I've Got Your Number
Page 117
“Poppy!” As Wanda swings the door open, she beams widely. “What a lovely surprise!” She swoops in for a kiss, then studies my face again. “Have you just dropped round to be sociable, or was there anything—”
“We need to talk.”
There’s a brief moment of silence between us. I can tell she understands that I don’t mean a jolly chitchat.
“I see. Well, come in!” She smiles again, but I can see anxiety in the downward slant of her eyes and the faint crinkling of her mouth. She has a very expressive face, Wanda: Her English-rose skin is pale and fragile, like tissue paper, and the lines round her eyes crease in a myriad of different ways according to her mood. I guess that’s what happens when you have no Botox, makeup, or fake tan. You have expressions instead. “Shall I put on some coffee?”
“Why not?” I follow her into the kitchen, which is about ten times as messy as it was when I was living here with Magnus. I can’t help wrinkling my nose at a bad smell in the air—which I guess is the bunch of flowers still in paper, gently rotting on the counter. A man’s shoe is in the sink, along with a hairbrush, and there are huge piles of old cardboard folders on every chair.
“Ah.” Wanda gestures vaguely around as though hoping one of the chairs might magically clear itself. ’We were having a sort-out. To what extent does one archive? That’s the question.”
Once upon a time I would have hastily cast around for something intelligent to say about archives. But now I face her square-on and say bluntly, “Actually, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
“Indeed,” says Wanda after a pause. “I rather thought there might be. Let’s sit down.”
She grabs a pile of folders off a chair, to reveal a large fish wrapped in fishmonger’s paper. OK. So that was the smell.
“ That’s where that went. Extraordinary.” She frowns, hesitates a moment, then puts the folders back on top of it. “Let’s try the drawing room.”
I sit down on one of the bumpy sofas, and Wanda draws up an ancient needlepoint-embroidered chair opposite. The smell of old wood smoke, musty kilim, and potpourri is overwhelming. Golden light is streaming through the original stained-glass panels in the windows. This room is so Tavish. And so is Wanda. She’s sitting in her usual uncompromising position, knees firmly apart, dirndl skirt draping around her legs, head tilted forward to listen, with her frizzy hennaed hair falling all around her face.
“Magnus—” I begin, then immediately come to a halt.
“Yes?”
“Magnus—”
I stop again. There’s silence for a moment.
This woman is so significant in my life, but I barely know her. We’ve had a completely civilized, distant relationship where we haven’t talked about anything except things that don’t matter. Now it feels like I’m about to rip down the screen between us. But I don’t know where to start. Words are buzzing around my head like flies. I need to catch one.
“How many girls has Magnus proposed to?” I didn’t mean to start there, but then, why not?
Wanda looks caught out. “Poppy!” She swallows. “Goodness. I really think Magnus … This is a matter … ” She rubs her face, and I notice that her fingernails are filthy.
“Magnus is in Bruges. I can’t talk to him. So I’ve come to talk to you.”
“I see.” Wanda’s expression becomes grave.
“Lucinda told me there’s a list and she and I are at the end of it. Magnus never mentioned anyone else. He never even told me he and Lucinda used to be an item. Nobody told me.” I can’t keep the resentment out of my voice.
“Poppy. You mustn’t … ” I can tell Wanda’s floundering. “Magnus is very, very fond of you, and you shouldn’t worry about … about that. You’re a lovely girl.”
She might be trying to be kind—but the way she says it makes me flinch. What does she mean by “lovely girl”? Is that some patronizing way of saying, “You may not have a brain but you look OK?”
I have to say something. I have to. It’s now or never. Go, Poppy.
“Wanda, you’re making me feel inferior.” The words rush out. “Do you think I’m inferior, or is this just in my mind?”
Argh. I did it. I can’t believe I said that out loud.
“What?” Wanda’s eyes widen so far, I notice for the first time what a stunning periwinkle blue they are. I’m taken aback by how shocked she seems, but I can’t back down now.
“I feel inferior when I’m here.” I swallow. “Always. And I just wondered if you really thought I was or …”
“We need to talk.”
There’s a brief moment of silence between us. I can tell she understands that I don’t mean a jolly chitchat.
“I see. Well, come in!” She smiles again, but I can see anxiety in the downward slant of her eyes and the faint crinkling of her mouth. She has a very expressive face, Wanda: Her English-rose skin is pale and fragile, like tissue paper, and the lines round her eyes crease in a myriad of different ways according to her mood. I guess that’s what happens when you have no Botox, makeup, or fake tan. You have expressions instead. “Shall I put on some coffee?”
“Why not?” I follow her into the kitchen, which is about ten times as messy as it was when I was living here with Magnus. I can’t help wrinkling my nose at a bad smell in the air—which I guess is the bunch of flowers still in paper, gently rotting on the counter. A man’s shoe is in the sink, along with a hairbrush, and there are huge piles of old cardboard folders on every chair.
“Ah.” Wanda gestures vaguely around as though hoping one of the chairs might magically clear itself. ’We were having a sort-out. To what extent does one archive? That’s the question.”
Once upon a time I would have hastily cast around for something intelligent to say about archives. But now I face her square-on and say bluntly, “Actually, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
“Indeed,” says Wanda after a pause. “I rather thought there might be. Let’s sit down.”
She grabs a pile of folders off a chair, to reveal a large fish wrapped in fishmonger’s paper. OK. So that was the smell.
“ That’s where that went. Extraordinary.” She frowns, hesitates a moment, then puts the folders back on top of it. “Let’s try the drawing room.”
I sit down on one of the bumpy sofas, and Wanda draws up an ancient needlepoint-embroidered chair opposite. The smell of old wood smoke, musty kilim, and potpourri is overwhelming. Golden light is streaming through the original stained-glass panels in the windows. This room is so Tavish. And so is Wanda. She’s sitting in her usual uncompromising position, knees firmly apart, dirndl skirt draping around her legs, head tilted forward to listen, with her frizzy hennaed hair falling all around her face.
“Magnus—” I begin, then immediately come to a halt.
“Yes?”
“Magnus—”
I stop again. There’s silence for a moment.
This woman is so significant in my life, but I barely know her. We’ve had a completely civilized, distant relationship where we haven’t talked about anything except things that don’t matter. Now it feels like I’m about to rip down the screen between us. But I don’t know where to start. Words are buzzing around my head like flies. I need to catch one.
“How many girls has Magnus proposed to?” I didn’t mean to start there, but then, why not?
Wanda looks caught out. “Poppy!” She swallows. “Goodness. I really think Magnus … This is a matter … ” She rubs her face, and I notice that her fingernails are filthy.
“Magnus is in Bruges. I can’t talk to him. So I’ve come to talk to you.”
“I see.” Wanda’s expression becomes grave.
“Lucinda told me there’s a list and she and I are at the end of it. Magnus never mentioned anyone else. He never even told me he and Lucinda used to be an item. Nobody told me.” I can’t keep the resentment out of my voice.
“Poppy. You mustn’t … ” I can tell Wanda’s floundering. “Magnus is very, very fond of you, and you shouldn’t worry about … about that. You’re a lovely girl.”
She might be trying to be kind—but the way she says it makes me flinch. What does she mean by “lovely girl”? Is that some patronizing way of saying, “You may not have a brain but you look OK?”
I have to say something. I have to. It’s now or never. Go, Poppy.
“Wanda, you’re making me feel inferior.” The words rush out. “Do you think I’m inferior, or is this just in my mind?”
Argh. I did it. I can’t believe I said that out loud.
“What?” Wanda’s eyes widen so far, I notice for the first time what a stunning periwinkle blue they are. I’m taken aback by how shocked she seems, but I can’t back down now.
“I feel inferior when I’m here.” I swallow. “Always. And I just wondered if you really thought I was or …”
