I've Got Your Number (11 page)

“And would you personally buy a thousand copies?” Antony regards me with that hawklike stare.

“I … er …” I hesitate, stymied. “Maybe …”

“Because, unfortunately, Poppy, if the publisher printed a thousand books which did not sell, then I would be in a worse boat than ever.” He gives me a fierce smile. “Do you see?”

I feel totally squashed and stupid.

“Right,” I mumble. “Yes. I … I see. Sorry.”

Trying to keep my composure, I start clearing the plates. Magnus is sketching some argument out for Felix on a piece of paper, and I’m not sure he even heard. He gives me an absent smile and squeezes my bum as I pass. Which doesn’t make me feel that much better, to be honest.

But as we sit back down for pudding, Magnus tinkles his fork and stands up.

“I’d like to announce a toast to Poppy,” he says firmly. “And welcome her to the family. As well as being beautiful, she’s caring, funny, and a wonderful person. I’m a very lucky man.”

He looks around the table as though daring anyone to disagree with him, and I shoot him a grateful little smile.

“I’d also like to say a big welcome back to Mum and Dad.” Magnus raises a glass, and they both nod. “We missed you while you were away!”

“I didn’t,” chimed in Felix, and Wanda gives a bark of laughter.

“Of course you didn’t, you terrible boy!”

“And
finally
“—Magnus tinkles his glass again to get attention—”of course, happy birthday to Mum! Many happy returns of the day, from all of us.” He blows her a kiss across the table.

What?
What
did he just say?

My smile has frozen on my lips.

“Hear, hear!” Antony raises his glass. “Happy birthday, Wanda, my love.”

It’s his mother’s
birthday
? But he didn’t tell me. I don’t have a card. I don’t have a gift. How could he do this to me?

Men are
crap
.

Felix has produced a parcel from under his chair and is handing it to Wanda.

“Magnus,” I whisper desperately as he sits down. “You didn’t tell me it was your mother’s birthday. You never said a word! You should have told me!”

I’m almost gibbering with panic. My first meeting with his parents since we got engaged, and they don’t like me, and now this.

Magnus looks astonished. “Sweets, what’s wrong?”

How can he be so obtuse?

“I’d have bought her a
present
!” I say under cover of Wanda exclaiming, “Wonderful, Felix!” over some ancient book which she’s unwrapping.

“Oh!” Magnus waves a hand. “She won’t mind. Stop stressing. You’re an angel and everyone loves you. Did you like the mug, by the way?”

“The what?” I can’t even follow what he’s saying.

“The
Only Just Married
mug. I left it on the hall stand? For our honeymoon?” he prompts at my nonplussed expression. “I told you about it! Quite fun, I thought.”

“I didn’t see any mug.” I stare blankly at him. “I thought you’d given me that big box with ribbons.”

“What big box?” he says, looking puzzled.

“And now, my dear,” Antony is saying self-importantly to Wanda, “I don’t mind telling you, I’ve rather
splashed out
on you this year. If you’ll give me a minute …”

He’s getting up and heading out to the hall.

Oh God. My insides feel watery. No. Please. No.

“I think …” I begin, but my voice won’t work properly. “I think I might possibly … by mistake—”

“
What the
—” Antony’s voice resounds from the hall. “What’s happened to this?”

A moment later he’s in the room, holding the box. It’s all messed up. Torn tissue paper is everywhere. The kimono is falling out.

My head is pulsing with blood.

“I’m really sorry.” I can barely get the words out. “I thought … I thought it was for me. So I … I opened it.”

There’s a deathly silence. Every face is stunned, including Magnus’s.

“Sweets …,” he begins feebly, then peters out as though he can’t think what to say.

“Not to worry!” says Wanda briskly. “Give it to me. I don’t mind about the wrapping.”

“But there was another thing!” Antony is poking the tissue paper testily. “Where’s the other bit? Was it in there?”

Suddenly I realize what he’s talking about and give a little inward whimper. Every time I think things can’t get worse, they plummet. They find new, ghastly depths.

“I think … Do you mean”—I’m stuttering, my face beet-red—”this?” I pull a bit of the camisole out from under my top and everyone gazes at it, thunderstruck.

I’m sitting at the dinner table, wearing my future mother-in-law’s underwear. It’s like some twisted dream that you wake up from and think:
Crikey Moses! Thank God that didn’t really happen!

The faces round the table are all motionless and
jaw-dropped, like a row of versions of that painting
The Scream
.

“I’ll … I’ll dry-clean it,” I whisper huskily at last. “Sorry.”

OK. So this evening has gone about as hideously as it possibly could. There’s only one solution, which is to keep drinking wine until my nerves have been numbed or I pass out. Whichever comes first.

Supper is over, and everyone’s got over the camisole incident. Kind of.

In fact, they’ve decided to make a family joke out of it. Which is sweet of them but means that Antony keeps making ponderously funny remarks like, “Shall we have some chocolates? Unless Poppy’s already
eaten them all
?” And I know I should have a sense of humor, but, every time, I flinch.

Now we’re sitting on the ancient bumpy sofas in the drawing room, playing Scrabble. The Tavishes are complete Scrabble nuts. They have a special board that spins around, and posh wooden tiles, and even a leather-bound book where they write down the scores, dating back to 1998. Wanda is the current winner, with Magnus a close second.

Antony went first and put down
OUTSTEP
(74 points). Wanda made
IRIDIUMS
(65 points). Felix made
CARYATID
(80 points). Magnus made
CONTUSED
(65 points).
⁴⁰
And I made
STAR
(5 points).

In my family,
STAR
would be a
good
word. Five points
would be a pretty decent score. You wouldn’t get pitying looks and clearing of throats and feel like a loser.

I don’t often think back about past times or reminisce. It’s not really my thing. But sitting here, rigid with failure, hunching my knees, inhaling the musty Tavish smells of books and kilims and old wood fire, I can’t help it. Just a chink. Just a tiny window of memory. Us in the kitchen. Me and my little brothers, Toby and Tom, eating toast and Marmite round the Scrabble board. I remember it distinctly; I can even taste the Marmite. Toby and Tom had got so frustrated, they made a load of extra tiles out of paper and decided you could have as many as you liked. The whole room was covered in cutout squares of paper with Biro letters scrawled on them. Tom gave himself about six
Z
s and Toby had ten
E
s. And they
still
only scored about four points per turn and ended up in a scuffle, yelling, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

I feel a rush of tears behind my eyes and blink furiously. I’m being stupid.
Ridiculous
. Number one, this is my new family and I’m trying to integrate with them. Number two, Toby and Tom are both away at college now. They have deep voices and Tom has a beard. We never play Scrabble. I don’t even know where the set is. Number three—

“Poppy?”

“Right. Yes! I’m just … working it out.”

We’re into the second round. Antony has extended
OUTSTEP
into
OUTSTEPPED
. Wanda has simultaneously made both
OD
⁴¹
and
OVARY
. Felix put down
ELICIT
, and Magnus went for
YUK
, which Felix challenged, but it was in the dictionary and scored him lots of
points on a double-word score. Now Felix has gone to make some coffee, and I’ve been shuffling my tiles hopelessly for about five minutes.

I almost can’t bring myself to go, I’m so humiliated. I should never have agreed to play. I’ve stared and stared at the stupid letters, and this is honestly the best possible word I can make.

“P-I-G,”
enunciates Antony carefully as I put my tiles down. “Pig. As in … the mammal, I take it?”

“Well done!” says Magnus heartily. “Six points!”

I can’t look at him. I’m fumbling miserably for another two tiles.
A
and
L
. Like that’s going to help me.

“Hey, Poppy,” says Felix, coming back into the room with a tray. “Your phone’s ringing in the kitchen. What did you put down? Oh,
Pig
.” As he looks at the board his mouth twitches, and I see Wanda give him a warning frown.

I can’t bear this any longer.

“I’ll just go and check who called, if that’s OK,” I say. “Might be something important.”

I escape to the kitchen, haul my phone out of my bag, and lean against the comforting warmth of the Aga. There are three texts from Sam, starting with
Good luck
, which he sent two hours ago. Then twenty minutes ago he texted,
Favor to ask
, followed up by,
Are you there?

That call was from him too. I guess I’d better see what’s up. I dial his number, picking morosely at the remains of the birthday cake on the counter.

“Great. Poppy. Can you do me a big favor?” he says as soon as we’re connected. “I’m away from my desk and something’s up with my phone. It won’t connect to the server. Nothing’s going out, and I need to get an email to Viv Amberley. Would you mind?”

“Oh yes, Vivien Amberley,” I begin knowledgeably—then draw myself up short.

Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal that I’ve read all the correspondence about Vivien Amberley. She works in strategy and has applied for a job at another consultancy. Sam is desperately trying to keep her, but nothing’s worked and now she’s said she’s resigning tomorrow.

OK. I
know
I’ve been nosy. But once you start reading other people’s emails, you can’t stop. You have to know what’s happened. It’s been quite addictive, scrolling down the endless strings of back-and-forth emails and working out the stories. Always backward. Like rewinding little spools of life.

“If you could send her a quick email, I’d be hugely grateful,” Sam’s saying. “From one of my email addresses. To vivie nambe rley@ skyhi net. com, have you got that? I’d do it myself, but I have to be at this media seminar.”

Honestly. What am I, his PA?

“Well … all right,” I say grudgingly, clicking on her address. “What shall I say?”

“Hi, Viv. I would love to talk this through with you again. Please call to arrange a meeting whenever’s convenient tomorrow. I’m sure we can work something out. Sam.”

I type it out carefully, using my non-bandaged hand—then hesitate.

“Have you sent it?” Sam says.

My thumb is on the key, poised to press
send
. But I can’t do it.

“Hello?”

“Don’t call her Viv,” I blurt out. “She hates it. She likes being called Vivien.”

“What?”
Sam sounds gobsmacked. “How the hell—”

“It was in an old email that got forwarded. She asked Peter Snell not to call her Viv, but he didn’t notice. Nor did Jeremy Atheling. And now you’re calling her Viv too!”

There’s a short silence.

“Poppy,” says Sam at last, and I picture those dark eyebrows of his knitted in a frown. “Have you been reading my emails?”

“No!” I say defensively. “I’ve just
glanced
at a couple.”

“You’re sure about this Viv thing.”

“Yes! Of course!”

“I’m looking up the email now….” I stuff a chunk of icing in my mouth while I’m waiting—then Sam is back on the line. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right!”

“OK. Can you change the email to
Vivien
?”

“Hold on a minute….” I amend the email and send it. “Done.”

“Thanks. Good save. That was sharp of you. Are you always this sharp?”

Yeah, right. I’m so sharp, the only Scrabble word I can come up with is
PIG
.

“Yes, all the time,” I say sarcastically, but I don’t think he notices my tone.

“Well, I owe you one. And I’m sorry for disturbing your evening, but it’s a fairly urgent situation.”

“Don’t worry. I get it,” I say understandingly. “You know, I’m sure Vivien
wants
to stay at White Globe Consulting, really.”

Oops. That just slipped out.

“Oh, really? I thought you hadn’t read my emails.”

“I didn’t!” I say hastily. “I mean … you know. Maybe one or two. Enough to get an impression.”

“An impression!” He gives a short laugh. “OK, then, Poppy Wyatt, what’s your impression? I’ve asked everyone else’s opinion, why not throw your tuppenceworth in? Why is our top strategist taking a sideways step into an inferior company when I’ve offered her everything she could want, from promotion, to money, to a higher profile—”

“Well, that’s the problem,” I cut him off, puzzled. Surely he realizes that? “She doesn’t want any of those things. She gets really stressed out by the pressure, especially by media things. Like that time she had to go on Radio 4 with no notice.”

There’s a long silence down the line.

“OK, what the hell is going on?” says Sam at last. “How would
you
know something like that?”

There’s no way I can get out of this one.

“It was in her appraisal,” I confess at last. “I was bored on the tube once, and it was on an attachment—”

“That was
not
in her appraisal.” He sounds quite shirty. “Believe me, I’ve read that document back to front, and there’s nothing about media appearances—”

“Not the most recent one.” I screw up my face with embarrassment. “Her appraisal three years ago.” I can’t believe I’m admitting I read that too. “Plus she said in that original email to you,
I’ve told you my issues, not that anyone’s taken any notice
. I think that’s what she means.”