Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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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.

5

        I won! I won the Scrabble game!

        Everyone was gobsmacked. They pretended not to be—but they were. The raised

eyebrows and astonished glances became more frequent and less guarded as the game went on.

When I got that triple word score with saxatile, Felix actually broke out into applause and said,

“Bravo!” And as we were tidying the kitchen afterward, Wanda asked me if I’d ever thought of

studying linguistics.

        My name was entered in the family Scrabble book, Antony offered me the “winner’s

glass of port,” and everyone clapped. It was such a sweet moment.

        OK. I know it was cheating. I know it was a bad thing to do. To be honest, I kept

expecting someone to catch me out. But I put the ring tone on silent and no one realized I was