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Typical.
I know.
By now I’ve stopped walking and am leaning against a wall. I know I’m spi
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 di
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 ca
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
Ta
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 stu
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 he
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