THE STAIRS, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 5:15 P.M.
• • •
Phoebe paused by the kitchen door. She’d felt bad, seeing her mother look crestfallen earlier. Especially after the big chat they’d all had about her treatment. The outlook was good, apparently, but Emma would need chemotherapy. Phoebe had made it her resolution to stock the freezer with Marine Ices sorbet, which Olivia said was all chemo patients could stomach, and to be a grown-up, and not freak at Emma’s hair blocking the drain. But still, she didn’t have to cancel Caspar, did she? Nobody knew, but the two of them had had a long-running game of eye contact across the office. She wondered how he’d got her number, liking the idea of him searching it out. He’d left a voicemail earlier, confirming their date, and she’d found herself listening to it over and over. If she canceled their drink, or changed the plan to meeting at the party, it would send the wrong message. Surely Andrew would be fine with her skipping dinner. Then again, after that cheesy column, he might try to guilt-trip her into staying. Everyone else had cheered when he’d announced he was quitting The World. Phoebe had been secretly sad—she loved their one-on-one meals in restaurants she couldn’t afford. Even the bad ones were fun, forming jokes for years afterward. She’d hugged him and said it was the right decision, because her mother and sister were saying so. But it stung that she hadn’t got a mention in his parting column, when everyone else had. She was the daughter who’d always been there—if you were getting all #familyfirst about it. Olivia had only come home because she had nowhere else to sit out her quarantine.
She opened the kitchen door. Jesse and her father were surrounded by ingredients, both wearing aprons that barely reached their thighs. Andrew was refilling two glasses of whiskey and ice cubes. The smell reminded her of the Southern Comfort George drank at Edinburgh. He called it “SoCo,” she remembered, cringing. The urge to confront him about Jesse’s theory had already faded. He’d never admit it, even if it was true.
Andrew raised his glass as she came in. “Daddy,” she said, “dilemma—it’s not a big deal for me to miss dinner tonight, right?”
“What?” he said jovially.
“It’s OK if I’m out tonight, isn’t it?”
“Of course—so long as you’re here for the fatted calf. Corn-fed chicken, rather.”
“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.”