Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

worth. I asked him, jokingly, when he first put it on my finger, and he joked back that it was

priceless, just like me. It was all very romantic and lovely. We were having dinner at Bluebird,

and I had no idea he was going to propose. None.28

         Anyway, the point is, I never knew what the ring cost and I never wanted to know. At the

back of my mind I keep trying out lines to Magnus, like, “Well, I didn’t realize it was so

valuable! You should have told me!”

         Not that I’d have the nerve to say that. I mean, how dumb would you have to be not to

realize that an emerald out of a bank vault is worth something? Still, it’s been quite comforting

not to have a precise figure in my head.

         But now here’s Annalise, brandishing a sheet of paper she’s printed out from the

Internet.29

         “Art deco, fine-quality emerald, with baguette diamonds,” she’s reading out. “Estimate

twenty-five thousand pounds.”

         What? My insides turn to jelly. That can’t be right.

         “He wouldn’t have given me anything that expensive.” My voice is a bit shaky.

“Academics are poor.”

         “He’s not poor! Look at his house! His dad’s a celebrity! Look, this one’s thirty grand.”

She holds up another sheet. “It looks exactly like yours. Don’t you think, Ruby?”

         I can’t look.

         “I never would have let it off my finger,” Annalise adds, arching her eyebrows, and I

almost want to hit her.

         “You’re the one who wanted to try it on!” I say furiously. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d

still have it!”

         “No, I wasn’t!” she retorts indignantly. “I just tried it on when everyone else did! It was

already going round the table.”

         “Well, whose idea was it, then?”

         I’ve been racking my brains about this again—but if my memory was hazy yesterday, it’s

even worse today.

         I’m never going to believe a Poirot mystery again. Never. All those witnesses going,

“Yes, I remember it was 3:06 pm exactly, because I glanced at the clock as I reached for the

sugar tongs, and Lady Favisham was quite clearly sitting on the right-hand side of the fireplace.”

         Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Favisham was, they just don’t want to admit it

in front of Poirot. I’m amazed he gets anywhere.

         “I’ve got to go.” I turn away before Annalise can taunt me with any more expensive

rings.

         “To tell Magnus?”

         “Wedding meeting with Lucinda first. Then Magnus and his family.”

         “Let us know what happens. Text us!” Annalise frowns. “Hey, that reminds me, Poppy:

How come you changed your number?”

          “Oh, that. Well, I went out of the hotel to get a better signal and I was holding out my

phone—”

          I break off. On second thought, I can’t be bothered to get into the whole story of the

mugging and the phone in the bin and Sam Roxton. It’s all too way-out, and I haven’t got the

energy.

          Instead, I shrug. “You know. Lost my phone. Got another one. See you tomorrow.”

          “Good luck, missus.” Ruby pulls me in for a quick hug.

          “Text!” I hear Annalise calling after me as I head out the door. “We want hourly

updates!”

          She would have been great at public executions, Annalise. She would have been the one

at the front, jostling for a good view of the ax, already sketching the gory bits to put up on the

village notice board, in case anyone missed it.

          Or, you know, whatever they did before Facebook.

          I don’t know why I bothered rushing, because Lucinda’s late, as always.

          In fact, I don’t know why I bothered to have a wedding planner. But I only ever think that

thought very quietly to myself, because Lucinda is an old family friend of the Tavishes. Every

time I mention her, Magnus says, “Are you two getting along?” in raised, hopeful tones, like

we’re two endangered pandas who have to make a baby.

          It’s not that I don’t like Lucinda. It’s just that she stresses me out. She sends me all these

bulletins by text the whole time, of what she’s doing and where, and keeps telling me what an

effort she’s making on my behalf, like the sourcing of the napkins, which was the hugest saga

and took her forever and three trips to a fabric warehouse in Walthamstow.

          Also, her priorities seem a little screwy. She hired an “IT wedding specialist” at great

expense, who set up whizzy things like a text alert system to give all the guests updates30 and a

webpage where guests can register what outfit they’re wearing and avoid “unfortunate

clashes.”31 But while she was doing all that, she didn’t get back to the caterers we wanted, and

we nearly lost them.

          We’re meeting in the lobby of Claridge’s—Lucinda loves hotel lobbies; don’t ask me

why. I sit there patiently for twenty minutes, drinking weak black tea, wishing I’d canceled, and

feeling sicker and sicker at the thought of seeing Magnus’s parents. I’m wondering if I might

actually have to go to the ladies’ and be ill—when she suddenly appears, all flying raven hair and

Calvin Klein perfume and six mood boards under her arm. Her suede spiky kitten heels are

tapping on the marble floor and her pink cashmere coat is billowing out behind her like a pair of

wings.

          Trailing in her wake is Clemency, her “assistant”. (If an unpaid eighteen-year-old can be

called an assistant. I’d call her slave labor.) Clemency is very posh and very sweet and terrified

of Lucinda. She answered Lucinda’s ad in The Lady for an intern and keeps telling me how great

it is to learn the ropes firsthand from an experienced professional.32

          “So, I’ve been talking to the vicar. Those arrangements aren’t going to work. The

wretched pulpit has to stay where it is.” Lucinda descends into a chair in a leggy,

Joseph-trousered sprawl, and the mood boards slide out of her grasp and all over the floor. “I just

don’t know why people can’t be more helpful. I mean, what are we going to do now? And I

haven’t heard back from the caterer … ”

          I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. I’m suddenly wishing I’d arranged to meet

Magnus first, on my own, to tell him about the ring. Then we could have faced his parents

together. Is it too late? Could I quickly text him on the way?

         “ … and I still haven’t got a trumpeter.” Lucinda exhales sharply, two lacquered nails to

her forehead. “There’s so much to do. It’s insane. Insane. It would have helped if Clemency had

typed out the order of service properly,” she adds, a little savagely.

         Poor Clemency flushes beet-red and I shoot her a sympathetic smile. It’s not her fault

she’s severely dyslexic and put hymen instead of hymn and the whole thing had to be redone.

         “We’ll get there!” I say encouragingly. “Don’t worry!”

         “I’m telling you, after this is over I’m going to need a week in a spa. Have you seen my

hands?” Lucinda pushes them toward me. “That’s stress!”

         I have no idea what she’s talking about—her hands look perfectly normal to me. But I

stare at them obediently.

         “You see? Wrecked. All for your wedding, Poppy! Clemency, order me a G&T.”

         “Right. Absolutely.” Clemency leaps eagerly to her feet.

         I try to ignore a tiny rub of irritation. Lucinda’s always throwing little references like that

into the conversation: “All for your wedding.” “Just to make you happy, Poppy!” “The bride’s

always right!”

         She can sound quite pointed sometimes, which I find disconcerting. I mean, I didn’t ask

her to be a wedding planner, did I? And we are paying her quite a lot, aren’t we? But I don’t

want to say anything, because she’s Magnus’s old friend and everything.

         “Lucinda, I was wondering, have we sorted out the cars yet?” I say tentatively.

         There’s an ominous silence. I can tell that a wave of fury is rising inside Lucinda, from

the way her nose starts to twitch. At last it erupts, just as poor Clemency arrives back.

         “Oh, bloody hell. Oh fucking … Clemency!” She turns her wrath on the trembling girl.

“Why didn’t you remind me about the cars? They need cars! We need to hire them!”

         “I … ” Clemency looks helplessly at me. “Um … I didn’t know … ”

         “There’s always something!” Lucinda is almost talking to herself. “Always something

else to think about. It’s endless. However much I run myself into the ground, it goes on and on

and on—>”

         “Look, shall I do the cars?” I say hastily. “I’m sure I can sort them.”

         “Would you?” Lucinda seems to wake up. “Could you do that? It’s just, there’s only one

of me, you know, and I have spent the entire week working on details, all for your wedding,

Poppy.”

         She looks so stressed out, I feel a pang of guilt.

         “Yes! No problem. I’ll go on yellow pages or something.”

         “How’s your hair coming along, Poppy?” Lucinda suddenly focuses on my head, and I

silently will my hair to grow another centimeter, very quickly.

         “Not bad! I’m sure it will go in the chignon. Definitely.” I try to sound more positive than

I feel.

         Lucinda has told me about a hundred times how shortsighted and foolish it was to cut my

hair to above the shoulder when I was about to become engaged.33 She also told me at the

wedding-dress shop that with my pale skin,34 a white dress would never work and I should wear

lime green. For my wedding. Luckily the wedding-dress-shop owner chimed in and said Lucinda

was speaking nonsense: My dark hair and eyes would set off the white beautifully. So I chose to

believe her instead.

         The G&T arrives and Lucinda takes a deep slug. I take another sip of tepid black tea.

Poor old Clemency hasn’t got anything, but she looks like she’s trying to blend into her chair and

not attract any attention at all.

         “And … you were going to find out about confetti?” I add cautiously. “But I can do that

too,” I backtrack quickly at Lucinda’s expression. “I’ll phone the vicar.”

         “Great!” Lucinda breathes out sharply. “I’d appreciate that! Because there is only one of

me and I can only be in one place at once—” She breaks off abruptly as her gaze alights on my

hand. “Where’s your ring, Poppy? Oh my God, haven’t you found it yet?”

         As she lifts her eyes, she looks so thunderstruck, I start to feel sick again.

         “Not yet. But it’ll turn up soon. I’m sure it will. The hotel staff are all looking—”

         “And you haven’t told Magnus?”

         “I will!” I swallow hard. “Soon.”

         “But isn’t it a really important family piece?” Lucinda’s hazel eyes are wide. “Won’t they

be livid?”

         Is she trying to give me a nervous breakdown?

         My phone buzzes and I grab it, grateful for the distraction. Magnus has just sent me a text

which dashes my secret hope that his parents would suddenly catch gastric flu and have to

cancel:

         Dinner at 8, whole family here, can’t wait to see you!

         “Is that your new phone?” Lucinda frowns critically at it. “Did you get my forwarded

texts?”

         “Yes, thanks.” I nod. Only about thirty-five of them, all clogging up my in-box. When

she heard I’d lost my phone, Lucinda insisted on forwarding all her recent texts to me, just so I

didn’t “drop the ball.” To be fair, it was quite a good idea. I got Magnus to forward all his most

recent messages too, and the girls at work.

         Ned Murdoch, whoever he is, has also finally contacted Sam. I’ve been looking out for

that email all day. I glance at it distractedly, but it doesn’t seem particularly earth-shattering to

me. Re: Ellerton’s bid. Sam, hi. A few points. You’ll see from the attachment, blah blah blah.

         Anyway, I’d better send it on straightaway. I press forward and make sure it’s gone

through. Then I type a quick reply to Magnus, my fingers fumbling with nerves.

         Great! Can’t wait to see your parents!!!! So exciting!!!!PS: Could we meet outside

first? Something I want to talk about. Just a really tiny thing. Xxxxxxxxx

         22 OK, it wasn’t a couple of texts. It was about seven. But I only pressed send on five of

them.

         23 Poirot would probably have worked it out already.

         24 There are only three of us, and we’ve known each other for yonks. So occasionally we

lurch off onto other areas like our boyfriends and the Zara sale.

         25 Or, rather, her dad did. He already owns a string of photocopy shops.

         26 She also completely ignores all the poor women with twisted ankles. If you’re a girl,

never do the marathon with Annalise on duty.

         27 It was an emergency, in my defense. Natasha had split up with her boyfriend. And it’s

not like the patient could see what I was doing. But, yes, I know it was wrong.

         28 I know girls say that and what they really mean is, “I gave him an ultimatum and then

let him think he’d come up with the idea himself, and six weeks later, bingo.” But it wasn’t like

that. I honestly had no idea. Well, you wouldn’t, would you, after a month?

         29 Which I bet she did not do in her lunch hour. She should be the one getting the

disciplinary hearing.

         30 Which we’ve never used.

         31 Which no one has registered on.

        32 Personally, I’m doubtful about Lucinda’s so-called experience. Whenever I ask her

about other weddings she’s done, she refers to only one, which was for another friend and

consisted of thirty people in a restaurant. But obviously I never mention this in front of the

Tavishes. Or Clemency. Or anyone.

        33 Was I supposed to be psychic?

        34 “Deathly white,” as she called it.

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