You cannot be serious.
I feel a twinge of resentment and find myself typing:
What would YOU do, then?
I’m half-hoping he might have some brilliant idea I hadn’t thought of. But his next text just says:
This is why men don’t wear rings.
Great. Well, that’s really helpful. I’m about to type something sarcastic back, when a second text arrives:
It looks phony. Take off one bandage.
I stare at my hand in dismay. Perhaps he’s right.
OK. Thx.
I unpeel a bandage and am stuffing it into my bag just as Magnus’s voice rings out: “Poppy! What are you doing?”
I look up—and he’s striding along the street toward me. Flustered, I drop the phone into my bag and zip it shut. I can hear the bleep of another text arriving, but I’ll have to look at it later.
“Hi, Magnus! What are you doing here?”
“On my way to get some milk. We’re out.” He stops in front of me and rests two hands on my shoulders, his brown eyes regarding me in tender amusement. “What’s up? Putting the evil moment off?”
“No!” I laugh defensively. “Of course not! I’m just coming up to the house.”
“I know what you wanted to talk to me about.”
“You … do?” I glance involuntarily at my bandaged hand and then away again.
“Sweetheart, listen. You have to stop worrying about my parents. They’ll love you when they get to know you properly. I’ll make sure they do. We’re going to have a fun evening. OK? Just relax and be yourself.”
“OK.” I nod at last, and he squeezes me, then glances at my bandage.
“Hand still bad? Poor you.”
He didn’t even mention the ring. I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe this evening will be OK, after all.
“So, have you told your parents about the rehearsal? Tomorrow evening at the church.”
“I know.” He smiles. “Don’t worry. We’re all set.”
As I walk along, I savor the thought of it. The ancient stone church. The organ playing as I walk in. The vows.
I know some brides are all about the music or the flowers or the dress. But I’m all about the vows. For better, for worse … For richer, for poorer … And thereto I plight thee my troth … . All my life, I’ve heard these magical words. At family weddings, in movie scenes, at royal weddings even. The same words, over and over, like poetry handed down through the centuries. And now we’re going to say them to each other. It makes my spine tingle.
“I’m so looking forward to saying our vows,” I can’t help saying, even though I’ve said this to him before, approximately a hundred times.
There was a very short time, just after we’d got engaged, when Magnus seemed to think we’d be getting married in a register office. He’s not exactly religious, nor are his parents. But as soon as I’d explained exactly how much I’d been looking forward to saying the church vows all my life, he backtracked and said he couldn’t think of anything more wonderful.
“I know.” He squeezes my waist. “Me too.”
“You really don’t mind doing the old words?”
“Sweets, I think they’re beautiful.”
“Me too.” I sigh happily. “So romantic.”
Every time I imagine Magnus and myself in front of the altar, hands joined, saying those words to each other in clear, resonant voices, it seems like nothing else matters.
But as we approach the house twenty minutes later, my glow of security starts to ebb away. The Tavishes are definitely back. The whole house is lit up, and I can hear opera blasting out of the windows. I suddenly remember that time Antony asked me what I thought of Tannhauser and I said I didn’t smoke.
Oh God. Why didn’t I do a crash course on opera?
Magnus swings the front door open, then clicks his tongue.
“Damn. Forgot to call Dr. Wheeler. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”
I don’t believe this. He’s bounding up the stairs, toward the study. He can’t leave me.
“Magnus.” I try not to sound too panicked.
“Just go through! My parents are in the kitchen. Oh, I got you something for our honeymoon. Open it!” He blows me a kiss and disappears round the corner.
There’s a huge beribboned box on the hall ottoman. Wow. I know this shop and it’s expensive. I tug it open, ripping the expensive pale-green tissue paper, to find a gray-and-white-printed Japanese kimono. It’s absolutely stunning and even has a matching camisole.
On impulse, I duck into the little front sitting room, which no one ever uses. I take off my top and cardigan, slip the camisole on, then replace my clothes. It’s slightly too big—but still gorgeous. All silky-smooth and luxurious-feeling.
It is a lovely present. It really is. But, to be honest, what I would prefer right now is Magnus by my side, his hand firmly in mine, giving me moral support. I fold the dressing gown up and stuff it back amid the torn tissue, taking my time.
Still no sign of Magnus. I can’t put this off any longer.
“Magnus?” comes Wanda’s high-pitched, distinctive voice from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
“No, it’s me! Poppy!” My throat is so clenched with nerves, I sound like a stranger.
“Poppy! Come on through!”
Relax. Be myself. Come on.
I grasp the bottle of wine firmly and head into the kitchen, which is warm and smells of Bolognese sauce.
“Hi, how are you?” I say in a nervous rush. “I brought you some wine. I hope you like it. It’s red.”