I've Got Your Number

“You remember!” he prompts me. “Didn’t you say you’d had something in the physiotherapy periodical?”

Oh God. No.

I will kill Magnus. How could he bring that up?

Antony and Wanda are both waiting for me to reply. Even Felix has looked up with interest. They’re obviously expecting me to announce a breakthrough in the cultural influence of physiotherapy on nomadic tribes or something.

“It was Physiotherapists’ Weekly Roundup,” I mumble at last, staring at my feet. “It’s not really a periodical. More of a … a magazine. They published a letter of mine once.”

“Was it a piece of research?” says Wanda.

“No.” I swallow hard. “It was about when patients have BO. I said maybe we should wear gas masks. It was … you know. Supposed to be funny.”

There’s silence.

I’m so mortified I can’t even raise my head.

“You did write a thesis for your degree, though,” ventures Felix. “Didn’t you tell me once?” I turn in surprise and he’s looking at me with an earnest, encouraging gaze.

“Yes. I mean … it wasn’t published or anything.” I shrug awkwardly.

“I’d like to read it one day.”

“OK.” I smile—but, honestly, this is pitiful. Of course he doesn’t want to read it; he’s just trying to be nice. Which is sweet of him but makes me feel even more tragic, since I’m twenty-nine and he’s seventeen. Plus, if he’s trying to boost my confidence in front of his parents, it hasn’t worked, because they’re not even listening.

“Of course, humor is a form of expression which one should factor into one’s cultural narrative,” says Wanda doubtfully. “I think Jacob C. Goodson has done some interesting work on ‘Why Humans Joke.’ ”

“I believe it was ‘Do Humans Joke,’ ” corrects Antony. “Surely his thesis was that …”

They’re off again. I breathe out, my cheeks still burning. I cannot cope. I want someone to ask about holidays, or EastEnders, or anything but this.

I mean, I love Magnus and everything. But I’ve been here five minutes and I’m a nervous wreck. How am I going to survive Christmas every year? What if our children are all superbright and I can’t understand what they’re saying and they look down on me because I haven’t got a PhD?

There’s an acrid smell in the air, and suddenly I realize the Bolognese is burning. Wanda is standing there by the stove, wittering away about Aristotle, not even noticing. Gently, I take the spoon out of her grasp and start to stir. Thank God you don’t need a Nobel Prize to do this.

At least saving the supper made me feel useful. But half an hour later we’re all sitting round the table, and I’m back to my speechless panic mode.

No wonder Antony and Wanda don’t want me to marry Magnus. They obviously think I’m a total dimbo. We’re halfway through the Bolognese, and I haven’t uttered a single word. It’s too hard. The conversation is like a juggernaut. Or maybe a symphony. Yes. And I’m the flute. And I do have a tune, and I’d quite like to play it, but there’s no conductor to bring me in. So I keep drawing breath, then chickening out.

“ … the commissioning editor unfortunately saw otherwise. So there will be no new edition of my book.” Antony makes a rueful, clicking sound. “Tant pis.”

Suddenly I’m alert. For once I actually understand the conversation and have something to say!

“That’s terrible!” I chime in supportively. “Why won’t they publish a new edition?”

“They need the readership. They need the demand.” Antony gives a theatrical sigh. “Ah, well. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” I feel fired up. “Why don’t we all write to the editor and pretend to be readers and say how brilliant the book is and demand a new edition?”

I’m already planning the letters. Dear Sir, I am shocked that a new edition of this wonderful book has not been published. We could print them in different fonts, post them in different areas of the country—

“And would you personally buy a thousand copies?” Antony regards me with that hawklike stare.

“I … er … ” I hesitate, stymied. “Maybe … ”

“Because, unfortunately, Poppy, if the publisher printed a thousand books which did not sell, then I would be in a worse boat than ever.” He gives me a fierce smile. “Do you see?”

I feel totally squashed and stupid.

“Right,” I mumble. “Yes. I … I see. Sorry.”

Trying to keep my composure, I start clearing the plates. Magnus is sketching some argument out for Felix on a piece of paper, and I’m not sure he even heard. He gives me an absent smile and squeezes my bum as I pass. Which doesn’t make me feel that much better, to be honest.

But as we sit back down for pudding, Magnus tinkles his fork and stands up.

“I’d like to announce a toast to Poppy,” he says firmly. “And welcome her to the family. As well as being beautiful, she’s caring, funny, and a wonderful person. I’m a very lucky man.”

He looks around the table as though daring anyone to disagree with him, and I shoot him a grateful little smile.