I've Got Your Number

4

I now have historical insight. I actually know what it felt like to have to trudge up to the guillotine in the French Revolution. As I walk up the hill from the tube clutching the wine I bought yesterday, my steps get slower and slower. And slower.

In fact, I realize, I’m not walking anymore. I’m standing. I’m staring up at the Tavishes’ house and swallowing hard, over and over again, willing myself to move forward.

Perspective, Poppy. It’s only a ring.

It’s only your prospective in-laws.

It was only a “falling-out.” According to Magnus,35 they never actually said straight out they didn’t want him to marry me. They only implied it. And maybe they’ve changed their minds!

Plus, I have discovered one tiny positive. My home insurance policy will pay out for losses, apparently. So that’s something. I’m even wondering whether to start the ring conversation via insurance and how handy it is. “You know, Wanda, I was reading an HSBC leaflet the other day—”

Oh God, who am I kidding? There’s no way to salvage this. It’s a nightmare. Let’s just get it over with.

My phone bleeps and I take it out of my pocket for old times’ sake. I’ve given up hoping for a miracle.

“You have one new message,” comes the familiar, unhurried tone of the voice-mail woman.

I feel like I know this woman, she’s talked to me so often. How many people have listened to her, desperate for her to hurry up, their hearts pounding with fear or hope? Yet she always sounds equally unfussed, like she doesn’t even care what you’re about to hear. You should be able to choose different options for different kinds of news, so she could start off: “Guess what! Ace news! Listen to your voice mail! Yay!” Or: “Sit down, love. Get a drink. You’ve got a message and it’s not good.”

I press 1, shift the mobile to the other hand, and start trudging again. The message was left while I was on the tube. It’s probably just Magnus, asking where I am.

“Hello, this is the Berrow Hotel, with a message for Poppy Wyatt. Miss Wyatt, it appears your ring was found yesterday. However, due to the chaos of the fire alarm—”

What? What?

Joy is whooshing through me like a sparkler. I can’t listen properly. I can’t take the words in. They’ve found it!

I’ve already abandoned the message. I’m on speed-dial to the concierge. I love him. I love him!

“Berrow Hotel—” It’s the concierge’s voice.

“Hi!” I say breathlessly. “It’s Poppy Wyatt. You’ve found my ring! You’re a star! Shall I come straight round and get it?—”

“Miss Wyatt,” he interrupts me. “Did you listen to the message?”

“I … Some of it.”

“I’m afraid … ” He pauses. “I’m afraid we are not presently sure of the ring’s whereabouts.”

I stop dead and peer at the phone. Did he just say what I thought he did?

“You said you’d found it.” I’m trying to stay calm. “How can you not be sure of its whereabouts?”

“According to one of our staff, a cleaner waitress did find an emerald ring on the carpet of the ballroom during the fire alarm and handed it to our guest manager, Mrs. Fairfax. However, we are uncertain as to what happened after that. We have been unable to find it in the safe or in any of our usual secure locations. We are deeply sorry, and will do our utmost to—”

“Well, talk to Mrs. Fairfax!” I try to control my impatience. “Find out what she did with it!”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, she has gone on holiday, and despite our best endeavors, we have been unable to contact her.”

“Has she pinched it?” I say in horror.

I’ll find her. Whatever it takes. Detectives, police, Interpol … I’m already standing in the courtroom, pointing at the ring in a plastic evidence bag, while a middle–aged woman, tanned from her Costa del Sol hideout, glowers at me from the dock.

“Mrs. Fairfax has been a faithful employee for thirty years and has handled many valuable artifacts belonging to guests.” He sounds slightly offended. “I find it very hard to believe that she would have done such a thing.”

“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 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-cée!” 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 on ‘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—

“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 Zs and Toby had ten Es 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 OD41 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 had 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 the 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 vivienamberley@skyhinet.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.”

The fact is, I feel a total affinity for Vivien. I’d be freaked out by being on Radio 4 too. All the presenters sound like Antony and Wanda.

There’s another silence, so long that I wonder if Sam’s still there.

“You might have something,” Sam says at last. “You might just have something.”

“It’s only an idea.” I backtrack instantly. “I mean, I’m probably wrong.”

“But why wouldn’t she say this to me?”

“Maybe she’s embarrassed.” I shrug. “Maybe she thinks she’s already made the point and you’re not going to do anything about it. Maybe she thinks it’s just easier to move jobs.”

“OK.” Sam exhales. “Thank you. I’m going to pursue this. I’m very glad I rang you, and I’m sorry I disturbed your evening.”

“No problem.” I hunch my shoulders gloomily and scoop up some more cake crumbs. “To be honest, I’m glad to escape.”

“That good, huh?” He sounds amused. “How did the bandage go down?”

“Believe me, the bandage is the least of my problems.”

“What’s up?”

I lower my voice, glancing at the door. “We’re playing Scrabble. It’s a nightmare.”

“Scrabble?” He sounds surprised. “Scrabble’s great.”

“Not when you’re playing with a family of geniuses, it’s not. They all put words like iridiums. And I put pig.”

Sam bursts into laughter.

“Glad it’s so funny,” I say morosely.

“OK, come on.” He stops laughing. “I owe you one. Tell me your letters. I’ll give you a good word.”

“I can’t remember them!” I roll my eyes. “I’m in the kitchen.”

“You must remember some. Try.”

“All right. I have a W. And a Z.” This conversation is so bizarre that I can’t help giving a little giggle.

“Go and look at the rest. Text them over. I’ll give you a word.”

“I thought you were at a seminar.”

“I can be at a seminar and play Scrabble at the same time.”

Is he serious? This is the most ridiculous, far-fetched idea I’ve ever heard.

Plus, it would be cheating.

Plus, who says he’s any good at Scrabble?

“OK,” I say after a few moments. “You’re on.”

I ring off and head back into the drawing room, where the board has spawned another load of impossible words. Someone has put down UG. Is that English? It sounds like Eskimo.

“All right, Poppy?” says Wanda, in such bright, artificial tones that I instantly know they’ve been talking about me. They’ve probably told Magnus that if he marries me they’ll cut him off without a penny or something.

“Fine!” I try to sound cheerful. “That was a patient on the phone,” I add, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Sometimes I do online consultation, so I might have to send a text, if you don’t mind?”

No one even replies. They’re all hunched over their tiles again.

I line my phone up so the screen takes in the board and my rack of tiles. Then I press the photo button.

“Just taking a family snap!” I say quickly as the faces rise in response to the flash. I’m already sending the photo over to Sam.

“It’s your turn, Poppy,” says Magnus. “Would you like some help, darling?” he adds in an undertone.

I know he’s trying to be kind. But there’s something about the way he says it that stings me.

“It’s OK, thanks. I’ll be fine.” I start moving the tiles back and forth on my rack, trying to look confident.

After a minute or two I glance down at my phone, in case a text has somehow arrived silently—but there’s nothing.

Everyone else is concentrating on their tiles or on the board. The atmosphere is hushed and intense, like an exam room. I shift my tiles around more and more briskly, willing some stupendous word to pop out at me. But no matter what I do, it’s a fairly crap situation. I could make RAW. Or WAR.

And still my phone is silent. Sam must have been joking about helping me. Of course he was joking. I feel a wave of humiliation. What’s he going to think, when a picture of a Scrabble board arrives on his phone?

“Any ideas yet, Poppy?” Wanda says in encouraging tones, as though I’m a subnormal child. I suddenly wonder if, while I was in the kitchen, Magnus told his parents to be nice to me.

“Just deciding between options.” I attempt a cheerful smile.

OK. I have to do this. I can’t put it off any longer. I’ll make RAW.

No, WAR.

Oh, what’s the difference?

My heart low, I put the A and W down on the board—as my phone bleeps with a text.

WHAIZLED. Use the D from OUTSTEPPED. Triple word score, plus 50-point bonus.

Oh my God.

I can’t help giving a laugh, and Antony shoots me an odd look.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Just … my patient making a joke.” My phone bleeps again.

It’s Scottish dialect, btw. Used by Robert Burns.

“So, is that your word, Poppy?” Antony is peering at my pathetic offering. “Raw? Jolly good. Well done!”

His heartiness is painful.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “My mistake. On second thoughts I think I’ll do this word instead.”

Carefully, I lay down WHAIZLED on the board and sit back, looking nonchalant.

There’s an astounded silence.

“Poppy, sweets,” says Magnus at last. “It has to be a genuine word, you know. You can’t make one up—”

“Oh, don’t you know that word?” I adopt a tone of surprise. “Sorry. I thought it was fairly common knowledge.”

“Whay-zled?” ventures Wanda dubiously. “Why-zled? How do you pronounce it, exactly?”

Oh God. I have no bloody idea.

“It … er … depends on the region. It’s traditional Scottish dialect, of course,” I add with a knowledgeable air, as though I’m Stephen Fry.42 “Used by Robert Burns. I was watching a documentary about him the other night. He’s rather a passion of mine, in fact.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in Burns.” Magnus looks taken aback.

“Oh yes,” I say as convincingly as possible. “Always have been.”

“Which poem does whaizled come from?” Wanda persists.

“It’s … ” I swallow hard. “It’s actually rather a beautiful poem. I can’t remember the title now, but it goes something like … ”

I hesitate, trying to think what Burns’s poetry sounds like. I heard some once at a Hogmanay party, not that I could understand a word of it.

“’Twas whaizled … when the wully whaizle … wailed. And so on!” I break off brightly. “I won’t bore you.”

Antony raises his head from the N–Z volume of the dictionary, which he instantly picked up when I laid my tiles down and has been flicking through.

“Quite right.” He seems a bit flummoxed. “Whaizled. Scottish dialect for wheezed. Well, well. Very impressive.”

“Bravo, Poppy.” Wanda is totting up. “So, that’s a triple word score, plus your fifty-point bonus … so that’s … one hundred and thirty-one points! The highest score so far!”

“One hundred and thirty-one?” Antony grabs her paper. “Are you sure?”

“Congratulations, Poppy!” Felix leans over to shake my hand.

“It was nothing, really.” I beam modestly around. “Shall we keep going?”

35 I finally winkled this out of him on the phone at lunchtime.

36 Magnus says Wanda has never sunbathed in her life, and she thinks people who go on holiday in order to lie on beds must be mentally deficient. That’ll be me, then.

37 “Study of Continuous Passive Motion Following Total Knee Arthroplasty.” I’ve still got it, in its plastic folder.

38 She didn’t say exactly where it was questing to.

39 Although I am rather good at footnotes. They could put me in charge of those.

40 No idea what most of these words mean.

41 Which apparently is a word. Silly me.

42 Stephen Fry of QI, I mean. Not Jeeves and Wooster. Although Jeeves probably knew a fair bit about Burns’s poetry too.