I've Got Your Number
Page 128
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
I was going to make him sleep in the sitting room, but Toby and Tom were in there in sleeping bags.104 At least I’ve made him promise to leave the house before I get into my wedding dress. I mean, that would be the limit.
As I pour myself a cup of coffee, I can hear him declaiming in the bathroom, and I feel another flinch of irritation. He’s practicing his speech. Here. In the flat. Isn’t his speech supposed to be a surprise ? Does he know anything about weddings? I approach the bathroom door, ready to give him an earful—then pause. I might as well listen to a snippet.
The door is slightly ajar, and I peer through the gap to see him in his dressing gown, addressing himself in the mirror. To my surprise, he looks quite worked up. His cheeks are red and he’s breathing heavily. Maybe he’s getting into the part. Maybe he’s going to make a really passionate speech about how I’ve completed his life, and everyone will cry.
“Everyone said I’d never get married. Everyone said I’d never do it.” Magnus pauses for so long, I wonder if he’s lost his way. “Well, look. Here I am. OK? Here I am.”
He takes a swig of something, which looks like a gin and tonic, and gazes belligerently at himself.
“Here I am. Married, OK? Married. ”
I peer at him uncertainly. I don’t know quite what’s wrong about this speech, but something is. There’s some small detail that feels wrong … something amiss … something that jars …
I’ve got it. He doesn’t look happy.
Why doesn’t he look happy? It’s his wedding day.
“I’ve done it.” He lifts his glass at the mirror, glowering. “So all you people who said I couldn’t can fuck off.”
“Magnus!” I can’t help exclaiming in shock. “You can’t say ‘fuck off’ in your wedding speech!” Magnus’s face jolts, and his belligerent air instantly vanishes as he whips round. “Poppy! Sweets! I didn’t know you could hear me.”
“Is that your speech?” I demand.
“No! Not exactly.” He takes a deep swig of his drink. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Well, haven’t you written it yet?” I eye his glass. “Is that a gin and tonic?”
“I think I’m allowed a gin and tonic on my wedding day, don’t you?”
The belligerent air is creeping back. What is wrong with him?
If I was in one of those glossy luxury-kitchen American TV dramas, I’d go up to him now and take his arm and say gently, “It’s going to be a great day, honey.” And his face would soften and he’d say, “I know,” and we’d kiss, and I would have diffused the tension with my loving tact and charm.
But I’m not in the mood. If he can be belligerent, so can I.
“Fine.” I scowl. “Get pissed. Great idea.”
“I’m not going to get pissed. Jesus. But I’ve got have something to take the edge off the—” He stops abruptly, and I stare at him in shock. Where exactly was he heading with that sentence?
Off the ordeal ? Off the pain ?
I think his mind is working the same way, because he quickly finishes the sentence. “—the thrill. I need to take the edge off the thrill, or I’ll be far too hyper to concentrate. Sweets, you look beautiful. Gorgeous hair. You’ll look spectacular.”
His old engaging manner has returned in full force, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
“My hair hasn’t even been done yet,” I say, with a grudging smile. “The hairdresser’s on his way.”
“Well, don’t let him ruin it.” He gathers the ends together and kisses them. “I’ll get out of your way. See you at the church!”
“OK.” I stare after him, feeling a bit unsettled.
And I’m unsettled for the rest of the morning. It’s not exactly that I’m worried. It’s more that I don’t know if I should be worried. I mean, let’s look at the facts. One moment Magnus is all over me, begging me to marry him—then he gets stroppy, as though I’m forcing him into it with a shotgun. Is it just jitters? Is this what men are always like on their wedding day? Should I tolerate it as normal male behavior, like when he gets a cold and starts Googling nose cancer symptoms discharge nostrils ?105
If Dad were alive, I could ask him.
But that’s a thought path I really can’t let myself go down, not today, or I’ll be a mess. I blink hard and scrub at my nose with a tissue. Come on, Poppy. Brighten up. Stop inventing problems that don’t exist. I’m getting married!
Toby and Tom emerge from their cocoons just as the hairdresser arrives. They make monster cups of tea in mugs which they brought themselves,106 then instantly start bantering with the hairdresser and putting rollers in their hair and making me fall about with laughter. I wish for the zillionth time that I saw more of them. Then they disappear off to have breakfast at a café, and Ruby and Annalise arrive two hours early because they couldn’t wait, and the hairdresser announces he’s ready, and my aunt Trudy rings from her mobile, saying they’re nearly here and her tights have laddered, is there anywhere she can buy a new pair?107
As I pour myself a cup of coffee, I can hear him declaiming in the bathroom, and I feel another flinch of irritation. He’s practicing his speech. Here. In the flat. Isn’t his speech supposed to be a surprise ? Does he know anything about weddings? I approach the bathroom door, ready to give him an earful—then pause. I might as well listen to a snippet.
The door is slightly ajar, and I peer through the gap to see him in his dressing gown, addressing himself in the mirror. To my surprise, he looks quite worked up. His cheeks are red and he’s breathing heavily. Maybe he’s getting into the part. Maybe he’s going to make a really passionate speech about how I’ve completed his life, and everyone will cry.
“Everyone said I’d never get married. Everyone said I’d never do it.” Magnus pauses for so long, I wonder if he’s lost his way. “Well, look. Here I am. OK? Here I am.”
He takes a swig of something, which looks like a gin and tonic, and gazes belligerently at himself.
“Here I am. Married, OK? Married. ”
I peer at him uncertainly. I don’t know quite what’s wrong about this speech, but something is. There’s some small detail that feels wrong … something amiss … something that jars …
I’ve got it. He doesn’t look happy.
Why doesn’t he look happy? It’s his wedding day.
“I’ve done it.” He lifts his glass at the mirror, glowering. “So all you people who said I couldn’t can fuck off.”
“Magnus!” I can’t help exclaiming in shock. “You can’t say ‘fuck off’ in your wedding speech!” Magnus’s face jolts, and his belligerent air instantly vanishes as he whips round. “Poppy! Sweets! I didn’t know you could hear me.”
“Is that your speech?” I demand.
“No! Not exactly.” He takes a deep swig of his drink. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Well, haven’t you written it yet?” I eye his glass. “Is that a gin and tonic?”
“I think I’m allowed a gin and tonic on my wedding day, don’t you?”
The belligerent air is creeping back. What is wrong with him?
If I was in one of those glossy luxury-kitchen American TV dramas, I’d go up to him now and take his arm and say gently, “It’s going to be a great day, honey.” And his face would soften and he’d say, “I know,” and we’d kiss, and I would have diffused the tension with my loving tact and charm.
But I’m not in the mood. If he can be belligerent, so can I.
“Fine.” I scowl. “Get pissed. Great idea.”
“I’m not going to get pissed. Jesus. But I’ve got have something to take the edge off the—” He stops abruptly, and I stare at him in shock. Where exactly was he heading with that sentence?
Off the ordeal ? Off the pain ?
I think his mind is working the same way, because he quickly finishes the sentence. “—the thrill. I need to take the edge off the thrill, or I’ll be far too hyper to concentrate. Sweets, you look beautiful. Gorgeous hair. You’ll look spectacular.”
His old engaging manner has returned in full force, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
“My hair hasn’t even been done yet,” I say, with a grudging smile. “The hairdresser’s on his way.”
“Well, don’t let him ruin it.” He gathers the ends together and kisses them. “I’ll get out of your way. See you at the church!”
“OK.” I stare after him, feeling a bit unsettled.
And I’m unsettled for the rest of the morning. It’s not exactly that I’m worried. It’s more that I don’t know if I should be worried. I mean, let’s look at the facts. One moment Magnus is all over me, begging me to marry him—then he gets stroppy, as though I’m forcing him into it with a shotgun. Is it just jitters? Is this what men are always like on their wedding day? Should I tolerate it as normal male behavior, like when he gets a cold and starts Googling nose cancer symptoms discharge nostrils ?105
If Dad were alive, I could ask him.
But that’s a thought path I really can’t let myself go down, not today, or I’ll be a mess. I blink hard and scrub at my nose with a tissue. Come on, Poppy. Brighten up. Stop inventing problems that don’t exist. I’m getting married!
Toby and Tom emerge from their cocoons just as the hairdresser arrives. They make monster cups of tea in mugs which they brought themselves,106 then instantly start bantering with the hairdresser and putting rollers in their hair and making me fall about with laughter. I wish for the zillionth time that I saw more of them. Then they disappear off to have breakfast at a café, and Ruby and Annalise arrive two hours early because they couldn’t wait, and the hairdresser announces he’s ready, and my aunt Trudy rings from her mobile, saying they’re nearly here and her tights have laddered, is there anywhere she can buy a new pair?107
