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 fiancée.
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 fiancée. Whatever.
“Sweetheart!” Magnus comes into the room, interrupting my thoughts.
“Oh, hi!” I quickly turn 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 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.”