I've Got Your Number
Page 29
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“What big box?” he says, looking puzzled.
“And now, my dear,” Antony is saying self-importantly to Wanda, “I don’t mind telling you, I’ve rather splashed out on you this year. If you’ll give me a minute … ”
He’s getting up and heading out to the hall.
Oh God. My insides feel watery. No. Please. No.
“I think … ” I begin, but my voice won’t work properly. “I think I might possibly … by mistake—”
“ What the— ” Antony’s voice resounds from the hall. “What’s happened to this?”
A moment later he’s in the room, holding the box. It’s all messed up. Torn tissue paper is everywhere. The kimono is falling out.
My head is pulsing with blood.
“I’m really sorry.” I can barely get the words out. “I thought … I thought it was for me. So I … I opened it.”
There’s a deathly silence. Every face is stunned, including Magnus’s.
“Sweets … ” he begins feebly, then peters out as though he can’t think what to say.
“Not to worry!” says Wanda briskly. “Give it to me. I don’t mind about the wrapping.”
“But there was another thing!” Antony is poking the tissue paper testily. “Where’s the other bit? Was it in there?”
Suddenly I realize what he’s talking about and give a little inward whimper. Every time I think things can’t get worse, they plummet. They find new, ghastly depths.
“I think … Do you mean”—I’m stuttering, my face beet-red—“This?” I pull a bit of the camisole out from under my top and everyone gazes at it, thunderstruck.
I’m sitting at the dinner table, wearing my future mother-in-law’s underwear. It’s like some twisted dream that you wake up from and think: Crikey Moses! Thank God that didn’t really happen!
The faces round the table are all motionless and jaw-dropped, like a row of versions of that painting “The Scream.”
“I’ll … I’ll dry-clean it,” I whisper huskily at last. “Sorry.”
OK. So this evening has gone about as hideously as it possibly could. There’s only one solution, which is to keep drinking wine until my nerves have been numbed or I pass out. Whichever comes first.
Supper is over, and everyone’s got over the camisole incident. Kind of.
In fact, they’ve decided to make a family joke out of it. Which is sweet of them but means that Antony keeps making ponderously funny remarks like, “Shall we have some chocolates? Unless Poppy’s already eaten them all ?” And I know I should have a sense of humor, but, every time, I flinch.
Now we’re sitting on the ancient bumpy sofas in the drawing room, playing Scrabble. The Tavishes are complete Scrabble nuts. They have a special board that spins around, and posh wooden tiles, and even a leather-bound book where they write down the scores, dating back to 1998. Wanda is the current winner, with Magnus a close second.
Antony went first and put down OUTSTEP (74 points). Wanda made IRIDIUMS (65 points). Felix made CARYATID (80 points). Magnus made CONTUSED (65 points).40 And I made STAR (5 points).
In my family, STAR would be a good word. Five points would be a pretty decent score. You wouldn’t get pitying looks and clearing of throats and feel like a loser.
I don’t often think back about past times or reminisce. It’s not really my thing. But sitting here, rigid with failure, hunching my knees, inhaling the musty Tavish smells of books and kilims and old wood fire, I can’t help it. Just a chink. Just a tiny window of memory. Us in the kitchen. Me and my little brothers, Toby and Tom, eating toast and Marmite round the Scrabble board. I remember it distinctly; I can even taste the Marmite. Toby and Tom had got so frustrated, they made a load of extra tiles out of paper and decided you could have as many as you liked. The whole room was covered in cutout squares of paper with Biro letters scrawled on them. Tom gave himself about six Z s and Toby had ten E s And they still only scored about four points per turn and ended up in a scuffle, yelling, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
I feel a rush of tears behind my eyes and blink furiously. I’m being stupid. Ridiculous. Number one, this is my new family and I’m trying to integrate with them. Number two, Toby and Tom are both away at college now. They have deep voices and Tom has a beard. We never play Scrabble. I don’t even know where the set is. Number three—
“Poppy?”
“Right. Yes! I’m just … working it out.”
We’re into the second round. Antony has extended OUTSTEP into OUTSTEPPED. Wanda has simultaneously made both OD 41 and OVARY. Felix put down ELICIT, and Magnus went for YUK, which Felix challenged, but it was in the dictionary and scored him lots of points on a double-word score. Now Felix had gone to make some coffee, and I’ve been shuffling my tiles hopelessly for about five minutes,
“And now, my dear,” Antony is saying self-importantly to Wanda, “I don’t mind telling you, I’ve rather splashed out on you this year. If you’ll give me a minute … ”
He’s getting up and heading out to the hall.
Oh God. My insides feel watery. No. Please. No.
“I think … ” I begin, but my voice won’t work properly. “I think I might possibly … by mistake—”
“ What the— ” Antony’s voice resounds from the hall. “What’s happened to this?”
A moment later he’s in the room, holding the box. It’s all messed up. Torn tissue paper is everywhere. The kimono is falling out.
My head is pulsing with blood.
“I’m really sorry.” I can barely get the words out. “I thought … I thought it was for me. So I … I opened it.”
There’s a deathly silence. Every face is stunned, including Magnus’s.
“Sweets … ” he begins feebly, then peters out as though he can’t think what to say.
“Not to worry!” says Wanda briskly. “Give it to me. I don’t mind about the wrapping.”
“But there was another thing!” Antony is poking the tissue paper testily. “Where’s the other bit? Was it in there?”
Suddenly I realize what he’s talking about and give a little inward whimper. Every time I think things can’t get worse, they plummet. They find new, ghastly depths.
“I think … Do you mean”—I’m stuttering, my face beet-red—“This?” I pull a bit of the camisole out from under my top and everyone gazes at it, thunderstruck.
I’m sitting at the dinner table, wearing my future mother-in-law’s underwear. It’s like some twisted dream that you wake up from and think: Crikey Moses! Thank God that didn’t really happen!
The faces round the table are all motionless and jaw-dropped, like a row of versions of that painting “The Scream.”
“I’ll … I’ll dry-clean it,” I whisper huskily at last. “Sorry.”
OK. So this evening has gone about as hideously as it possibly could. There’s only one solution, which is to keep drinking wine until my nerves have been numbed or I pass out. Whichever comes first.
Supper is over, and everyone’s got over the camisole incident. Kind of.
In fact, they’ve decided to make a family joke out of it. Which is sweet of them but means that Antony keeps making ponderously funny remarks like, “Shall we have some chocolates? Unless Poppy’s already eaten them all ?” And I know I should have a sense of humor, but, every time, I flinch.
Now we’re sitting on the ancient bumpy sofas in the drawing room, playing Scrabble. The Tavishes are complete Scrabble nuts. They have a special board that spins around, and posh wooden tiles, and even a leather-bound book where they write down the scores, dating back to 1998. Wanda is the current winner, with Magnus a close second.
Antony went first and put down OUTSTEP (74 points). Wanda made IRIDIUMS (65 points). Felix made CARYATID (80 points). Magnus made CONTUSED (65 points).40 And I made STAR (5 points).
In my family, STAR would be a good word. Five points would be a pretty decent score. You wouldn’t get pitying looks and clearing of throats and feel like a loser.
I don’t often think back about past times or reminisce. It’s not really my thing. But sitting here, rigid with failure, hunching my knees, inhaling the musty Tavish smells of books and kilims and old wood fire, I can’t help it. Just a chink. Just a tiny window of memory. Us in the kitchen. Me and my little brothers, Toby and Tom, eating toast and Marmite round the Scrabble board. I remember it distinctly; I can even taste the Marmite. Toby and Tom had got so frustrated, they made a load of extra tiles out of paper and decided you could have as many as you liked. The whole room was covered in cutout squares of paper with Biro letters scrawled on them. Tom gave himself about six Z s and Toby had ten E s And they still only scored about four points per turn and ended up in a scuffle, yelling, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
I feel a rush of tears behind my eyes and blink furiously. I’m being stupid. Ridiculous. Number one, this is my new family and I’m trying to integrate with them. Number two, Toby and Tom are both away at college now. They have deep voices and Tom has a beard. We never play Scrabble. I don’t even know where the set is. Number three—
“Poppy?”
“Right. Yes! I’m just … working it out.”
We’re into the second round. Antony has extended OUTSTEP into OUTSTEPPED. Wanda has simultaneously made both OD 41 and OVARY. Felix put down ELICIT, and Magnus went for YUK, which Felix challenged, but it was in the dictionary and scored him lots of points on a double-word score. Now Felix had gone to make some coffee, and I’ve been shuffling my tiles hopelessly for about five minutes,
