“So, it must be somewhere in the hotel?” I feel a glimmer of hope.
“That is what we are endeavoring to find out. Obviously, as soon as I know anything more, I will be in touch. I can use this number still, can I?”
“Yes!” Instinctively, I grip the phone more tightly. “Use this number. Please call as soon as you hear anything. Thank you.”
As I ring off, I’m breathing hard. I don’t know how to feel. I mean, it’s good news. Kind of. Isn’t it?
Except that I still don’t have the ring safely on my finger. Everyone will still be worried. Magnus’s parents will think I’m flaky and irresponsible and never forgive me for putting them through such stress. So I still have a total nightmare ahead of me.
Unless … Unless I could—
No. I couldn’t possibly. Could I?
I’m standing like a pillar on the pavement, my mind circling furiously. OK. Let’s think this through properly. Logically and ethically. If the ring isn’t actually lost …
I passed a Boots on the high street, about four hundred yards back. Almost without knowing what I’m doing, I retrace my steps. I ignore the shop assistant who tries to tell me they’re closing. My head down, I make my way to the first-aid counter. There’s a glove thing you pull on, and some rolls of adhesive bandage. I’ll get it all.
Ten minutes later I’m striding up the hill again. My hand is swathed in bandages, and you can’t tell whether I’m wearing a ring or not, and I don’t even have to lie. I can say, “It’s difficult to wear a ring with a burned hand.” Which is true.
I’m nearly at the house when my phone bleeps and a text from Sam Roxton pops into my in-box.
Where’s the attachment?
Typical. No “hello,” no explanation. He just expects me to know what he’s on about.
What do you mean?
The email from Ned Murdoch. There was no attachment.
That’s not my fault! I just sent on the email. They must have forgotten to put it on. Why don’t you ask them to send it again, WITH the attachment? Directly to your computer?
I know I sound a bit exasperated, and of course he instantly picks up on it.
This phone-sharing was your idea, if you remember. If you’re tired of it, just return my phone to my office.
Hurriedly I text back:
No, no! It’s OK. If it comes through, I’ll forward it. Don’t worry. I thought you were getting emails transferred to your office???
Techies said they’d sort it asap. But they are liars.
There’s a short pause, then he texts:
Got the ring, btw?
Nearly. Hotel found it, but then lost it again.
Typical.
I know.
By now I’ve stopped walking and am leaning against a wall. I know I’m spinning out time before I have to go into the house, but I can’t help it. It’s quite comforting, having this virtual conversation through the ether with someone who doesn’t know Magnus or me, or anybody. After a few moments I text in a confessional rush:
Am not telling my in-laws have lost ring. Do you think that’s really bad?
There’s silence for a bit—then he replies:
Why should you tell them?
What kind of ridiculous question is that? I roll my eyes and type:
It’s their ring!
Almost at once, his reply comes beeping in.
Not their ring. Your ring. None of their business. No big deal.
How can he write No big deal? As I text back, I’m jabbing the keyboard crossly.
Is family bloody HEIRLOOM. Am about to have dinner with them right now. They will expect to see ring on my finger. Is huge deal, thank you.
For a while there’s silence, and I think he’s given up on our conversation. Then, just as I’m about to move on, another text beeps into the phone.
How will you explain missing ring?
I have a moment’s internal debate. Why not get a second opinion? Lining up the screen carefully, I take a photo of my bandaged hand and MMS it to him. Five seconds later he replies:
You cannot be serious.
I feel a twinge of resentment and find myself typing:
What would YOU do, then?
I’m half-hoping he might have some brilliant idea I hadn’t thought of. But his next text just says:
This is why men don’t wear rings.
Great. Well, that’s really helpful. I’m about to type something sarcastic back, when a second text arrives:
It looks phony. Take off one bandage.
I stare at my hand in dismay. Perhaps he’s right.
OK. Thx.
I unpeel a bandage and am stuffing it into my bag just as Magnus’s voice rings out: “Poppy! What are you doing?”
I look up—and he’s striding along the street toward me. Flustered, I drop the phone into my bag and zip it shut. I can hear the bleep of another text arriving, but I’ll have to look at it later.
“Hi, Magnus! What are you doing here?”
“On my way to get some milk. We’re out.” He stops in front of me and rests two hands on my shoulders, his brown eyes regarding me in tender amusement. “What’s up? Putting the evil moment off?”
“No!” I laugh defensively. “Of course not! I’m just coming up to the house.”
“I know what you wanted to talk to me about.”
“You … do?” I glance involuntarily at my bandaged hand and then away again.
“Sweetheart, listen. You have to stop worrying about my parents. They’ll love you when they get to know you properly. I’ll make sure they do. We’re going to have a fun evening. OK? Just relax and be yourself.”
“OK.” I nod at last, and he squeezes me, then glances at my bandage.
“Hand still bad? Poor you.”
He didn’t even mention the ring. I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe this evening will be OK after all.
“So, have you told your parents about the rehearsal? Tomorrow evening at the church.”
“I know.” He smiles. “Don’t worry. We’re all set.”
As I walk along, I savor the thought of it. The ancient stone church. The organ playing as I walk in. The vows.
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 minu
tes.”
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 h
e 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?
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