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The thing to remember is, the ring fooled Magnus. And if it fooled him, surely it’ll fool
his parents? As we arrive at St. Edmund’s Parish Church, I feel more optimistic than I have for
ages. St. Edmund’s is a big, grand church in Marylebone. In fact we chose it because it’s so
beautiful. As we head inside, someone’s practicing a flashy piece on the organ. There are pink
and white flowers for another wedding decorating all the pews and a general air of expectancy.
I suddenly feel a tingle of excitement. In eight days, that’ll be us! A week from
tomorrow, the place will be festooned with white silk and posies. All my friends and family will
be waiting excitedly. The trumpeter will be in the organ loft and I’ll be in my dress and Magnus
will be standing at the altar in his designer waistcoat.62 It’s really, really happening!
I can already see Wanda inside the church, peering at some old statue. As she turns, I
force myself to wave confidently, as though everything’s great and we’re the best of friends and
they don’t intimidate me at all.
Magnus is right, I tell myself. I’ve been overreacting. I’ve let them get to me. They
probably can’t wait to welcome me into the family.
After all, I beat them all at Scrabble, didn’t I?
“Just think.” I clutch Magnus’s arm. “Not long now!”
“Hello?” Magnus answers his phone, which must be on vibrate. “Oh, hi, Neil.”
Great. Neil is Magnus’s keenest undergraduate and is writing a thesis on symbols in the
work of Coldplay.63 They’ll be on the phone for hours. Mouthing apologetically, he disappears
out of the church.
You’d think he could have turned his phone off. I’ve turned mine off.
Anyway, never mind.
“Hello!” I exclaim as Wanda comes down the aisle. “Good to see you! Isn’t this
exciting?”
I’m not exactly proffering my ring hand. But neither am I hiding it. It’s neutral. It’s the
Switzerland of hands.
“Poppy.” Wanda does a dramatic swoop toward my cheek. “Dear girl. Now, let me
introduce Paul. Where’s he got to? How is your burn, by the way?”
For a moment I can’t move.
Paul. The dermatologist. Shit. I forgot about the dermatologist. How could I forget about
the dermatologist? How could I be so stupid? I was so relieved to get a ring substitute, I forgot I
was supposed to be mortally injured.
“You’ve taken your bandage off,” observes Wanda.
“Oh.” I swallow. “Yes. I did. Because … my hand’s much better, actually. Much better.”
“Can’t be too careful, though, even with these small injuries.” Wanda is ushering me
down the aisle, and there’s nothing I can do except walk obediently. “Colleague of ours in
Chicago stubbed his toe and just soldiered on; next thing we know, he’s in hospital with
gangrene! I said to Antony—>” Wanda interrupts herself. “Here she is. The fiancée. The
betrothed. The patient.”
Antony and an elderly man in a purple V-neck both turn from peering at a painting
hanging on a stone pillar and peer at me instead.
“Poppy,” says Antony. “Let me introduce our neighbor, Paul McAndrew, one of the most
eminent professors of dermatology in the country. Specialist in burns; isn’t that fortunate?”
“Great!” My voice is a nervous squeak and my hands have crept behind my back. “Like I
say, it’s a lot better—”
“Let’s take a look,” says Paul, in a pleasant, matter-of-fact way.
There’s no way out. Mortified, I slowly extend my left hand. Everybody looks at my
smooth, unblemished skin in silence.
“Where was the burn, exactly?” asks Paul at last.
“Um … here.” I gesture vaguely at my thumb.
“Was it a scald? A cigarette burn?” He’s taken hold of my hand and is feeling it with an
expert touch.
“No. It was … um … on a radiator.” I swallow. “It was really sore.”
“Her whole hand was bandaged.” Wanda sounds bemused. “She looked like a war
victim! That was only yesterday!”
“I see.” The doctor relinquishes my hand. “Well, it seems OK now, doesn’t it?” he says
kindly to me. ’Any pain? Any tenderness?”
I shake my head mutely.
“I’ll prescribe some aqueous cream,” he says kindly. “In case the symptoms return. How
about that?”
I can see Wanda and Antony exchanging looks. Great. They obviously think I’m a total
hypochondriac.
OK. Fine. I’ll go with that. I’ll be the family hypochondriac. It can be one of my little
quirks. Could be worse. At least they haven’t exclaimed, “What the hell have you done with our
priceless ring and what’s that piece of junk you’re wearing?”
As though reading my mind, Wanda glances again at my hand.
“My mother’s emerald ring, do you see, Antony?” She points at my hand. “Magnus gave
it to Poppy when he proposed.”
OK. I’m definitely not making this up: There’s a pointed edge to her voice. And now
she’s shooting Antony a significant look. What’s going on? Did she want the ring herself? Was
Magnus not supposed to give it away? I feel like I’ve blundered into some tricksy family
situation which is invisible to me but they’re all too polite to mention it and I’m never going to
know what anybody really thinks.
But then, if it’s so special, how come she hasn’t noticed it’s a fake? Perversely, I feel a
teeny bit disappointed in the Tavishes for not realizing. They think they’re so clever—and then
they can’t even spot a false emerald.
“Super engagement ring,” says Paul politely. “That’s a real one-off, I can tell.”
“Absolutely!” I nod. “It’s vintage. Totally unique.”
“Ah, Poppy!” chimes in Antony, who has been examining a nearby statue. “Now, that
reminds me. There’s something I was going to ask you.”
Me?
“Oh, right,” I say in surprise.
“I would ask Magnus, but I gather it’s more your area than his.”
“Fire away.” I smile up at him politely, expecting some weddingy question along the
lines of ‘How many bridesmaids will there be?’ or ‘What flowers are you having?’ or even,
‘Were you surprised when Magnus proposed?’
“What do you think of McDowell’s new book on the Stoics?” His eyes are fixed beadily
on mine. “How does it compare to Whittaker? “
For a moment I’m too poleaxed to react. What? What do I think of what?
“Ah yes!” Wanda is nodding vigorously. “Poppy is somewhat of an expert on Greek
philosophy, Paul. She foxed us all at Scrabble with the word aporia, didn’t you?”
Somehow I manage to keep smiling.
Aporia.
That was one of the words Sam texted me. I’d had a few glasses of wine and was feeling
pretty confident by then. I have a hazy memory of myself laying down the tiles and saying that
Greek philosophy was one of my great interests.
Why? Why, why, why? If I could go back in time, that’s the moment I’d go up to myself
and say, “Poppy! Enough!”
“That’s right!” I attempt an easy smile. “Aporia! Anyway, I wonder where the vicar is—”
“We were reading the TLS this morning”—Antony ignores my attempt to divert the
conversation—“and there was a review of this new McDowell book and we thought, now, Poppy
will know about this subject.” He looks expectantly at me. “Is McDowell correct about
fourth-century virtues?”
I give an internal whimper. Why the hell did I pretend I knew about Greek philosophy?