FOURTEEN
AFTER LUCINDA’S GONE, I stand motionless for about three minutes solid, in a state of shock. Then, abruptly, I come to. I head for the stairwell and down the stairs. As I step out of the building I switch off my phone. I can’t afford any distractions. I need to think. I need to be alone. Like Lucinda said, I need to work this out for myself.
I start walking along the pavement, not caring which direction I’m going. My mind is circling around all the facts, the guesses, the speculation, and back to the facts. But gradually, as I walk, thoughts seem to settle into place. My resolve hardens. I have a plan.
I don’t know where my sudden determination has come from: whether Lucinda has spurred me on or whether I’ve just had enough of avoiding confrontation while my stomach ties itself in knots. But I’m going to face this one down. I’m going to do it. The weirdest thing is, I keep hearing Sam’s voice in my ear, reassuring me and bolstering me and telling me I can do it. It’s as if he’s giving me a pep talk, even though he’s not here. And it’s making me stand taller. It’s making me feel like I can do this. I’m going to be a Whole New Poppy.
As I reach the corner of Battersea Rise I feel ready. I haul out my phone, turn it on, and without reading a single new message, speed-dial Magnus. Of course he doesn’t answer, but I expected that.
‘Hi, Magnus,’ I say in the most crisp, businesslike tones I can muster. ‘Can you call me as soon as possible? We need to talk.’
OK. Good. That was dignified. A brief, cutting message that he will understand. Now ring off.
But I can’t. My hand feels welded to the phone. While I’m connected to him, or even just his voice-mail, I can feel my defences coming down. I want to talk. I want to hear from him. I want him to know how shocked and hurt I am.
‘Because . . . I’ve heard some news, OK?’ I hear myself continuing. ‘I’ve been speaking to your great friend Lucinda.’ I give ‘Lucinda’ an angry little emphasis. ‘And what she told me was a bit of a shock, to say the least, so I think we need to talk as soon as possible. Because unless you’ve got some great, marvellous explanation, which I can’t think how you would, because was Lucinda lying? Because someone must be lying, Magnus. Someone must be—’
Beep.
Damn, I got cut off.
As I turn off my phone again, I’m cursing myself. So much for the brief, cutting message. So much for a Whole New Poppy. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.
Still, never mind. At least I made the call. At least I didn’t sit with my hands over my ears, avoiding the whole thing. And now, to the next thing on my mental list. I step into the road, lift my hand and flag down a cab.
‘Hi,’ I say as I get in. ‘I’d like to go to Hampstead, please.’
I know Wanda’s in today, because she said she was preparing for some radio show she’s doing tonight. And sure enough, as I draw up to the house, music is blasting out of the windows. I have no idea if Antony is there too, but I don’t care. They can both hear this. As I approach the house, I’m trembling, like I was the other night – but in a different way. In a positive way. In a ‘bring it on’ way.
‘Poppy!’ As Wanda swings the door open she beams widely. ‘What a lovely surprise!’ She swoops in for a kiss, then studies my face again. ‘Have you just dropped round to be sociable, or was there anything . . .’
‘We need to talk.’
There’s a brief moment of silence between us. I can tell she understands that I don’t mean some jolly chit-chat.
‘I see. Well, come in!’ She smiles again but I can see anxiety in the downward slant of her eyes, and faint crinkling of her mouth. She has a very expressive face, Wanda: her English-rose skin is pale and fragile like tissue paper, and the lines round her eyes crease in a myriad different ways according to her mood. I guess that’s what happens when you have no Botox, make-up or fake tan. You have expressions, instead. ‘Shall I put on some coffee?’
‘Why not?’ I follow her into the kitchen, which is about ten times the tip it was when I was living here with Magnus. I can’t help wrinkling my nose at a bad smell in the air – which I guess is the bunch of flowers still in paper, gently rotting on the counter. A man’s shoe is in the sink, along with a hairbrush, and there are huge piles of old cardboard folders on every chair.
‘Ah.’ Wanda gestures vaguely around as though hoping one of the chairs might magically clear itself. ‘We were just having a sort-out. To what extent does one archive? That’s the question.’
Once upon a time I would have hastily cast around for something intelligent to say about archives. But now I face her square-on and say bluntly, ‘Actually, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Indeed,’ says Wanda after a pause. ‘I rather thought there might be. Let’s sit down.’
She grabs a pile of folders off a chair, to reveal a large fish wrapped in fishmonger’s paper. OK. So that was the smell.
‘That’s where that went. Extraordinary.’ She frowns, hesitates a moment, then puts the folders back on top of it. ‘Let’s try the drawing room.’
I sit down on one of the bumpy sofas and Wanda draws up an ancient chair covered in needlepoint opposite. The smell of old woodsmoke, musty kilim and pot-pourri is overwhelming. Golden light is streaming through the original stained-glass panels in the windows. This room is so Tavish. And so is Wanda. She’s sitting in her usual uncompromising position, knees firmly apart, dirndl skirt draping around her legs, head tilted forward to listen, with her frizzy hennaed hair falling all around her face.
‘Magnus—’ I begin – then immediately come to a halt.
‘Yes?’
‘Magnus—’
I stop again. There’s silence for a moment.
This woman is so significant in my life, but I barely know her. We’ve had a completely civilized, distant relationship where we haven’t talked about anything except things that don’t matter. Now it feels like I’m about to rip down the screen between us. But I don’t know where to start. Words are buzzing around my head like flies. I need to catch one.
‘How many girls has Magnus proposed to?’ I didn’t mean to start there, but then why not?
Wanda looks caught out. ‘Poppy!’ She swallows. ‘Goodness. I really think Magnus . . . This is a matter . . .’ She rubs her face and I notice her fingernails are filthy.
‘Magnus is in Bruges. I can’t talk to him. So I’ve come to talk to you.’
‘I see.’ Wanda’s expression becomes grave.
‘Lucinda told me there’s a list and she and I are at the end of it. Magnus never mentioned anyone else. He never even told me he and Lucinda used to be an item. Nobody told me.’ I can’t keep the resentment out of my voice.
‘Poppy. You mustn’t . . .’ I can tell Wanda’s floundering. ‘Magnus is very, very fond of you, and you really shouldn’t worry about . . . about that. You’re a lovely girl.’
She might be trying to be kind – but the way she says it makes me flinch. What does she mean by ‘lovely girl’? Is that some patronizing way of saying, ‘You may not have a brain but you look OK?’
I have to say something. I have to. It’s now or never. Go, Poppy.
‘Wanda, you’re making me feel inferior.’ The words rush out. ‘Do you really think I’m inferior or is this just in my mind?’
Argh. I did it. I can’t believe I said that out loud.
‘What?’ Wanda’s eyes widen so far, I notice for the first time what a stunning periwinkle blue they are. I’m taken aback by how shocked she seems, but I can’t back down now.
‘I feel inferior when I’m here.’ I pause. ‘Always. And I just wondered if you really thought I was, or . . .’
Wanda has thrust both hands into her frizzy hair. She comes across a pencil, pulls it out and absent-mindedly puts it down on the table.
‘I think we both need a drink,’ she says at last. She heaves herself up out of the sagging chair and pours two glasses of Scotch from a bottle in the cabinet. She hands one to me, raises her own and takes a deep gulp. ‘I feel a bit knocked for six.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Immediately I feel bad.
‘No!’ She raises a hand. ‘Absolutely not! Dear girl! You do not have to apologize for a bona fide expression of your perception of the situation, be it a construct or not.’
I have no idea what she’s going on about. But I think she’s trying to be nice.
‘It’s up to me to apologize,’ she continues, ‘if you have ever felt uncomfortable, let alone “inferior”. Although, this is such a ridiculous idea, that I can barely . . .’ She trails off, looking baffled. ‘Poppy, I simply don’t understand. May I just ask what has given you this impression?’
‘You’re all so intelligent.’ I shrug uncomfortably. ‘You publish things in journals and I don’t.’
Wanda looks perplexed.
‘But why should you publish things in journals?’
‘Because . . .’ I rub my nose. ‘I don’t know. It’s not that. It’s . . . like, I don’t know how to pronounce “Proust”.’
Wanda looks even more baffled. ‘You clearly do.’
‘OK, I do now! But I didn’t. The first time I met you I kept getting things wrong, and Antony said my physiotherapy degree was “amusing”, and I felt so mortified . . .’ I break off, my throat suddenly blocked.
‘Ah.’ A light dawns in Wanda’s eye. ‘Now, you must never take Antony seriously. Didn’t Magnus warn you? His sense of humour can be, shall we say, a little “off”? He’s offended so many of our friends with misplaced jokes, I can’t count.’ She raises her eyes briefly to heaven. ‘He is a dear man underneath it all, though, as you’ll get to know.’
I can’t bring myself to reply so I take a gulp of my Scotch. I never usually drink Scotch but this is hitting the spot. As I look up, Wanda’s sharp eyes are on me.
‘Poppy, we’re not the type to gush. But believe me, Antony thinks as highly of you as I do. He would be devastated to hear of your anxieties.’
‘So what was the row in the church all about?’ I fling the words at her furiously before I can stop myself. Wanda looks as though I’ve slapped her.
‘Ah. You heard that. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.’ She takes another mouthful of her Scotch, looking stressed out.
Suddenly I’m sick of being polite and talking around things. I want to cut to the chase.
‘OK.’ I put my glass down. ‘The reason I’ve come here is, it turns out Magnus has been sleeping with Lucinda. So I’m calling off the wedding. So you might as well be honest and say how much you hated me from the start.’
‘Lucinda?’ Wanda claps a hand over her mouth, looking aghast. ‘Oh, Magnus. That wretched, wretched boy. When will he learn?’ She seems absolutely deflated by this piece of news. ‘Poppy, I’m so sorry. Magnus is . . . what can I say? A flawed individual.’
‘So . . . you guessed he might do this?’ I stare at her. ‘Has he done it before?’
‘I was afraid he might do something stupid,’ Wanda says after a pause. ‘I’m afraid whatever gifts Magnus inherited from us, the gift of commitment was not among them. That’s why we were concerned about the wedding. Magnus has a history of leaping into romantic ventures, backtracking, changing his mind, making things messy for everyone . . .’
‘Then he has done it before.’
‘In a way.’ She winces. ‘Although we’ve never got as far as the church before. There have been three previous fiancées, and I gather Lucinda was an almost-fiancée. When he announced yet again that he was marrying a girl we hardly knew, I’m afraid we didn’t rush to celebrate.’ She eyes me frankly. ‘You’re right. We did try to put him off the idea in the church, quite forcibly. We thought the two of you should spend a year getting to know each other better. The last thing we wanted was for you to be hurt by our son’s idiocy.’
I feel dazed. I had no idea Magnus had proposed to anyone else. Let alone four girls including Lucinda (half). How can this be? Is this my fault? Did I ever actually ask him about his past?
Yes. Yes! Of course I did. The memory comes back to me in a fully composed picture. We were lying in bed, after that dinner at the Chinese place. We told each other about all our old flames. And OK, so I edited very slightly, but I didn’t leave out four previous proposals. Magnus never said a word. Not a word. But everyone else knew.
Now, of course, all the odd looks and edgy voices between Antony and Wanda make sense. I was so paranoid. I assumed they were all about how crap I was.
‘I thought you hated me,’ I say, almost to myself. ‘And I thought you were angry he’d used the family ring because . . . I dunno. I wasn’t worthy of it.’
‘Not worthy?’ Wanda seems absolutely appalled. ‘Who has put these ideas into your head?’
‘What was the problem, then?’ I feel the old hurt rising again. ‘I know you weren’t happy about it, so don’t pretend.’
Wanda appears to debate internally for a moment. ‘We’re being frank with each other?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘Please.’
‘Well then.’ Wanda sighs. ‘Magnus has taken that family ring out of the bank’s safe so many times now, Antony and I have developed our own private theory.’
‘Which is what?
‘The family ring is so easy.’ She spreads her hands. ‘It requires no thought. He can do it on impulse. Our theory is that when he really wants to commit to someone, he’ll find a ring for himself. He’ll choose something carefully. Give it some thought. Perhaps even let his bride choose her own.’ She gives me a rueful little smile. ‘So when we learned that he’d used the family ring yet again . . . I’m afraid alarm bells rang.’
‘Oh. I see.’
I twist the ring round my finger. It suddenly feels heavy and lumpish. I thought having a family ring was special. I thought it meant Magnus was more committed to me. But now I’m seeing it as Wanda sees it. A thoughtless, easy, no-brainer choice. I cannot believe how everything I thought has been turned on its head. I cannot believe how I misinterpreted everything.
‘For what it’s worth,’ adds Wanda, a little despondently, ‘I’m very sorry things have ended like this. You’re a lovely girl, Poppy. Great fun. I was looking forward to having you as a daughter-in-law.’
I wait for my hackles to rise at the phrase ‘great fun’; for my internal prickliness to put in an appearance . . . but somehow it doesn’t. For the first time since I’ve met Wanda, I’m able to take her words at face value. By ‘great fun’ she doesn’t mean ‘low IQ and inferior degree’. She means ‘great fun’.
‘I’m sorry, too,’ I say – and I’m speaking the truth. I do feel sad. Just as I work Wanda out, it’s all over.
I thought Magnus was perfect and his parents were my only problem. Now I’m feeling like it’s the other way round. Wanda’s great; shame about her son.
‘Here.’ I wrench the ring off and hand it to her.
‘Poppy!’ She looks startled. ‘Surely—’
‘It’s all over. I don’t want to wear it any more. It belongs to you. To be honest, it never really felt like mine.’ I grab my bag and stand up. ‘I think I should go.’
‘But . . .’ Wanda seems bewildered. ‘Please don’t rush into anything. Have you spoken to Magnus?’
‘Not yet.’ I breathe out. ‘But it’s kind of irrelevant. It’s over.’
That’s pretty much the end of the conversation. Wanda sees me to the door and presses my hand as I leave, and I feel a sudden rush of affection for her. Maybe we’ll stay in touch. Maybe I’ll lose Magnus but gain Wanda.
The massive front door closes and I push my way through the overgrown rhododendrons down the path to the gate. I’m expecting to crumble into tears any moment. My perfect fiancé isn’t perfect after all. He’s a lying, unfaithful, commitmentphobic flake. I’m going to have to call off a whole wedding. My brothers won’t get to walk me up the aisle after all. I should be in bits. But as I walk down the hill, all I can feel is numb.
I can’t face the tube. Nor can I afford any more taxis. So I head towards an out-of-the-way bench in a patch of sunshine, sit down and stare blankly into space for a while. Random thoughts are floating around my brain, bouncing off each other as though in zero gravity.
So much for all that . . . I wonder if I’ll be able to sell my wedding dress . . . I should have known it was too good to be true . . . I must tell the vicar . . . I don’t think Toby and Tom ever liked Magnus, not that they admitted it . . . Did Magnus ever love me at all?
At last I heave a sigh and switch on my phone. I have to get back to real life. The phone is flashing with messages, about ten of them from Sam, and for a ridiculous instant I think, Oh my God, he’s psychic, he knows . . .
But as I click on them, I immediately realize how stupid I’m being. Of course he’s not texting about my personal life. This all is strictly business.
Poppy, are you there? It’s incredible. File was on computer. Voice-mails were there. This confirms everything.
Are you around to talk?
Give me a call when you can. It’s all kicking off here. Heads rolling. Press conference this afternoon, Vicks wants to talk to you too.
Hi Poppy, we need the phone. Can you call me asap?
I don’t bother scrolling through the rest of the texts, but press Call. A moment later the line is ringing and I feel a sudden spasm of nerves. I have no idea why.
‘Hi, Poppy! At last! It’s Poppy.’ Sam’s ebullient voice greets me and I can hear a background hubbub of people. ‘We’re all whooping here. You have no idea what your little discovery means.’
‘Not my discovery,’ I say honestly. ‘Violet’s.’
‘But if it hadn’t been for you taking Violet’s call and meeting her . . . Vicks says, high-five! She wants to buy you a drink. We all do.’ Sam sounds totally elated. ‘So, did you get my message? The tech guys here want to look at the phone, just in case there’s anything else on it.’
‘Oh. Right. Sure. I’ll bring it to your office.’
‘Is that OK?’ Sam sounds concerned. ‘Am I disrupting your day? What are you up to?’
‘Oh . . . nothing.’
Just cancelling my wedding. Just feeling like a total fool about everything.
‘Because I can send a bike—’
‘No, really.’ I force a smile. ‘It’s fine. I’ll come in straight away.’
. No one needs to know about that blond guy at the freshers’ party.