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as soon as possible? We need to talk.”
OK. Good. That was dignified. A brief, cutting message that he will understand. Now
ring off.
Ring off, Poppy.
But I can’t. My hand feels welded to the phone. While I’m co
to his voice mail, I can feel my defenses 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, marvelous 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
a jolly chitchat.
“I see. Well, come in!” She smiles again, but I can see anxiety in the downward slant of
her eyes and the 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 of different ways according to her mood. I guess that’s what happens when you have no
Botox, makeup, 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 as messy as 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 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 else 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
needlepoint-embroidered chair opposite. The smell of old wood smoke, musty kilim, and
potpourri 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 he
“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 that 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 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 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 stu
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 swallow. “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 absentmindedly 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 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