This song is ridiculously catchy. All the Japanese are singing now, apart from Mr. Yamasaki, who’s standing there, looking delighted. Some nearby delegates have joined in with the singing, and I can hear one of them saying, “Is this a flash mob thing?”
“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki … Where are you?” I mutter into the phone, still beaming brightly.
“Watching.”
“What?” My head jerks up and I sweep the lobby.
Suddenly my gaze fixes on a man standing alone, about thirty yards away. He’s wearing a dark suit and has thick black rumpled hair and is holding a phone to his ear. Even from this distance I can see that he’s laughing.
“How long have you been there?” I demand furiously.
“Just arrived. Didn’t want to interrupt. Great job, by the way,” he adds. “I think you won Yamasaki round to the cause, right there.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “Glad I could help. He’s all yours.” I bow to Mr. Yamasaki with a flourish, then turn on my heel and head swiftly toward the exit, ignoring the disappointed cries of the Japanese. I’ve got more important stuff to worry about than arrogant strangers and their stupid business deals.
“Wait!” The man’s voice follows me through the receiver. “That phone. It’s my PA’s.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have thrown it away, then,” I retort, pushing the glass doors open. “Finders keepers.”
There are twelve tube stops from Knightsbridge to Magnus’s parents’ house in North London, and as soon as I resurface from the underground I check the phone. It’s flashing with new messages—about ten texts and twenty emails—but there are only five texts for me and none with news about the ring. One’s from the police, and my heart leaps with hope—but it’s only to confirm that I’ve filed a report and asking if I want a visit from a victim support officer.
The rest are all text messages and emails for Violet. As I scroll down them, I notice that Sam features in the subject heading of quite a few of the emails. Feeling like Poirot again, I check back on the numbers called function and, sure enough, the last number that called this phone was Sam Mobile. So that’s him. Violet’s boss. Dark-rumpled-hair guy. And to prove it, her email address is samro xtonp a@whi teglo becon sulting. com.
Just out of the mildest curiosity, I click on one of the emails. It’s from jenna smith@ grant lyass etman agement. com, and the subject is Re: Dinner?
Thanks, Violet. I’d appreciate you not mentioning any of this to Sam. I feel a little embarrassed now!
Ooh. What’s she embarrassed about? Before I can stop myself, I’ve scrolled down to read the previous email, which was sent yesterday.
Actually, Jenna, you should know something: Sam’s engaged.
Best, Violet
He’s engaged. Interesting. As I read the words over again, I feel a strange little reaction inside which I can’t quite place—surprise?
Although why should I be surprised? I don’t even know the guy.
OK, now I have to know the whole story. Why is Jenna embarrassed? What happened? I scroll down still farther, past a couple more exchanges, and at last find a long introductory email from Jenna, who clearly met this Sam Roxton at a business function, got the hots for him, and invited him to dinner two weeks ago, but he hasn’t returned her calls.
… tried again yesterday … maybe using the wrong number … someone told me he is notorious and that his PA is always the best route to contact him … very sorry to bother you … possibly just let me know either way …
Poor woman. I feel quite indignant on her behalf. Why didn’t he reply? How hard is it to send a quick email saying, no, thanks? And then it turns out he’s engaged, for God’s sake.
Anyway. Whatever. I suddenly realize I’m snooping in someone else’s in-box when I have a lot of other, more important things to be thinking about. Priorities, Poppy. I need to buy some wine for Magnus’s parents. And a welcome-home card. And—if I don’t track down the ring in the next twenty minutes—some gloves.
Disaster. Disaster. It turns out they don’t sell gloves in April. The only ones I could find were from the back room in Accessorize. Old Christmas stock, available only in a small.
I cannot believe I’m seriously planning to greet my prospective in-laws in too-tight red woolly reindeer gloves. With tassels.
But I have no choice. It’s that or walk in bare-handed.
As I start the long climb up the hill to Magnus’s parents’ house, I’m starting to feel really sick. It’s not just the ring. It’s the whole scary prospective in-laws thing. I turn the corner—and all the windows of the house are alight. They’re home.
I’ve never known a house which suits a family as much as the Tavishes’ does. It’s older and grander than any of the others in the street and looks down on them from its superior position. There are yew trees and a monkey puzzle in the garden. The bricks are covered in ivy, and the windows still have their original 1835 wooden frames. Inside, there’s William Morris wallpaper dating from the 1960s, and the floorboards are covered with Turkish carpets.
Except you can’t actually see the carpets, because they’re mostly covered in old documents and manuscripts which no one ever bothers to clear up. No one’s big on tidying in the Tavish family. I once found a fossilized boiled egg in a spare-room bed, still in its eggcup, with a desiccated toast soldier. It must have been about a year old.
And everywhere, all over the house, are books. Stacked up three deep on shelves, piled on the floor, and on the side of every lime-stained bath. Antony writes books, Wanda writes books, Magnus writes books, and his elder brother, Conrad, writes books. Even Conrad’s wife, Margot, writes books.12
Which is great. I mean, it’s a wonderful thing, all these genius intellectuals in one family. But it does make you feel just the teensiest, weensiest bit inadequate.
Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m pretty intelligent. You know, for a normal person who went to school and college and got a job and everything. But these aren’t normal people; they’re in a different league. They have superbrains. They’re the academic version of The Incredibles.13 I’ve met his parents only a few times, when they flew back to London for a week for Antony to give some big important lecture, but it was enough to show me. While Antony was lecturing about political theory, Wanda was presenting a paper on feminist Judaism to a think tank, and then they both appeared on The Culture Show, taking opposing views on a documentary about the influence of the Renaissance.14 So that was the backdrop to our meeting. No pressure or anything.
I’ve been introduced to quite a few different boyfriends’ parents over the years, but hands down this was the worst experience, ever. We’d just shaken hands and made a bit of small talk and I was telling Wanda quite proudly where I’d been to college, when Antony looked up over his half-moon glasses, with those bright, cold eyes of his, and said, “A degree in physiotherapy. How amusing.” I felt instantly crushed. I didn’t know what to say. In fact, I was so flustered I left the room to go to the loo.15
After that, of course, I froze. Those three days were sheer misery. The more intellectual the conversation became, the more tongue-tied and awkward I was. My second-worst moment: pronouncing Proust wrong and everyone exchanging looks.16 My very worst moment: watching University Challenge all together in the drawing room, when a section on bones came on. My subject! I studied this! I know all the Latin names and everything! But as I was drawing breath to answer the first question, Antony had already given the correct answer. I was quicker next time—but he still beat me. The whole thing was like a race, and he won. Then, at the end, he looked over at me and inquired, “Do they not teach anatomy at physiotherapy school, Poppy?” and I was mortified.
Magnus says he loves me, not my brain, and that I’ve got to ignore his parents. And Natasha said, think of the rock and the Hampstead house and the villa in Tuscany. Which is Natasha for you. Whereas my own approach has been as follows: Just don’t think about them. It’s been fine. They’ve
been safely in Chicago, thousands of miles away.
But now they’re back.
Oh God. And I’m still a bit shaky on Proust. (Proost? Prost?) And I didn’t revise the Latin names for bones. And I’m wearing red woolly reindeer gloves in April. With tassels.
My legs are shaking as I ring the bell. Actually shaking. I feel like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. Any minute I’ll collapse on the path and Wanda will torch me for losing the ring.
Stop, Poppy. It’s fine. No one will suspect anything. My story is, I burned my hand. That’s my story.
“Hi, Poppy!”
“Felix! Hi!”
I’m so relieved it’s Felix at the door, my greeting comes out in a shaky gasp.
Felix is the baby of the family—only seventeen and still at school. In fact, Magnus has been living in the house with him while his parents have been away, as a kind of babysitter, and I moved in after we got engaged. Not that Felix needs a babysitter. He’s completely self-contained, reads all the time, and you never even know he’s in the house. I once tried to give him a friendly little “drugs chat.” He politely corrected me on every single fact, then said he’d noticed I drank above the recommended guidelines of Red Bull and did I think I might have an addiction? That was the last time I tried to act the older sister.
Anyway. That’s all come to an end, now that Antony and Wanda are returning from the States. I’ve moved back to my flat and we’ve started looking for places to rent. Magnus was all for staying here. He thought we could continue using the spare bedroom and bathroom on the top floor, and wouldn’t it be convenient, as he could carry on using his father’s library?
Is he nuts? There is no way I am living under the same roof as the Tavishes.
I follow Felix into the kitchen, where Magnus is lounging on a kitchen chair, gesturing at a page of typescript, and saying, “I think your argument goes wrong here. Second paragraph.”
However Magnus sits, whatever he does, he somehow manages to look elegant. His suede-brogued feet are up on a chair, he’s halfway through a cigarette,17 and his tawny hair is thrown back off his brow like a waterfall.
The Tavishes all have the same coloring, like a family of foxes. Even Wanda hennas her hair. But Magnus is the best-looking of all, and I’m not just saying that because I’m marrying him. His skin is freckled but tans easily, too, and his red-brown hair is like something out of a hair ad. That’s why he keeps it long.18 He’s actually quite vain about it.
Plus, although he’s an academic, he’s not some fusty guy who sits inside reading books all day. He skis really well, and he’s going to teach me too. That’s how we met, in fact. He’d sprained his wrist skiing and he came in for physio after his doctor recommended us. He was supposed to be seeing Annalise, but she switched him for one of her regulars and he ended up coming to me instead. The next week he asked me out on a date, and after a month he proposed. A month!19
Now Magnus looks up and his face brightens. “Sweetheart! How’s my beautiful girl? Come here.” He beckons me over for a kiss, then frames my face in his hands, like he always does.
“Hi!” I force a smile. “So, are your parents here? How was their flight? I can’t wait to see them.”
I’m trying to sound as keen as I can, even though my legs are wanting to run away, out the door and down the hill.
“Didn’t you get my text?” Magnus seems puzzled.
“What text? Oh.” I suddenly realize. “Of course. I lost my phone. I’ve got a new number. I’ll give it to you.”
“You lost your phone?” Magnus stares at me. “What happened?”
“Nothing!” I say brightly. “Just … lost it and had to get a new one. No biggie. No drama.”
I’ve decided on a general policy that the less I say to Magnus right now, the better. I don’t want to get into any discussions as to why I might be clinging desperately to some random phone I found in a bin.
“So, what did your text say?” I quickly add, trying to move the conversation on.
“My parents’ plane was diverted. They had to go to Manchester. Won’t be back till tomorrow.”
Diverted?
Manchester?
Oh my God. I’m safe! I’m reprieved! My legs can stop wobbling! I want to sing the “Hallelujah” chorus. Ma-an-chester! Ma-an-chester!
“God, how awful.” I’m trying hard to twist my face into a disappointed expression. “Poor them. Manchester. That’s miles away! I was really looking forward to seeing them too. What a pain.”
I think I sound pretty convincing. Felix shoots me an odd look, but Magnus has already picked up the typescript again. He hasn’t commented on my gloves. Nor has Felix.
Maybe I can relax a notch.
“So … er … guys.” I survey the room. “What about the kitchen?”
Magnus and Felix said they were going to clear up this afternoon, but the place is a bomb site. There are takeaway boxes on the kitchen table and a stack of books on top of the hob and even one in a saucepan. “Your parents will be back tomorrow. Shouldn’t we do something?”
Magnus looks unmoved. “They won’t care.”
It’s all very well for him to say that. But I’m the daughter-in-law (nearly) who’s been living here and will get the blame.
Magnus and Felix have begun talking about some footnote,20 so I head over to the hob and start a quick tidy-up. I don’t dare remove my gloves, but the guys aren’t giving me the slightest glance, thankfully. At least I know the rest of the house is OK. I went over the whole place yesterday, replaced all the old manky bottles of bubble bath and got a new blind for the bathroom. Best of all, I tracked down some anemones for Wanda’s study. Everyone knows she loves anemones. She’s even written an article about “anemones in literature.” (Which is typical of this family—you can’t just enjoy something, you have to become a top academic expert on it.)
Magnus and Felix are still engrossed as I finish. The house is tidy. No one’s asked me about the ring. I’ll quit while I’m ahead.
“So, I’ll head home,” I say casually, and drop a kiss on Magnus’s head. “You stay here, keep Felix company. Say welcome home to your parents from me.”
“Stay the night!” Magnus sweeps an arm round my waist and pulls me back. “They’ll want to see you!”
“No, you welcome them. I’ll catch up tomorrow.” I smile brightly, to distract attention from the fact that I’m edging toward the door, my hands behind my back. “Plenty of time.”
“I don’t blame you,” says Felix, looking up from the typescript and blinking at me.
“Sorry?” I say, a bit puzzled. “Don’t blame me for what?”
“Not sticking around.” He shrugs. “I think you’re being remarkably sanguine, given their reaction. I’ve been meaning to say so for weeks. You must be a very good person, Poppy.”
What’s he talking about?
“I don’t know—what do you mean?” I turn to Magnus for help.
“It’s nothing,” he says, too quickly. But Felix is staring at his older brother, a light dawning in his eyes.
“Oh my God. Didn’t you tell her?”
“Felix, shut up.”
“You didn’t, did you? That’s not exactly fair, is it, Mag?”
“Tell me what?” I’m turning from face to face. “What?”
“It’s nothing.” Magnus sounds rattled. “Just …” He finally meets my eyes. “OK. My parents weren’t exactly wild to hear we’re engaged. That’s all.”
For a moment I don’t know how to react. I stare at him dumbly, trying to process what I heard.
“But you said …” I don’t quite trust my voice. “You said they were thrilled. You said they were excited!”
“They will be thrilled,” he says crossly. “When they see sense.”
They will be?
My whole world is wobbling. It was bad enough when I thought Magnus’s parents were just intimidating geniuses. But all this time they’ve been against us getting married?
“You told
me they said they couldn’t imagine a sweeter, more charming daughter-in-law.” I’m trembling all over by now. “You said they sent me special love from Chicago! Was all that lies?”
“I didn’t want to upset you!” Magnus glares at Felix. “Look, it’s no big deal. They’ll come round. They simply think it’s all a bit fast…. They don’t know you properly…. They’re idiots,” he ends with a scowl. “I told them so.”
“You had a row with your parents?” I stare at him, dismayed. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“It wasn’t a row,” he says defensively. “It was more … a falling-out.”
A falling-out? A falling-out?
“A falling-out is worse than a row!” I wail in horror. “It’s a million times worse! Oh God, I wish you’d told me…. What am I going to do? How can I face them?”
I knew it. The professors don’t think I’m good enough. I’m like that girl in the opera who relinquishes her lover because she’s too unsuitable and then gets TB and dies, and good thing, too, since she was so inferior and stupid. She probably couldn’t pronounce Proust either.
“Poppy, calm down!” Magnus says irritably. He gets to his feet and takes me firmly by the shoulders. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. It’s family nonsense and it’s got nothing to do with us. I love you. We’re getting married. I’m going to do this and I’m going to see it through whatever anyone else says, whether it’s my parents or my friends or anyone else. This is about us.” His voice is so firm, I start to relax. “And, anyway, as soon as my parents spend some time with you, they’ll come round. I know it.”
I can’t help giving a reluctant smile.
“That’s my beautiful girl.” Magnus gives me a tight hug and I clasp him back, trying as hard as I can to believe him.
As he draws away, his gaze falls on my hands and he frowns, looking puzzled. “Sweets … why are you wearing gloves?”
I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. I really am.
The whole ring debacle nearly came out. It would have, if it weren’t for Felix. I was halfway through my ludicrous, stumbling hand-burning excuse, expecting Magnus to become suspicious at any moment, when Felix yawned and said, “Shall we go to the pub?” and Magnus suddenly remembered an email he had to send first and everyone forgot about my gloves.
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