I've Got Your Number

Paul. The dermatologist. Shit. I forgot about the dermatologist. How could I forget about the dermatologist? How could I be so stupid? I was so relieved to get a ring substitute, I forgot I was supposed to be mortally injured.

“You’ve taken your bandage off,” observes Wanda.

“Oh.” I swallow. “Yes. I did. Because … my hand’s much better, actually. Much better.”

“Can’t be too careful, though, even with these small injuries.” Wanda is ushering me down the aisle, and there’s nothing I can do except walk obediently. “Colleague of ours in Chicago stubbed his toe and just soldiered on; next thing we know, he’s in hospital with gangrene! I said to Antony—>” Wanda interrupts herself. “Here she is. The fiancée. The betrothed. The patient.”

Antony and an elderly man in a purple V-neck both turn from peering at a painting hanging on a stone pillar and peer at me instead.

“Poppy,” says Antony. “Let me introduce our neighbor, Paul McAndrew, one of the most eminent professors of dermatology in the country. Specialist in burns; isn’t that fortunate?”

“Great!” My voice is a nervous squeak and my hands have crept behind my back. “Like I say, it’s a lot better—”

“Let’s take a look,” says Paul, in a pleasant, matter-of-fact way.

There’s no way out. Mortified, I slowly extend my left hand. Everybody looks at my smooth, unblemished skin in silence.

“Where was the burn, exactly?” asks Paul at last.

“Um … here.” I gesture vaguely at my thumb.

“Was it a scald? A cigarette burn?” He’s taken hold of my hand and is feeling it with an expert touch.

“No. It was … um … on a radiator.” I swallow. “It was really sore.”

“Her whole hand was bandaged.” Wanda sounds bemused. “She looked like a war victim! That was only yesterday!”

“I see.” The doctor relinquishes my hand. “Well, it seems OK now, doesn’t it?” he says kindly to me. ’Any pain? Any tenderness?”

I shake my head mutely.

“I’ll prescribe some aqueous cream,” he says kindly. “In case the symptoms return. How about that?”

I can see Wanda and Antony exchanging looks. Great. They obviously think I’m a total hypochondriac.

OK. Fine. I’ll go with that. I’ll be the family hypochondriac. It can be one of my little quirks. Could be worse. At least they haven’t exclaimed, “What the hell have you done with our priceless ring and what’s that piece of junk you’re wearing?”

As though reading my mind, Wanda glances again at my hand.

“My mother’s emerald ring, do you see, Antony?” She points at my hand. “Magnus gave it to Poppy when he proposed.”

OK. I’m definitely not making this up: There’s a pointed edge to her voice. And now she’s shooting Antony a significant look. What’s going on? Did she want the ring herself? Was Magnus not supposed to give it away? I feel like I’ve blundered into some tricksy family situation which is invisible to me but they’re all too polite to mention it and I’m never going to know what anybody really thinks.

But then, if it’s so special, how come she hasn’t noticed it’s a fake? Perversely, I feel a teeny bit disappointed in the Tavishes for not realizing. They think they’re so clever—and then they can’t even spot a false emerald.

“Super engagement ring,” says Paul politely. “That’s a real one-off, I can tell.”

“Absolutely!” I nod. “It’s vintage. Totally unique.”

“Ah, Poppy!” chimes in Antony, who has been examining a nearby statue. “Now, that reminds me. There’s something I was going to ask you.”

Me?

“Oh, right,” I say in surprise.

“I would ask Magnus, but I gather it’s more your area than his.”

“Fire away.” I smile up at him politely, expecting some weddingy question along the lines of ‘How many bridesmaids will there be?’ or ‘What flowers are you having?’ or even, ‘Were you surprised when Magnus proposed?’

“What do you think of McDowell’s new book on the Stoics?” His eyes are fixed beadily on mine. “How does it compare to Whittaker? “

For a moment I’m too poleaxed to react. What? What do I think of what?

“Ah yes!” Wanda is nodding vigorously. “Poppy is somewhat of an expert on Greek philosophy, Paul. She foxed us all at Scrabble with the word aporia, didn’t you?”

Somehow I manage to keep smiling.

Aporia.

That was one of the words Sam texted me. I’d had a few glasses of wine and was feeling pretty confident by then. I have a hazy memory of myself laying down the tiles and saying that Greek philosophy was one of my great interests.

Why? Why, why, why? If I could go back in time, that’s the moment I’d go up to myself and say, “Poppy! Enough!”

“That’s right!” I attempt an easy smile. “Aporia! Anyway, I wonder where the vicar is—”

“We were reading the TLS this morning”—Antony ignores my attempt to divert the conversation—“and there was a review of this new McDowell book and we thought, now, Poppy will know about this subject.” He looks expectantly at me. “Is McDowell correct about fourth-century virtues?”

I give an internal whimper. Why the hell did I pretend I knew about Greek philosophy? What was I thinking?