I've Got Your Number

I know I sound a bit exasperated, and of course he instantly picks up on it.

This phone-sharing was your idea, if you remember. If you’re tired of it, just return my phone to my office.

Hurriedly I text back:

No, no! It’s OK. If it comes through, I’ll forward it. Don’t worry. I thought you were getting emails transferred to your office???

Techies said they’d sort it asap. But they are liars.

There’s a short pause, then he texts:

Got the ring, btw?

Nearly. Hotel found it, but then lost it again.

Typical.

I know.

By now I’ve stopped walking and am leaning against a wall. I know I’m spinning out time before I have to go into the house, but I can’t help it. It’s quite comforting, having this virtual conversation through the ether with someone who doesn’t know Magnus or me, or anybody. After a few moments I text in a confessional rush:

Am not telling my in-laws have lost ring. Do you think that’s really bad?

There’s silence for a bit—then he replies:

Why should you tell them?

What kind of ridiculous question is that? I roll my eyes and type:

It’s their ring!

Almost at once, his reply comes beeping in.

Not their ring. Your ring. None of their business. No big deal.

How can he write No big deal? As I text back, I’m jabbing the keyboard crossly.

Is family bloody HEIRLOOM. Am about to have dinner with them right now. They will expect to see ring on my finger. Is huge deal, thank you.

For a while there’s silence, and I think he’s given up on our conversation. Then, just as I’m about to move on, another text beeps into the phone.

How will you explain missing ring?

I have a moment’s internal debate. Why not get a second opinion? Lining up the screen carefully, I take a photo of my bandaged hand and MMS it to him. Five seconds later he replies:

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.”