I've Got Your Number

13

It’s in every single paper the next morning. Front-page news. I headed out to the newsagents as soon as I was up and bought every newspaper they had.

There are pictures of Sir Nicholas, pictures of the prime minister, pictures of Sam, pictures of Ed Exton, even a picture of Vicks in the Mail. The headlines are full of corruption and smear attempt and integrity. The memo is printed in full, everywhere, and there’s an official quote from Number 10 about Sir Nicholas considering his position on the government committee. There are even two different cartoons of Sir Nicholas holding bags labeled Happiness and stuffed full of money.

But Sam was right: There’s an air of confusion about it. Some journalists obviously think Sir Nicholas did write the memo. Others obviously think he didn’t. One paper has run an editorial about how Sir Nicholas is an arrogant bighead and of course he’s been taking bribes all along; another has written that Sir Nicholas is known for his quiet integrity and it couldn’t possibly be him. If Sam wanted to throw up a question mark over everything, he’s definitely succeeded.

I texted him this morning:

You OK?

But I got no reply. I guess he’s busy. To say the least.

Meanwhile, I feel like a wreck. It took me hours to get to sleep last night, I was so wired—but then I woke at six and sat bolt upright, already grabbing for my phone, my heart racing. Magnus had texted four words:

Having great time. M xxx

Having a great time. What does that tell me? Nothing.

He could be having a great time congratulating himself on how I have no idea about his secret mistress. There again, he could be having a great time innocently looking forward to a life of faithful monogamy, with no idea that Clemency somehow got the wrong end of the stick about him and Lucinda.88 Or possibly he could be having a great time deciding that he’s never going to be unfaithful again and regrets it hugely and will confess everything to me as soon as he gets back.89

I can’t cope. I need Magnus to be here, in this country, in this room. I need to ask him, “Have you been unfaithful with Lucinda?” and see what he says, and then maybe we can move forward and I can work out what I’m going to do. Until then, I feel like I’m in limbo.

As I go to make another cup of tea, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, and I wince. My hair is a mess. My hands are covered with newsprint from reading all the papers. My stomach is full of acid, and my skin looks drawn. So much for my bridal beauty regimem. According to my plan, last night I was supposed to apply a hydration mask. I didn’t even take my makeup off.

I’d originally set today aside to do wedding preparation—but every time I even think about it, my insides clench and I feel like crying or shouting at someone. (Well, Magnus.) There’s no point just sitting here all day though. I have to go out. I have to do something. After a few sips of tea, I decide to go in to work. I don’t have any appointments, but I’ve got some admin I can catch up with. And at least it’ll force me to have a shower and get myself together.

I’m the first to arrive, and I sit in the quiet calm, sorting through patient files, letting the monotony of the job soothe me. Which lasts about five minutes before Angela slouches through the door and clatters around, starting her computer and making coffee and turning on the wall-mounted telly.

“Do we have to?” I feel as if I’ve got a hangover, even though I hardly drank anything last night, and I could do without this blaring in my ears. But Angela stares at me as though I’ve violated some basic human right.

“I always watch Daybreak.”

It’s not worth arguing. I could always heft all the files into my appointment room, but I don’t have the energy for that either, so I just hunch my shoulders and try to block the world out.

“Parcel!” Angela dumps a Jiffy bag in front of me. “StarBlu. Is that your swimwear for the honeymoon?”

I stare at it blankly. I was a different person when I ordered that. I can remember myself now, going online one lunchtime, picking out bikinis and wraps. Never in a million years did I think that three days before the wedding I’d be sitting here, wondering if the whole thing should go ahead at all.

“ … and in today’s front-page story, we’re talking possible corruption at government level.” The presenter’s voice attracts my attention. “Here in the studio, a man who has known Sir Nicholas Murray for thirty years: Alan Smith-Reeves. Alan, this is a confusing business. What’s your take?”

“I know that guy,” Angela says self-importantly, as Alan Smith-Reeves starts talking. “He used to work in the same building as my last job.”

“Oh, right.” I nod politely, as a picture of Sam appears on the screen.

I can’t look. Just the sight of him sends shooting pains through my chest, but I don’t even know why. Is it because he’s in trouble? Is it because he’s the only other person who knows about Magnus? Is it because last night I was standing in a wood with his arms around me and now I’ll probably never see him again?

“He’s quite good-looking,” says Angela, squinting at Sam critically. “Is he Sir Nicholas Whatsit?”

“No!” I say, more vehemently than I meant to. “Don’t be stupid!”

“All right!” She scowls at me. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

I can’t answer. I have to escape from all this. I get to my feet. “Want a coffee?”

“I’m making one. Duh.” Angela shoots me an odd look. “Are you OK? What are you doing here, anyway? Thought you had the day off.”

“I wanted to get ahead with stuff.” I grab my denim jacket. “But maybe it was a bad idea.”

“Here she is!” The door bursts open and Ruby and Annalise bustle in. “We were just talking about you!” says Ruby, looking surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d do some admin. But I’m going.”

“No, don’t go! Wait a sec.” Ruby grabs my shoulder, then turns to Annalise. “Now, Annalise. Why don’t you say to Poppy what we were talking about? Then you won’t have to write a letter.”

Uh-oh. She’s wearing her headmistressy look. And Annalise’s looking shamefaced. What’s going on?

“I don’t want to say it.” Annalise bites her lip like a six-year-old. “I’ll write a letter.”

“Say it. Then it’s done.” Ruby is eyeing Annalise with the kind of stern gaze that’s impossible to ignore.

“OK!” Annalise takes a breath, looking a little pink around the cheeks. “Poppy, I’m sorry I behaved badly with Magnus the other day. It was wrong of me and I was just doing it to get back at you.”

“And?” prompts Ruby.

“I’m sorry I’ve given you a hard time. Magnus is yours, not mine. He belongs with you, not me. And I’m never going to mention the fact we switched appointments again,” she finishes in a rush. “Promise.”

She looks so discomfited, I feel quite touched. I can’t believe Ruby did that. They should put her in charge at White Globe Consulting. She’d sort out Justin Cole in no time.

“Well … thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

“I truly am sorry, you know, Poppy.” Annalise twists her fingers, looking abject. “I don’t want to spoil your wedding.”

“Annalise, take it from me. You won’t spoil my wedding.” I smile, but to my horror I can feel tears welling up in my eyes.

If anything spoils my wedding it’ll be the fact that it was called off. It’ll be the fact that Magnus didn’t really love me after all. It’ll be the fact that I was a completely stupid, deluded fool …

Oh God. I am going to cry.

“Missus?” Ruby gives me a close look. “You OK?”

“Fine!” I exclaim, blinking furiously.

“Wedding stress,” says Annalise. “Oh my God, Poppy, are you turning into a bridezilla at last? Go on! I’ll help. I’ll be a bridesmaidzilla. Let’s go and throw a hissy fit somewhere. That’ll cheer you up.”

I raise a half smile and wipe my eyes. I don’t know how to respond. Do I tell them about Magnus? They’re my friends, after all, and I’m longing for someone to talk to.

But then, what if it is all a mix-up? I haven’t heard anything further from Unknown Number.90 The whole thing’s guesswork. I can’t start telling the world that Magnus has been unfaithful, based on one anonymous text. And then have Annalise putting it on Facebook and calling him a love rat and booing as we walk down the aisle.91

“I’m just tired,” I say at last.

“Slap-up breakfast!” exclaims Ruby. “That’s what you need.”

“No!” I say in horror. “I won’t fit into my dress!”

Assuming I’m still going to get married. I feel the rush of tears again. Preparing for a wedding is stressful enough. Preparing for a wedding or possible last-minute breakup/cancelation is going to turn my hair gray.

“You will,” Ruby contradicts me. “Everyone knows brides lose two dress sizes before their wedding. You’ve got a massive margin to play with there, girl. Use it! Pig out! You’ll never be in this position again!”

“Have you dropped two dress sizes?” asks Annalise, eyeing me a little resentfully. “You can’t have.”

“No,” I say gloomily. “Maybe half of one.”

“Well, that qualifies you for a latte and a doughnut, at any rate,” says Ruby, heading for the door. “Come on. Comfort food’s what you need. We’ve got half an hour. Let’s cram it in.”

When Ruby gets an idea, she goes for it. She’s already striding along the pavement and into the Costa two doors away. As Annalise and I push our way in, she’s heading up to the till.

“Hello there!” she begins cheerfully. “I“d like three lattes, three doughnuts, three plain croissants, three almond croissants—”

“Ruby, stop!” I start giggling.

“Three pains au chocolat—we’ll give them to the patients if we can’t finish them—three apple muffins—”

“Three tins of breath mints,” chimes in Annalise.

“Breath mints?” Ruby turns to regard her scornfully. “Breath mints?”

“And some cinnamon swirls,” Annalise adds hurriedly.

“That’s more like it. Three cinnamon swirls … ”

My phone rings in my pocket, and my stomach lurches. Oh God, who’s this? What if it’s Magnus?

What if it’s Sam?

I haul it out, taking a step away from Ruby and Annalise, who are arguing about what kind of cookies they should buy. As I see the screen, I feel a dreadful squeezing sensation inside. It’s Unknown Number. Whoever-it-is has finally phoned me back.

This is it. This is where I find out the truth. For good or for bad. I’m so petrified, my hand is actually shaking as I press accept, and at first I can’t catch my breath to speak.

“Hello?” a girl’s voice is saying down the line. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

Is that Clemency? I can’t tell.

“Hi,” I manage to utter at last. “Hello. This is Poppy speaking. Is this Clemency?”

“No.” The girl sounds surprised.

“Oh.” I swallow. “Right.”

It’s not Clemency? Who is it, then? My mind is scampering around frantically. Who else could have sent me that text? Does this mean Lucinda’s not involved after all? I can see Annalise and Ruby eyeing me curiously from the register and I swing away.

“So.” I try desperately to sound dignified and not at all like someone who’s about to be totally humiliated and have to call their entire wedding off. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”

“Yes. I’m urgently trying to get in touch with Sam Roxton.”

Sam?

The tension that’s been growing inside me breaks with a crash. It’s not Unknown Number after all. At least, it’s Different Unknown Number. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved.

“How did you get this number?” the girl is demanding. “Do you know Sam?”

“Er … yes. Yes, I do.” I try to gather myself. “Sorry. I misunderstood for a moment. I thought you were someone else. Can I take a message for Sam?”

I say it automatically before I realize that I’m not forwarding things to Sam anymore. Still, I can get a message to him, can’t I? Just for old times’ sake. Just to be helpful.

“I’ve tried that.” She sounds quite high-handed. “You don’t understand. I need to speak to him. Today. Now. It’s urgent.”

“Oh. Well, I can give you his email address—”

“That’s a joke.” She cuts me off impatiently. “Sam never reads emails. But, believe me, this is important. I have to speak to him, as soon as possible. It’s about the phone, in fact. The phone you’re holding right now.”

What?

I gape at the receiver, wondering if I’ve gone crazy. How does some strange girl know what phone I’m holding?

“Who are you?” I say in astonishment, and she heaves a sigh.

“No one remembers who I am, do they? I worked for Sam. I’m Violet.”

Thank God I didn’t eat the cinnamon swirls, is all I can say. Violet turns out to be about ten feet tall, with skinny legs clad in frayed denim shorts and massive dark eyes with traces of makeup around them.92 She looks like a cross between a giraffe and a bush baby.

It turned out that she lives in Clapham and it would take her only about five minutes to get here to see me. So here she is, in Costa, chomping on a chicken wrap and swigging a smoothie. Ruby and Annalise have gone back to work, which is a good thing, because I couldn’t cope with having to explain the whole saga to them. It’s all too surreal.

As Violet has told me several times, if she hadn’t happened to be in London, between jobs, and happened to see the headlines as she went to get a pint of milk, she would never have known about the scandal. And if she hadn’t happened to have a brain in her head, she wouldn’t have realized that she totally knew what had been going on the whole time. But are people grateful? Do they want to hear? No. They’re all idiots.

“My parents are on this stupid cruise,” she’s saying with disdain. “I tried to look in their telephone book, but I don’t know who’s who, do I? So I tried ringing Sam’s line, then Nick’s line … but I only got snotty PAs. No one would listen to me. But I need to tell someone.” She bangs her hand on the table. “Because I know something was going on. I even sort of knew it at the time? But Sam never listened to me? Do you find he never listens to you?” She focuses on me with interest for the first time. “Who exactly are you, anyway? You said you’d been helping him. What does that mean?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” I say after a pause. “He was left in the lurch a bit.”

“Oh, yeah?” She takes another bite of chicken wrap and regards me with interest. “How come?”

Has she forgotten?

“Well … er … you left with no notice. Remember? You were supposed to be his PA?”

“Riiiight.” She opens her eyes wide. “Yeah. That job didn’t really work out for me. And the agency called and wanted me to get on a plane, so … “ Her brow wrinkles in thought as though she’s considering this for the first time. “I guess he was a bit pissed off. But they’ve got loads of staff. He’ll be all right.” She waves her hand airily. “So, do you work there?”

“No.” How am I going to explain it? “I found this phone and borrowed it, and I got to know Sam that way.”

“I remember that phone. Yeah.” She peers at it, screwing up her nose. “I never answered it.”

I suppress a smile. She must have been the crappest PA in the world.

“But that’s why I know something was going on.” She finishes off her chicken wrap with a flourish. “Because of all the messages. On that.” She jabs a finger at it.

OK. At last we’re getting to it.

“Messages? What messages?”

“It had all these voice mails on it. Not for Sam; for some guy called Ed. I didn’t know what to do about them. So I listened to them and I wrote them down. And I didn’t like the sound of them.”

“Why not?” My heart starts to thud.

“They were all from the same guy, about altering a document. How they were going to do it. How long it would take. How much it would cost. That kind of thing. It didn’t sound right, you know what I mean? But it didn’t exactly sound wrong either.” She crinkles her nose. “It just sounded … weird.”

My head is wheeling. I can’t take this in. Voice mails for Ed about the memo. On this phone. This phone.

“Did you tell Sam?”

“I sent him an email and he said ignore them. But I didn’t want to ignore them. You know what I mean? I had this instinct.” She swigs her smoothie. “Then I open the paper this morning, and I see Sam talking about some memo and saying it must have been sexed up, and I think, yes!” She bangs her hand on the table again. “That’s what was going on.”

“How many voice mails were there in all?”

“Four? Five?”

“But there aren’t any voice mails on here now. At least, I haven’t found any.” I can hardly bear to ask the question. “Did you … delete them?”

“No!” She beams in triumph. “That’s the point! I saved them. At least, my boyfriend, Aran, did. I was writing one out one night, and he was, like, ‘Babe, just save it to the server.’ And I was like, ‘How do I save a voice mail?’ So he came into the office and put them all on a file. He can do amazing stuff, Aran,” she adds proudly. “He’s a model too, but he writes games on the side.”

“A file?” I’m not following. “So where’s the file now?”

“It must still be there.” She shrugs. “On the PA’s computer. There’s an icon called voice mails on the desktop.”

An icon on the PA’s computer. Just outside Sam’s office. All the time, it was right there, right in front of our face.

“Will it still be there?” I feel a blast of panic. “Won’t it be deleted?”

“Don’t know why it would be.” She shrugs. “Nothing was deleted when I arrived. There was just a big old pile of crap I was supposed to wade through.”

I almost want to laugh hysterically. All that panic. All that effort. We could have simply gone to the computer outside Sam’s office.

“Anyway, I’m going to the States tomorrow, and I had to tell someone, but it’s impossible to get in touch with Sam at the moment.” She shakes her head. “I’ve tried emailing, texting, phoning—I’m, like, if you only knew what I had to tell you … ”

“Let me have a go,” I say after a pause, and type a text to Sam.

Sam, you have to call me. Now. It’s about Sir Nicholas. Could be a help. Not a time-waster. Believe me. Call at once. Please. Poppy.

“Well, good luck with that.” Violet rolls her eyes. “Like I told you, he’s gone off radar. His PA said he’s not responding to anybody. Not emailing, not answering calls—” She breaks off as the tinny sound of Beyoncé comes through the air. Sam Mobile has already popped up on the display.

“OK.” Her eyes widen. “I’m impressed.”

I press accept and lift the receiver to my ear. “Hi, Sam.”

“Poppy.”

His voice feels like a blast of sunshine in my ear. There’s so much I want to say. But I can’t. Not now.

Maybe not ever.

“Listen,” I say. “Are you in your office? Go to your PA’s computer. Quickly.”

There’s the briefest pause, then he says, “OK.”

“Look on the desktop,” I instruct him. “Is there a file called Voice Mails?”

There’s silence for a little while—then Sam’s voice comes down the phone.

“Affirmative.”

“OK!” My breath comes out in a whoosh. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it. “You need to look after that file carefully. And now you need to speak to Violet.”

“Violet?” He sounds taken aback. “You don’t mean Violet my flaky ex-PA?”

“I’m with her now. Listen to her, Sam. Please.” I pass the phone over.

“Hey, Sam,” says Violet easily. “Sorry about leaving you in the lurch and all that. But you’ve had Poppy to help you out, yeah?”

As she’s talking, I head up to the counter and buy myself another coffee, even though I’m so wired I probably shouldn’t. Hearing Sam’s voice has thrown me. I immediately wanted to talk to him about everything. I wanted to nestle up and hear what he had to say.

But that’s impossible. Number one, because he’s mired in massive problems of his own. Number two, because who is he? Not a friend. Not a colleague. Just some random guy who has no place in my life. It’s over. The only place for us to go from here is goodbye.

Maybe we’ll exchange the odd text. Maybe we’ll meet up awkwardly in a year’s time. Both of us will look different and we’ll say hello stiltedly, already regretting the decision to come. We’ll laugh about how bizarre that whole phone business was. We’ll never mention what happened in the woods. Because it didn’t happen.

“You OK, Poppy?” Violet is standing in front of me, waving the phone in front of my face. “Here.”

“Oh!” I come to and take it. “Thanks. Did you speak to Sam?”

“He opened the file as I was talking to him. He’s pretty stoked. He said to say he’d call you later.”

“Oh. Well … he doesn’t have to.” I pick up my coffee. “Whatever.”

“Hey, nice rock.” Violet grabs my hand.93 “Is that an emerald?”

“Yes.”

“Cool! So, who’s the lucky guy?” She gets out an iPhone. “Can I take a picture of it? I’m just getting ideas for when Aran becomes a gazillionaire. Did you choose it yourself?”

“No, he had it already when he proposed. It’s a family ring.”

“Romantic.” Violet nods. “Wow. So you didn’t expect it?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Were you like, ‘Fuck!’ ”

“Kind of.” I nod.

It seems a million years ago now, that evening when Magnus proposed. I was so giddy. I felt as if I’d entered a magic bubble where everything was shiny and perfect and nothing could ever go wrong again. God, I was a fool …

A tear splashes onto my cheek before I can stop it.

“Hey.” Violet looks at me with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I smile, wiping at my eyes. “It’s … Things aren’t exactly brilliant. My fiancé might be cheating on me, and I don’t know what to do.”

Just letting the words out makes me feel better. I take a deep breath and smile at Violet. “Sorry. Ignore that. You don’t want to know.”

“No. It’s fine.” She draws her feet up onto her chair and regards me intently. “Why aren’t you sure if he is or not? What makes you think he is?”

“Someone sent me an anonymous text. That’s it.”

“So ignore it.” Violet gives me a close look. “Or do you have a gut feeling? Does it seem like something he might do?”

I’m silent for a moment. I so wish I could say, “Never! Not in a million years!” But too many moments are sticking in my brain. Moments I haven’t wanted to see, that I’ve tried to blank out. Magnus flirting with girls at parties. Magnus surrounded by all his female students, his arms casually draped around their shoulders. Magnus being practically molested by Annalise.

The thing is, girls like Magnus. And he likes them.

“I don’t know,” I say, staring into my coffee. “Maybe.”

“And do you have any idea who he’s doing it with?”

“Maybe.”

“So!” Violet seems galvanized. “Confront the situation. Have you spoken to him? Have you spoken to her?”

“He’s in Bruges, on his stag do. I can’t talk to him. And she’s—” I break off. “No. I can’t. I mean, it’s a possibility. She’s probably totally innocent.”

“Are you sure he’s on his stag do?” says Violet, raising her eyebrows, then grins. “No, I’m just winding you up.” She pushes my arm. “I’m sure he is. Hey, babe, I have to go and pack. Hope it all works out for you. Give my love to Sam.”

As she strides out of the coffee shop, about six male heads turn. I’m pretty sure that if Magnus were here, his would be one of them.

I stare morosely into my coffee for a little while. Why do people have to keep telling me to confront the situation? I do confront things. Loads of times. But it’s not like I can march up to Magnus on his stag do, or accost Lucinda and accuse her out of the blue. I mean, you need evidence. You need facts. One anonymous text doesn’t cut it.

My phone starts emitting Beyoncé and I stiffen, in spite of myself. Is that—

No. It’s Unknown Number. But which bloody Unknown Number? I take a swig of coffee, to steel myself, and answer.

“Hi, Poppy Wyatt here.”

“Hello, Poppy. My name is Brenda Fairfax. I’m calling from the Berrow Hotel. I’ve been away on holiday for a few days; otherwise of course I should have called at once. I do apologize.”

Mrs. Fairfax. After all this time. I almost want to burst out laughing.

To think how desperate I was to hear this woman’s voice. And now it’s all irrelevant. I’ve got the ring back. None of it matters. Why is she calling me, anyway? I told the concierge I’d got the ring safely. The whole thing is over.

“You don’t need to apologize—”

“But of course I do! What a dreadful mix-up.” She sounds quite flustered. Maybe the concierge gave her a hard time. Maybe he told her to call me and apologize.

“Please don’t worry. I had a bit of a fright, but it’s all fine now.”

“And such a valuable ring too!”

“It’s fine,” I say soothingly. “No harm done.”

“But I still can’t understand it! One of the waitresses had handed it to me and I was going to put it in the safe, you see. That’s what I was about to do.”

“Honestly, you don’t have to explain.” I feel quite sorry for her. “These things happen. It was a fire alarm, you got distracted—”

“No!” Mrs. Fairfax sounds a mite offended. “That’s not what happened at all. I was about to put it in the safe, as I say. But before I could do so, another lady rushed up to me and told me it was hers. Another guest at the tea.”

“Another guest?” I say, after a puzzled pause.

“Yes! She said it was her engagement ring and that she’d been frantically searching high and low. She was very credible. The waitress vouched for the fact that she’d been sitting at the table. And then she put it on. Well, who was I to disbelieve her?”

I rub my eyes, wondering if I’m hearing this correctly.

“You’re saying someone else took my ring? And said it was hers?”

“Yes! She was adamant that the ring belonged to her. She put it on straightaway and it fitted. It looked very nice, as it happens. I know that strictly speaking I should have asked her for proof that she was the owner, and we will be reviewing our official procedures in the light of this unfortunate occurrence—”

“Mrs. Fairfax.” I cut her off, not remotely interested in official procedures. “Can I just ask you—did she have long dark hair, by any chance? And a little diamanté hair band?”

“Yes. Long dark hair, with a diamanté hair band, as you say, and a wonderful orange dress.”

I close my eyes in disbelief. Lucinda. It was Lucinda.

The ring didn’t get caught on her bag lining. She deliberately took it. She knew how panicked I’d be. She knew how important it was. But she took it and pretended it was hers. God only knows why.

A pulse is beating in my head as I say goodbye to Mrs. Fairfax. I’m breathing hard and my hands are balling into fists. Enough is enough. Maybe I don’t have any evidence that she’s sleeping with Magnus—but I can sure as hell confront her about this. And I’m going to do it right now.

I don’t know what Lucinda’s doing today. I haven’t had any emails or messages from her for a couple of days, which is unusual. As I text, my hands are actually shaking.

Hi Lucinda! How’s it going? What are you up to? Can I help? Poppy.

Almost immediately she replies:

Just polishing off some loose ends at home. Don’t worry, nothing for you to help with. Lucinda

Lucinda lives in Battersea. Twenty minutes away by taxi. I’m not going to give her time to get her story straight. I’m going to take her by surprise.

I hail a cab and give her address, then sit back, trying to stay calm and steely, even though the more I think about this, the more flabbergasted I feel. Lucinda took my ring. Does that mean she’s a thief? Did she make a copy and keep the real one and sell it? I glance at my left hand, suddenly doubtful. Am I so sure this is the real thing?

Or was she somehow meaning to be helpful? Did she forget she had it? Should I give her the benefit of the doubt—

No, Poppy. No chance.

As I arrive at her red-brick-mansion block, a guy in jeans is opening the main front door. I quickly dodge in behind him and head up the three flights of stairs to Lucinda’s flat. This way she’ll get absolutely no warning that I’m here.

Maybe she’ll open the door wearing the real ring, plus all the other jewelry she’s stolen from unsuspecting friends. Maybe no one will answer, because she’s actually in Bruges. Maybe Magnus will open the door dressed in a bedsheet—

Oh God. Stop it, Poppy.

I rap on the door, trying to sound like a delivery guy. It must have worked, because she swings the door open, her face creased in annoyance, her phone to her ear, before stopping dead, her mouth in an O.

I stare back, equally wordless. My eyes flick past Lucinda, to the huge suitcase in the hall, then to the passport in her hand, and then back to the suitcase.

“As soon as possible,” she says. “Terminal Four. Thanks.” She rings off and glares at me, as though daring me to ask what she’s doing.

I’m racking my brains for something inspired and caustic to say, but my inner five-year-old is quicker off the mark.

“You took my ring!” As the words burst out, I can feel my cheeks turning pink, to add to the effect. Maybe I should stamp my foot too.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Lucinda wrinkles her nose disparagingly, as though to accuse one’s wedding planner of theft is a total etiquette no-no. “You got it back, didn’t you?”

“But you took it!” I step inside her flat, even though she hasn’t invited me to, and can’t help glancing around. I’ve never been to Lucinda’s flat before. It’s quite grand and has clearly been interior-decorated, but it’s an absolute mess of cluttered surfaces and chairs, with wineglasses everywhere. No wonder she always wants to meet at hotels.

“Look, Poppy.” She sighs bad-temperedly. “I’ve got things to do, OK? If you’re going to come around and make offensive remarks, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Huh?

She’s the one who did something wrong. She’s the one who took a priceless engagement ring and pretended it was hers. How has she managed to leapfrog over that fact and make it look like I’m in the wrong for even mentioning it?

“Now, if that’s all, I am rather busy—”

“Stop right there.” The force of my own voice takes me by surprise. “That’s not all. I want to know exactly why you took my ring. Were you planning to sell it? Did you need the money?”

“No, I didn’t need the money.” She glares at me. “You want to know why I took it, Miss Poppy? It’s because it should have been mine.”

“Yours? Wh—”

I can’t even finish the word, let alone the sentence.

“You know Magnus and I are old flames.” She throws the information out casually, like a swatch of material on a table.

“What? No! No one ever told me that! Were you engaged?”

My mind is juddering with shock. Magnus was with Lucinda? Magnus was engaged? He never mentioned a previous fiancée, let alone that it was Lucinda. Why don’t I know any of this? What is going on?

“No, we were never engaged,” she says reluctantly, then shoots me a murderous look. “But we should have been. He proposed to me. With that ring.”

I feel a clench of disbelieving pain. Magnus proposed to another girl with my ring? With our ring? I want to turn on my heel and leave, escape, block my ears … but I can’t. I have to get to the bottom of all this. Nothing seems to make sense.

“I don’t understand. I don’t get it. You said you should have been engaged. What happened?”

“He bottled it, is what happened,” she says furiously. “The bloody coward.”

“Oh God. At what stage? Had you planned the wedding? He didn’t jilt you, did he?” I say in sudden horror. “He didn’t leave you standing at the altar?”

Lucinda has closed her eyes as though reliving it. Now she opens them and gives me a vicious glare.

“Far worse. He chickened out halfway through the bloody proposal.”

“What?” I peer at her, not quite understanding. “What do you—”

“We were on a skiing holiday, two years ago.” Her brow tightens in memory. “I wasn’t stupid, I knew he’d brought the family ring. I knew he was going to propose. So we’d had dinner one night, and it was just us in the chalet. The fire was going, and he knelt down on the rug and brought out this little box. He opened it up, and there was this amazing vintage emerald ring.”

Lucinda pauses, breathing hard. I don’t move a muscle.

“He took hold of my hand, and he said, ‘Lucinda, my darling, will you … ’ ” She inhales sharply, as though she can hardly bear to carry on. “And I was going to say yes! I was all poised! I was only waiting for him to get to the end. But then he stopped. He started sweating. And then he stood up and said, ‘Bugger. Sorry. I can’t do this. Sorry, Lucinda.’ ”

He didn’t. He didn’t. I stare at her in disbelief, almost wanting to laugh.

“What did you say?”

“I yelled, ‘Do what, you prick? You haven’t even bloody proposed yet!’ ” But he didn’t have anything to say. He closed up the box and put the ring away. And that was that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say lamely. “That’s really awful.”

“He’s such a commitment-phobe, he couldn’t even commit to a fucking proposal! He couldn’t even see that through!” She looks absolutely livid, and I don’t blame her.

“So, why on earth did you agree to organize his wedding?” I say incredulously. “Isn’t that rubbing it in your face, every day?”

“It was the least he could do to make amends.” She glowers at me. “I needed a job. Although, actually, I’m thinking of changing career. Arranging weddings is a bloody nightmare.”

No wonder Lucinda’s been in such a bad mood this whole time. No wonder she’s been so aggressive toward me. If I had known for one second that she was an old flame of Magnus’s …

“I was never going to keep the ring,” she adds sulkily. “I just wanted to give you a scare.”

“Well, you managed it, all right.”

I can’t believe I’ve let this woman into my life, confided in her, discussed all my hopes for my wedding day—and she’s an ex of Magnus. How could he have let this happen? How could he have thought it would ever work?

I feel like some kind of filter has been lifted from my eyes. I feel like I’m finally waking up to reality. And I haven’t even tackled my main fear yet.

“I got the idea you were still sleeping with Magnus,” I blurt out. “I mean, not when you were going out together. Now. Recently. Last week.”

There’s silence and I look up, hoping she’ll launch into some stinging denial. But as I meet her eye, she turns away.

“Lucinda?”

She grabs her suitcase and starts wheeling it toward the door. “I’m going away. I’ve had enough of this whole thing. I deserve a holiday. If I have to talk weddings for one more second—”

“Lucinda?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she erupts impatiently. “Maybe I slept with him a few times for old times’ sake. If you can’t keep tabs on him, you shouldn’t marry him.” Her phone rings and she answers. “Hi. Yes. Coming down. Excuse me.” She ushers me out of the flat, bangs the door, and double-locks it.

“You can’t just leave!” I’m shaking all over. “You have to tell me what happened!”

“What do you want me to say?” She throws her hands up. “These things happen. You weren’t meant to find out, but there you go.” She manhandles her suitcase into the lift. “Oh, and by the way, if you think you and I are the only girls he’s hauled that emerald ring out of the safe for, think again. We’re on the end of a list, sweetie.”

“What?” I’m starting to hyperventilate. “What list? Lucinda, wait! What are you talking about?”

“Work it out, Poppy. It’s your problem. I’ve sorted the flowers and the order of service and the almonds and the fucking … dessert spoons.” She jabs a button and the lift doors start to close. “This one’s all yours.”

88 OK, unlikely.

89 OK, even less likely.

90 Aka Clemency. Possibly.

91 And if you think she wouldn’t, you don’t know Annalise.

92 Either this is a very arty look, like you see in fashion magazines, or she didn’t take her makeup off yesterday. (Still. Like I can talk.)

93 No one’s ever grabbed my hand to look at the ring before. That is definitely an invasion of personal space.