I've Got Your Number

“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 earlobe. “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 in to 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 noone is any the wiser. That’s what I want.

I glance at the clock—2:45 am—then at Magnus, breathing peacefully, and feel a surge of irrational resentment. It’s OK for him.

Abruptly, I swing my legs out from under the covers and reach for a dressing gown. I’ll go and have a cup of herbal tea, like they recommend in magazine articles on insomnia, along with writing down all your problems on a piece of paper.48

My phone is charging in the kitchen, and as I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, I idly click through all the messages, methodically forwarding on Sam’s. There’s a text from a new patient of mine who’s just had surgery on his anterior cruciate ligament and is finding it hard going, and I send a quick, reassuring text back, saying I’ll try to fit him in for a session tomorrow.49 I’m pouring hot water on a chamomile and vanilla tea bag when a text bleeps, making me start.

What are you doing up so late?

It’s Sam. Who else? I settle down with my tea and take a sip, then text back:

Can’t sleep. What are YOU doing up so late?

Waiting to speak to a guy in LA. Why can’t you sleep?