I've Got Your Number (10 page)

I know some brides are all about the music or the flowers or the dress. But I’m all about the vows.
For better, for worse … For richer, for poorer … And thereto I plight thee my troth….
All my life, I’ve heard these magical words. At family weddings, in movie scenes, at royal weddings even. The same words, over and over, like poetry handed down through the centuries. And now we’re going to say them to each other. It makes my spine tingle.

“I’m so looking forward to saying our vows,” I can’t help saying, even though I’ve said this to him before, approximately a hundred times.

There was a very short time, just after we’d got engaged, when Magnus seemed to think we’d be getting married in a register office. He’s not exactly religious, nor are his parents. But as soon as I’d explained exactly
how much
I’d been looking forward to saying the church vows all my life, he backtracked and said he couldn’t think of anything more wonderful.

“I know.” He squeezes my waist. “Me too.”

“You really don’t mind doing the old words?”

“Sweets, I think they’re beautiful.”

“Me too.” I sigh happily. “So romantic.”

Every time I imagine Magnus and myself in front of the altar, hands joined, saying those words to each other in clear, resonant voices, it seems like nothing else matters.

But as we approach the house twenty minutes later, my glow of security starts to ebb away. The Tavishes are definitely back. The whole house is lit up, and I can hear opera blasting out of the windows. I suddenly remember that
time Antony asked me what I thought of
Tannhauser
and I said I didn’t smoke.

Oh God.
Why
didn’t I do a crash course on opera?

Magnus swings the front door open, then clicks his tongue.

“Damn. Forgot to call Dr. Wheeler. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

I don’t believe this. He’s bounding up the stairs, toward the study. He can’t
leave
me.

“Magnus.” I try not to sound too panicked.

“Just go through! My parents are in the kitchen. Oh, I got you something for our honeymoon. Open it!” He blows me a kiss and disappears round the corner.

There’s a huge beribboned box on the hall ottoman. Wow. I know this shop and it’s expensive. I tug it open, ripping the expensive pale-green tissue paper, to find a gray-and-white-printed Japanese kimono. It’s absolutely stunning and even has a matching camisole.

On impulse, I duck into the little front sitting room, which no one ever uses. I take off my top and cardigan, slip the camisole on, then replace my clothes. It’s slightly too big—but still gorgeous. All silky-smooth and luxurious-feeling.

It
is
a lovely present. It really is. But, to be honest, what I would prefer right now is Magnus by my side, his hand firmly in mine, giving me moral support. I fold the dressing gown up and stuff it back amid the torn tissue, taking my time.

Still no sign of Magnus. I can’t put this off any longer.

“Magnus?” comes Wanda’s high-pitched, distinctive voice from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

“No, it’s me! Poppy!” My throat is so clenched with nerves, I sound like a stranger.

“Poppy! Come on through!”

Relax. Be myself. Come on
.

I grasp the bottle of wine firmly and head into the kitchen, which is warm and smells of Bolognese sauce.

“Hi, how are you?” I say in a nervous rush. “I brought you some wine. I hope you like it. It’s red.”

“Poppy.”
Wanda swoops toward me. Her wild hair has been freshly hennaed, and she’s wearing one of her odd, capacious dresses made out of what looks like parachute silk, together with rubber-soled Mary Janes. Her skin is as pale and unadorned as ever, although she’s put on an inaccurate slash of red lipstick.
³⁶
Her cheek brushes against mine and I catch a whiff of stale perfume. “The
fi-an-cee
!” She enunciates the word with care bordering on ridicule. “The
betrothed
.”

“The
affianced
,” chimes in Antony, rising from his seat at the table. He’s wearing the tweed jacket he wears on the back of his book, and he surveys me with the same off-putting gimlet-eyed smile. “
The oriole weds his mottled mate; The lily’s bride o
‘
the bee
. Another for your collection, darling?” he adds to Wanda.

“Quite right! I need a pen. Where’s a
pen
?” Wanda starts searching among the papers already littering the countertop. “The
damage
that has been done to the feminist cause by
ridiculous
, lazy-minded anthropomorphism. ‘
Weds his mottled mate
.’ I ask you, Poppy!” She appeals to me, and I give a rictus smile.

I have no idea what they’re talking about. None. Why can’t they just say, “Hello, how are you?” like normal people?

“What’s
your
view on the cultural response to anthropomorphism? From a young woman’s perspective?”

My stomach jumps as I realize Antony is looking my way. Oh my holy aunt. Is he talking to me?

Anthro-what?

I feel like if only he would write down his questions and give them to me with five minutes to look over (and maybe a dictionary), I’d have half a chance to come up with something intelligent. I mean, I
did
go to university. I
have
written essays with long words in them and a thesis.
³⁷
My English teacher even once said I had a “questing mind.”
³⁸

But I don’t have five minutes. He’s waiting for me to speak. And there’s something about his bright gaze that turns my tongue to dust.

“Well … um … I think it’s … it’s … an interesting debate,” I say feebly. “Very crucial in this day and age. So, how was your flight?” I add quickly. Maybe we can get on to movies or something.

“Unspeakable.” Wanda looks up from where she’s scribbling. “Why do people fly?
Why?
”

I’m not sure if she’s expecting an answer or not.

“Um … for holidays and stuff—”

“I’ve already started making notes for a paper on the subject,” Wanda interrupts me. ” ‘The Migration Impulse.’ Why do humans feel compelled to pitch themselves across
the globe? Are we following the ancient migratory paths of our ancestors?”

“Have you read Burroughs?” Antony says to her, with interest. “Not the book; the PhD thesis.”

No one’s even offered me a drink yet. Quietly, trying to blend in with the background, I creep into the kitchen area and pour myself a glass of wine. I’ve tuned out the conversation about migration. But suddenly Wanda addresses me directly.

“I gather Magnus gave you his grandmother’s emerald ring?”

I jump in panic. We’re onto the ring already. Is there an edge to Wanda’s voice or did I make that up? Does she
know
?

“Yes! It’s … it’s beautiful.” My hands are trembling so much, I nearly spill my wine.

Wanda says nothing, just glances at Antony and raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

What was that for? Why an eyebrow raise? What are they thinking? Shit, shit, they’ll ask to see the ring, it’s all going to implode.

“It’s … it’s difficult to wear a ring with a burned hand,” I blurt out desperately.

There. It wasn’t a lie. Exactly.

“Burned?”
Wanda swings round and takes in my bandaged hand. “My dear girl! You must see Paul.”

“Paul.” Antony nods. “Certainly. Ring him, Wanda.”

“Our neighbor,” she explains. “Dermatologist. The best.” She’s already on the phone, winding the old-fashioned curly cord around her wrist. “He’s only across the street.”

Across the street?

I’m paralyzed with horror. How have things gone so
wrong so quickly? I have a vision of some brisk man with a doctor’s bag coming into the kitchen and saying, “Let’s have a look,” and everyone crowding round to see as I take off my bandages.

Should I dash upstairs and find a match? Or some boiling water? To be honest, I think I’d take the agonizing pain over having to admit the truth—

“Damn! He’s not in.” She replaces the receiver.

“What a shame,” I manage, as Magnus appears through the kitchen door, followed by Felix, who says, “Hi, Poppy,” and then immerses himself back in the textbook he was reading.

“So!” Magnus looks from me to his parents, as though trying to assess the mood of the room. “How are you all doing? Isn’t Poppy looking even more beautiful than usual? Isn’t she just lovely?” He bunches up my hair and then lets it fall down again.

I wish he wouldn’t. I know he’s trying to be nice, but it makes me cringe. Wanda looks baffled, as though she has no idea how to reply to this.

“Charming.” Antony smiles politely, as though he’s admiring someone’s garden.

“Did you get through to Dr. Wheeler?” Wanda queries.

“Yes.” Magnus nods. “He says the focus
is
cultural genesis.”

“Well, I must have read that wrong,” she says tetchily. Wanda turns to me. “We’re trying to see if we can’t get papers published in the same journal. All six of us, including Conrad and Margot. Family effort, you see. Felix on indexing. Everyone involved!”

Everyone except me
, flashes through my mind.

Which is ridiculous. Because do I
want
to write an academic
paper in some obscure journal which no one ever reads? No. Could I? No. Do I even know what cultural genesis is? No.
³⁹

“You know, Poppy has published in her field,” Magnus suddenly announces, as though hearing my thoughts and leaping to my defense. “Haven’t you, darling?” He smiles proudly at me. “Don’t be modest.”

“You’ve published?” Antony wakes up and peers at me with more attention than he ever has before. “Ah. Now,
that’s
interesting. Which journal?”

I stare helplessly at Magnus. What’s he
talking
about?

“You remember!” he prompts me. “Didn’t you say you’d had something in the physiotherapy periodical?”

Oh God. No.

I will kill Magnus.
How
could he bring that up?

Antony and Wanda are both waiting for me to reply. Even Felix has looked up with interest. They’re obviously expecting me to announce a breakthrough in the cultural influence of physiotherapy on nomadic tribes or something.

“It was
Physiotherapists
‘
Weekly Roundup
,” I mumble at last, staring at my feet. “It’s not really a periodical. More of a … a magazine. They published a letter of mine once.”

“Was it a piece of research?” says Wanda.

“No.” I swallow hard. “It was about when patients have BO. I said maybe we should wear gas masks. It was … you know. Supposed to be funny.”

There’s silence.

I’m so mortified I can’t even raise my head.

“You did write a thesis for your degree, though,” ventures Felix. “Didn’t you tell me once?” I turn in surprise and he’s looking at me with an earnest, encouraging gaze.

“Yes. I mean … it wasn’t published or anything.” I shrug awkwardly.

“I’d like to read it one day.”

“OK.” I smile—but, honestly, this is pitiful. Of course he doesn’t want to read it; he’s just trying to be nice. Which is sweet of him but makes me feel even more tragic, since I’m twenty-nine and he’s seventeen. Plus, if he’s trying to boost my confidence in front of his parents, it hasn’t worked, because they’re not even listening.

“Of course, humor
is
a form of expression which one should factor into one’s cultural narrative,” says Wanda doubtfully. “I think Jacob C. Goodson has done some interesting work in ‘Why Humans Joke.’ “

“I believe it was ‘Do Humans Joke?’ ” corrects Antony. “Surely his thesis was that …”

They’re off again. I breathe out, my cheeks still burning. I cannot cope. I want someone to ask about holidays, or
EastEnders
, or anything but this.

I mean, I love Magnus and everything. But I’ve been here five minutes and I’m a nervous wreck. How am I going to survive Christmas every year? What if our children are all superbright and I can’t understand what they’re saying and they look down on me because I haven’t got a PhD?

There’s an acrid smell in the air, and suddenly I realize the Bolognese is burning. Wanda is standing there by the stove, wittering away about Aristotle, not even noticing. Gently, I take the spoon out of her grasp and start to stir. Thank God you don’t need a Nobel Prize to do this.

* * *

At least saving the supper made me feel useful. But half an hour later we’re all sitting round the table, and I’m back to my speechless panic mode.

No wonder Antony and Wanda don’t want me to marry Magnus. They obviously think I’m a total dimbo. We’re halfway through the Bolognese, and I haven’t uttered a single word. It’s too hard. The conversation is like a juggernaut. Or maybe a symphony. Yes. And I’m the flute. And I
do
have a tune, and I’d quite like to play it, but there’s no conductor to bring me in. So I keep drawing breath, then chickening out.

“… the commissioning editor unfortunately saw otherwise. So there will be no new edition of my book.” Antony makes a rueful, clicking sound.
“Tant pis.”

Suddenly I’m alert. For once I actually understand the conversation and have something to say!

“That’s terrible!” I chime in supportively. “Why won’t they publish a new edition?”

“They need the readership. They need the demand.” Antony gives a theatrical sigh. “Ah, well. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of
course
it matters!” I feel fired up. “Why don’t we all write to the editor and pretend to be readers and say how brilliant the book is and demand a new edition?”

I’m already planning the letters.
Dear Sir, I am shocked that a new edition of this wonderful book has not been published
. We could print them in different fonts, post them in different areas of the country—