe. Do you know if their sex life was fulfilling? Did Phoebe ever talk about it?”
“No!” This line of questioning was annoying Emma. Why did she always call Nicola for sympathy, only to come away feeling cross?
Andrew walked in and she used him as an excuse to hang up. He was holding a cup of tea and mince pie—for her, she guessed, since he never ate between meals. He was still groveling, then.
“Where’s Phoebe?” she asked, as he set the cup down on the dressing table. She fought her mother’s voice, telling him it would make a ring on the wood. He’d never understood about good furniture.
“Earl Grey, madam?” he said.
“Thank you. Where’s Phoebe? Is she all right?”
“She’s on the sofa looking sorry for herself, eating Nutella out of the jar.”
“OK. That’s good. She’s eating.”
“Now you must stop worrying about Phoebe and look after yourself,” said Andrew.
“And where’s Jesse?” she asked, ignoring him. How could she not worry about Phoebe? “You didn’t leave the two of them together, did you?”
“No sign of Jesse. Keeping a safe distance, I’d have thought,” said Andrew.
“I’m sorry, Andrew, but I just can’t believe he would suggest such a thing—to Phoebe’s face. George isn’t gay!”
“It was unfortunate she overheard, I know. You look very regal, sitting there,” he said.
“Unfortunate? It couldn’t have been worse. She’s distraught, thanks to him.”
“Now hang on—it’s George who’s to blame here, not Jesse. Phoebe was hysterical long before he said anything. Anyway, isn’t this whole business a good thing, ultimately?”
“Good?”
“Come on, Emma. Neither of us were wild about George. We only tolerated him because if we’d said anything, it’d just have made Phoebe keener.”
“Well. I know he was a little bit—” She paused, not sure how to say what she meant without sounding snobbish. It was too soon to be having this conversation anyway. George had barely left. They might well get back together.
“A little bit of a cunt?” said Andrew.
“Andrew! You know I hate that word. And no, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, I sometimes worried that he didn’t listen to Phoebe,” she said. She didn’t add, “And his parents were a bit Brexit,” but she wanted to.
“Same difference. Jesse said they struck him as not having quite gelled, as if they were ‘playing’ at being a couple. I thought that was rather incisive.”
“Oh,” she said, not wanting to agree, although he was right—Jesse was spot-on. Andrew rarely praised anyone else’s opinion on anything.
“They did seem a little mismatched, sometimes,” she conceded.
“Emma, they aren’t, weren’t, remotely suited. He’s a rugby-playing Hooray Henry. That’s not Phoebe, cheering on the sidelines with the other little wives. Far better that they get this over with now, than go through a miserable divorce in five years’ time.”
“Well. But still, this gay business. That’s just absurd. And so insensitive!”
Andrew scratched his nose vigorously. “Didn’t you even wonder if Jesse’s right?” he said, turning to face her. “Speaking of rugger buggers?”
“No! Of course he isn’t. We’d know if he was gay. Why would he be with Phoebe?”
“You’re forgetting what kind of people the Marsham-Smiths are. This isn’t Primrose Hill. Or Los Angeles for that matter. His parents would be furious.”
“But he’s nearly thirty! Surely he can be gay if he wants. Honestly! They’ve got all those other sons.”
“Apparently it’s rather common for third sons to be homosexual. No other way to distinguish themselves.”
She decided not to dignify this fatuous theory with a response. It was all a bit near the knuckle anyway. She suspected Andrew was rather shocked that his own son was gay, despite himself.
“Jesse and I were talking about it earlier,” Andrew continued. “He had a dreadful time, coming out as a teenager in the Midwest. Must have taken great courage.”
Emma clenched her toes. Don’t say anything, she ordered herself. But it was hard to hear Andrew quoting Jesse when he struggled to mention Olivia. Besides, where had this enthusiasm for his new child sprung from? Yesterday she’d been pushing Andrew to give Jesse a warm welcome.
“Well, I’m sorry about that, and I know he’s your son, but once this quarantine is over, I think it’s best he leaves,” she said. “Phoebe needs some breathing space—we all do.”
She stood up, taking the cup with her, to show the conversation was over. Andrew might be carrying on as if everything was normal between them, but she needed more time.