8
I don’t know what to do about Antony and Wanda and Antechapelgate, as I’ve named it in my head. So I’ve done nothing. I’ve said nothing.
I know I’m avoiding it. I know it’s weak. I know I should face the situation. But I can barely even take it in, let alone talk about it. Especially to Magnus.
I didn’t realize how good at acting I was. All weekend, I’ve given nothing away. I’ve had dinner with the Tavish family. I’ve been out for a drink with Ruby and Annalise. I’ve laughed and talked and exclaimed and joked and had sex. And all the time there’s been this little gnawing pain in my chest. I’m almost getting used to it.
If they’d say something to me, I’d almost feel better. We could have a stand-up row, and I could convince them that I love Magnus and I’m going to support his career and I do have a brain really. But they’ve said nothing. They’ve been outwardly charming and pleasant, politely inquiring about our house-hunting plans and offering me glasses of wine.
Which only makes it worse. It confirms that I’m an outsider. I’m not even allowed into the family powwow about how unsuitable this new girlfriend of Magnus’s is.
It would even be OK if Magnus hated his parents and didn’t respect their views and we could just write them off as loonies. But he does respect them. He likes them. They get on really well. They agree on most things, and when they don’t agree it’s with good nature and banter. On every subject.
Every subject except me.
I can’t think about it for too long, because I get all upset and panicky, so I allow myself only a tiny snippet of worry at a time. I’ve had my quota for this evening. I sat in a Starbucks after work, nursing a hot chocolate, and got quite morose.
But right now, looking at me, you’d have no idea. I’m in my best LBD and high heels. My makeup is immaculate. My eyes are sparkling (two cocktails.) I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror just now, and I look like a carefree girl, wearing an engagement ring, drinking cosmos at the Savoy, with nothing to worry about.
And, to be truthful, my mood is a lot better than it was. Partly because of the cocktails and partly because I’m so thrilled to be here. I’ve never been to the Savoy in my life before. It’s amazing!
The party is in a stunning room with paneling and spectacular chandeliers everywhere and waiters handing out cocktails on trays. A jazz band is playing and, all around, smartly dressed people are chatting in clusters. There are lots of back slaps and handshakes and high fives going on, and everyone seems in a great mood. I don’t know a single person, obviously, but I’m happy just to watch. Every time someone notices me standing on my own and starts to approach, I get out my phone to check my messages, and they turn away again.
This is the great thing about a phone. It’s like an escort.
Lucinda keeps texting, telling me how she’s in North London, looking at another variety of gray silk, and do I have any thoughts on texture? Magnus has texted from Warwick about some research trip he’s cooking up with a professor there. Meanwhile, I’m having quite a long conversation with Ruby about the blind date she’s on. The only thing is, it’s quite hard to text and hold a cocktail at the same time, so at last I put my cosmo down on a nearby table and fire off some replies:
Sure, the gray slub silk will be fine. Thanks so much!! Love, Poppy xxxxx
I don’t think ordering two steaks is necessarily creepy … maybe he is on Atkins diet??? Keep me posted! P xxxxx
Sounds fab, can I come too?! P xxxxx
There are scads of messages for Sam too. Loads more people have replied to the new-ideas request. Many have enclosed long attachments and CVs. There are even a couple of videos. People must have been busy over the weekend. I wince as I catch sight of one entitled 1,001 ideas for WGC—part 1 and avert my eyes.
What I was hoping was that everything would calm down over the weekend and people would forget all about it. But at about eight this morning, the avalanche of emails began, and they keep flying back and forth. There are still rumors that this is all some big audition for a job. There’s a bitter dispute about which department had the idea of expanding to the States first. Malcolm keeps sending tetchy emails asking who approved this initiative, and the whole thing is basically mayhem. Don’t these people have lives ?
It makes me hyperventilate slightly whenever I think about it. So I have a new coping technique: I’m not. It can wait till tomorrow.
And so can Willow’s most recent email to Sam. I’ve now decided she must not only have supermodel good looks but be amazing in bed and a gazillionairess, to make up for her foul temper.
