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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 a
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 a
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 fu
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.