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“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 ca
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 pla
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 a
As well as being beautiful, she’s caring, fu
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 stu
“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 di
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