I've Got Your Number

  “All right, Poppy?” says Wanda, in such bright, artificial tones that I instantly know they’ve been talking about me. They’ve probably told Magnus that if he marries me they’ll cut him off without a penny or something.

  “Fine!” I try to sound cheerful. “That was a patient on the phone,” I add, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Sometimes I do online consultation, so I might have to send a text, if you don’t mind?”

  No one even replies. They’re all hunched over their tiles again.

  I line my phone up so the screen takes in the board and my rack of tiles. Then I press the photo button.

  “Just taking a family snap!” I say quickly as the faces rise in response to the flash. I’m already sending the photo over to Sam.

  “It’s your turn, Poppy,” says Magnus. “Would you like some help, darling?” he adds in an undertone.

  I know he’s trying to be kind. But there’s something about the way he says it that stings me.

  “It’s OK, thanks. I’ll be fine.” I start moving the tiles back and forth on my rack, trying to look confident.

  After a minute or two I glance down at my phone, in case a text has somehow arrived silently—but there’s nothing.

  Everyone else is concentrating on their tiles or on the board. The atmosphere is hushed and intense, like an exam room. I shift my tiles around more and more briskly, willing some stupendous word to pop out at me. But no matter what I do, it’s a fairly crap situation. I could make RAW. Or WAR.

  And still my phone is silent. Sam must have been joking about helping me. Of course he was joking. I feel a wave of humiliation. What’s he going to think, when a picture of a Scrabble board arrives on his phone?

  “Any ideas yet, Poppy?” Wanda says in encouraging tones, as though I’m a subnormal child. I suddenly wonder if, while I was in the kitchen, Magnus told his parents to be nice to me.

  “Just deciding between options.” I attempt a cheerful smile.

  OK. I have to do this. I can’t put it off any longer. I’ll make RAW.

  No, WAR.

  Oh, what’s the difference?

  My heart low, I put the A and W down on the board—as my phone bleeps with a text.

  WHAIZLED. Use the D from OUTSTEPPED. Triple word score, plus 50-point bonus.

  Oh my God.

  I can’t help giving a laugh, and Antony shoots me an odd look.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. “Just … my patient making a joke.” My phone bleeps again.

  It’s Scottish dialect, btw. Used by Robert Burns.

  “So, is that your word, Poppy?” Antony is peering at my pathetic offering. “Raw? Jolly good. Well done!”

  His heartiness is painful.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. “My mistake. On second thought, I think I’ll do this word instead.”

  Carefully, I lay down WHAIZLED on the board and sit back, looking nonchalant.

  There’s an astounded silence.

  “Poppy, sweets,” says Magnus at last. “It has to be a genuine word, you know. You can’t make one up—”

  “Oh, don’t you know that word?” I adopt a tone of surprise. “Sorry. I thought it was fairly common knowledge.”

  “Whay-zled?” ventures Wanda dubiously. “Why-zled? How do you pronounce it, exactly?”

  Oh God. I have no bloody idea.

  “It … er … depends on the region. It’s traditional Scottish dialect, of course,” I add with a knowledgeable air, as though I’m Stephen Fry.42 “Used by Robert Burns. I was watching a documentary about him the other night. He’s rather a passion of mine, in fact.”

  “I didn’t know you were interested in Burns.” Magnus looks taken aback.

  “Oh yes,” I say as convincingly as possible. “Always have been.”

  “Which poem does whaizled come from?” Wanda persists.

  “It’s …” I swallow hard. “It’s actually rather a beautiful poem. I can’t remember the title now, but it goes something like …”

  I hesitate, trying to think what Burns’s poetry sounds like. I heard some once at a Hogmanay party, not that I could understand a word of it.

  ” ‘Twas whaizled … when the wully whaizle … wailed. And so on!” I break off brightly. “I won’t bore you.”

  Antony raises his head from the N-Z volume of the dictionary, which he instantly picked up when I laid my tiles down and has been flicking through.

  “Quite right.” He seems a bit flummoxed. “Whaizled. Scottish dialect for wheezed. Well, well. Very impressive.”

  “Bravo, Poppy.” Wanda is totting up. “So, that’s a triple word score, plus your fifty-point bonus … so that’s … one hundred and thirty-one points! The highest score so far!”

  “One hundred and thirty-one?” Antony grabs her paper. “Are you sure?”

  “Congratulations, Poppy!” Felix leans over to shake my hand.

  “It was nothing, really.” I beam modestly around. “Shall we keep going?”

  35 I finally winkled this out of him on the phone at lunchtime.

  36 Magnus says Wanda has never sunbathed in her life, and she thinks people who go on holiday in order to lie on beds must be mentally deficient. That’ll be me, then.

  37 “Study of Continuous Passive Motion Following Total Knee Arthroplasty.” I’ve still got it, in its plastic folder.

  38 She didn’t say exactly where it was questing to.

  39 Although I am rather good at footnotes. They could put me in charge of those.

  40 No idea what most of these words mean.

  41 Which apparently is a word. Silly me.

  42 Stephen Fry off QI, I mean. Not Jeeves and Wooster. Although Jeeves probably knew a fair bit about Burns’s poetry too.

  I won! I won the Scrabble game!

  Everyone was gobsmacked. They pretended not to be—but they were. The raised eyebrows and astonished glances became more frequent and less guarded as the game went on. When I got that triple word score with saxatile, Felix actually broke out into applause and said, “Bravo!” And as we were tidying the kitchen afterward, Wanda asked me if I’d ever thought of studying linguistics.

  My name was entered in the family Scrabble book, Antony offered me the “winner’s glass of port,” and everyone clapped. It was such a sweet moment.

  OK. I know it was cheating. I know it was a bad thing to do. To be honest, I kept expecting someone to catch me out. But I put the ring tone on silent and no one realized I was texting Sam all the way through.43

  And, yes, of course I feel guilty. Halfway through, I felt even worse when I texted Sam in admiration, How do you know all these words? and he replied, I don’t. The Internet does.

  The Internet?

  For a moment I felt too shocked to reply. I thought he was thinking of the words, not finding them on Scrabble words.com or whatever.

  That’s CHEATING!!!! I typed.

  You already crossed that line, he texted back. What’s the difference? And then he added, Flattered you thought I was a genius.

  Then, of course, I felt really stupid.

  And he had a point. Once you’ve started cheating, does it matter what your methods are?

  I know I’m storing up problems for the future. I know Sam Roxton won’t always be on the end of my phone to feed me words. I know I couldn’t possibly repeat the feat. Which is why I’m planning to retire from family Scrabble, as of tomorrow. It was a short, brilliant career. And now it’s over.

  The only person who wasn’t entirely fulsome in his praise was Magnus, which was a bit surprising. I mean, he said, “Well done,” along with everyone else—but he didn’t give me a special hug or even ask me how come I knew all those words. And when Wanda said, “Magnus, you didn’t tell us Poppy was so talented!” he flashed her this quick smile and said, “I told you, Poppy’s brilliant at everything.” Which was nice—but kind of meaningless too.

  The thing is … he came in second.

  He can’t be jealous of me, surely?

  It’s about elev
en now, and we’re back in my flat. I’m half-tempted to go and talk to Magnus about it, but he’s disappeared off to do some preparation for a lecture on Symbols and Symbolic Thought in Dante44 which he’s giving tomorrow. So instead I curl up on the sofa and forward some emails which came in earlier for Sam.

  After a few I can’t help clicking my tongue with frustration. Half these emails are reminders and chasers. He still hasn’t replied about the conference accommodation at Chiddingford Hotel, or the Fun Run, or the dentist. Or the new James & James bespoke suit waiting for him to pick up at his convenience. How can you ignore new clothes?

  There are only a few people he ever seems to reply to immediately. One is a girl called Vicks, who runs the PR department. She’s very businesslike and curt, just like him, and has been consulting him about some press launch they’re doing together. She often cc’s Violet’s address, but by the time I forward the email, Sam’s already replied to her. Another is a guy called Malcolm, who asks Sam’s opinion about something nearly every hour. And, of course, Sir Nicholas Murray, who’s clearly very senior and important and is doing some work for the government at the moment.45 He and Sam get on incredibly well, if their emails are anything to go by. They zing back and forth like conversation between old friends. I can’t really understand half of what they’re saying—especially all the in-jokes—but the tone is obvious, and so is the fact that Sam has more emails to and from Sir Nicholas than anybody else.

  Sam’s company is evidently some kind of consultancy. They tell companies how to run their businesses and they do a lot of facilitating, whatever that is. I guess they’re like negotiators or mediators or something. They must be pretty successful at it, because Sam seems very popular. He’s been invited to three drinks parties this week alone and to a shooting event with a private bank next weekend. And a girl called Blue has emailed for the third time, asking if he’d like to attend a special reception to celebrate the merger of Johnson Ellison with Greene Retail. It’s at the Savoy, with a jazz band and canapes and goody bags.

  And he still hasn’t replied. Still.

  I don’t understand him. If I’d been invited to something so amazing, I would have replied instantly, Yes, please! Thank you so much! I can’t wait! . Whereas he hasn’t even acknowledged it.

  Rolling my eyes, I forward every single email, then type him a text:

  Thx again for Scrabble! Have just sent on some new emails. Poppy

  A moment later my phone rings. It’s Sam.

  “Oh, hi—” I start.

  “OK, you’re a genius,” he interrupts. “I had a hunch Vivien would be working late. I called her for a chat and mentioned the issues we discussed. It all came out. You were right. We’re going to talk again tomorrow, but I think she’s staying.”

  “Oh,” I say, pleased. “Cool.”

  “No,” he says firmly. “Not only cool. Awesome. Incredible. Do you know how much time and money and trouble you have saved me? I owe you, big-time.” He pauses. “Oh, and you’re right, she hates being called Viv. So I owe you twice.”

  “No problem! Anytime.”

  “So … that’s all I had to say. I won’t keep you.”

  “Good night. Glad it all worked out.” As I ring off, I remember something and quickly type a text.

  Have u booked dentist yet? U will get manky teeth!!!

  A few seconds later the phone bleeps with a reply:

  I’ll take my chances.

  Take his chances? Is he nuts? My aunt is a dental nurse, so I know what I’m talking about.

  I search the Web for the most gross, revolting photo of decaying teeth I can find. They’re all blackened and some have fallen out. I click on send/share and text it to him.

  The phone almost immediately bleeps with a reply:

  You made me spill my drink.

  I giggle and text back:

  Be afraid!!!!

  I nearly add: Willow won’t be impressed when your teeth fall out!!! But then I stop, feeling awkward. You have to draw a line. Despite all the texting back and forth, I don’t know this guy. And I certainly don’t know his fiancee.

  Although the truth is, I feel as though I do know her. And not in a good way.

  I’ve never come across anyone or anything like Willow before. She’s unbelievable. I would say she’s sent twenty emails to Sam since I’ve had this phone. Each screwier than the last. At least she’s given up sending messages addressed directly to Violet. But, still, she keeps cc’ing her emails to the PA address, as though she wants to have as much chance of reaching Sam as possible and doesn’t care who sees what.

  Why does she have to email her most private thoughts, anyway? Why can’t they just have these conversations in bed, like normal people?

  This evening she was going on about this dream she’d had about him last night, and how she felt suffocated but ignored all at the same time, and did he realize how toxic he was? Did he realize how he was CORRODING HER SPIRIT????

  I always type a reply to her now; I can’t help it. This time I put: Do you realize how toxic YOU are, Willow the Witch?

  And then deleted it. Naturally.

  The most frustrating thing is that I never get to see Sam’s replies. There’s no back-and-forth correspondence; she always starts a fresh email. Sometimes they’re friendly—like yesterday she sent one that just said, You’re a really, really special man, you know that, Sam? Which was quite sweet. But nine out of ten are whinging. I can’t help feeling sorry for him.

  Anyway. His life. His fiancee. Whatever.

  “Sweetheart!” Magnus comes into the room, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Oh, hi!” I quickly press off. “Finished your work?”

  “Don’t let me disturb you.” He nods at the phone. “Chatting to the girls?”

  I give a noncommittal smile and slip the phone into my pocket.

  I know, I know, I know. This is bad. Keeping a secret from Magnus. Not telling him about the ring or the phone or any of it. But how can I start now? Where would I begin? And maybe I’d regret it. What if I confess all and cause a huge rift and half an hour later the ring turns up and I needn’t have said anything?

  “You know me!” I say at last, and give a little laugh. “What did you talk to your parents about tonight?” I quickly move on to the subject I really want to find out about—i.e., what do his parents think of me and have they changed their mind?

  “Oh, my parents.” He makes an impatient gesture and sinks down on the sofa. He’s tapping his fingers on the arm, and his eyes are distant.

  “You OK?” I say cautiously.

  “I’m great.” He turns to me and the clouds fall away from his eyes. Suddenly he’s focused. “Remember when we first met?”

  “Yes.” I smile back. “Of course I do.”

  He starts stroking my leg. “I arrived at that place expecting the battle-ax. But there you were.”

  I wish he wouldn’t always call Ruby a battle-ax. She’s not. She’s gorgeous and lovely and sexy; her arms are just a teeny bit meaty. But I hide my squirm of irritation and keep smiling.

  “You were like an angel in that white uniform. I’ve never seen anything more sexy in my life.” His hand is moving farther up my leg with intent. “I wanted you, right there, right then.”

  Magnus loves telling this story, and I love hearing it.

  “And I wanted you.” I lean over and gently bite his ear-lobe. “The minute I saw you.”

  “I know you did. I could tell.” He pulls my top aside and starts to nuzzle my bare shoulder. “Hey, Poppy, let’s get back into that room one day,” he whispers. “That’s the best sex I’ve ever had. You, in that white uniform, up on that couch, with that massage oil … Jesus …”46 He starts tugging at my skirt and we both tumble off the sofa onto the carpet. And as my phone bleeps with another text, I barely notice.

  It’s not until much later on, when we’re getting ready for bed and I’m rubbing in body lotion,47 that Magnus lands his bombshell.

  “Oh, Mum called
earlier.” His speech is muffled with toothpaste. “About the skin guy.”

  “What?”

  He spits out and wipes his mouth. “Paul. Our neighbor. He’s coming to the wedding rehearsal to look at your hand.”

  “What?” My hand clenches automatically and I squirt body lotion across the bathroom.

  “Mum says you can’t be too careful with burns, and I think she’s right.”

  “She didn’t have to do that!” I’m trying not to sound panicky.

  “Sweets.” He kisses my head. “It’s all fixed up.”

  He heads out of the bathroom and I stare at my reflection. My happy postsex glow has gone. I’m back to the black hole of dread. What do I do? I can’t keep dodging forever.

  I don’t have a burned hand. I don’t have an engagement ring. I don’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of Scrabble words. I’m a total phony.

  “Poppy?” Magnus appears meaningfully at the bathroom door. I know he wants to get to sleep because he’s got to go to Brighton early tomorrow. He’s writing a book with a professor there and they keep having disagreements which require emergency meetings.

  “Coming.”

  I follow him to bed and curl up in his arms and give a pretty good impersonation of someone falling peacefully off to sleep. But inside I’m churning. Every time I try to switch off, a million thoughts come crowding back in. If I call off Paul the dermatologist, will Wanda be suspicious? Could I mock up a burn on my hand? What if I just told Magnus everything right now?

  I try to picture this last scenario. I know it’s the most sensible. It’s the one the agony aunts would recommend. Wake him up and tell him.

  But I can’t. I can’t. And not only because Magnus is always totally ratty if he gets woken up in the night. He’d be so shocked. His parents would always think of me as the girl who lost the heirloom ring. It’d define me forevermore. It’d cast a pall over everything.

  And the point is, they don’t have to know. This doesn’t have to come out. Mrs. Fairfax might call anytime. If I can just hold out till then …

  I want to get the ring back and quietly slip it on my finger and no one is any the wiser. That’s what I want.