I've Got Your Number

3

The next morning I wake abruptly to see the phone flashing with a new text from the Berrow Hotel and feel so relieved I almost want to cry. They’ve found it! They’ve found it!

My fingers are fumbling as I unlock the phone, my mind galloping ahead. An early-morning cleaner found the ring clogging up a Hoover … discovered it in the ladies’ room … saw a glint on the carpet … now securely locked in the hotel safe …

Dear Guest,

Summer breaks, half price.

Please visit www.berrowhotellondon.co.uk. for details.

Kind regards,

The Berrow Team

I sag back on the bed, leaden with disappointment. Not to mention anger at whoever put me on the mailing list. How could they do that? Are they trying to play with my neuroses?

At the same time, a nasty realization is turning around and around in my stomach. Another eight hours have passed since I lost the ring. The longer it’s not found—

What if—

I can’t even finish my thoughts. Abruptly, I get out of bed and pad through to the kitchen. I’ll make a cup of tea and send on some more messages to Sam Roxton. That’ll take my mind off things.

The phone has started buzzing again with texts and emails, so I turn on the kettle, perch on the window seat, and start scrolling through, trying desperately not to hope. Sure enough, every message is just some friend asking if I’ve found the ring yet and making suggestions like have you checked your handbag pockets?

There’s nothing from Magnus, even though I sent him a couple of texts last night, asking what else his parents had said about me and when was he planning to tell me, and how was I going to face them now, and was he ignoring me on purpose?22

At last I turn to Sam’s messages. He clearly hasn’t had the email function transferred yet, because there are about fifty, just from overnight and this morning. Crikey Moses, he was right. His PA evidently does handle his whole life.

There’s everything and everyone in here. His doctor, colleagues, charity requests, invitations … It’s like a mainline into the universe of Sam. I can see where he buys his shirts (Turnbull & Asser). I can see where he went to university (Durham). I can see the name of his plumber (Dean).

As I scroll down, I start to I feel uncomfortable. I’ve never had so much access to someone else’s phone before. Not my friends’; not even Magnus’s. There are some things you just don’t share. I mean, Magnus has seen every inch of my body, including the dodgy bits, but I would never, ever let him near my phone.

Sam’s text messages are randomly mixed up with mine, which feels weird too. I scroll down two messages for me, then about six for Sam, then another for me. All side by side; all touching one another. I’ve never shared an in-box with anyone in my life. I didn’t expect it to feel so … intimate. It’s as if we’re suddenly sharing an underwear drawer or something.

Anyway. No big deal. It’s not for long.

I make my tea and fill a bowl with Shreddies. Then, as I munch, I slowly pick through the messages, working out which ones are for Sam and forwarding them on.

I’m not going to spy on him or anything. Obviously not. But I have to click on each message in order to forward it, and sometimes my fingers automatically press open by mistake and I catch a glimpse of the text. Just sometimes.

Clearly it’s not only his father who’s having a hard time getting in touch with him. He must be really, really bad at answering emails and texts, there are so many plaintive requests to Violet: Is this a good way to reach Sam? … Hi! Apologies for bothering you, but I have left several messages for Sam… . Hi, Violet, could you nudge Sam about an email I sent last week? I’ll reprise the main points here… .

It’s not like I’m reading through every single email fully or anything. Or scrolling down to read all the previous correspondence. Or critiquing all his answers and rewriting them in my head. After all, it’s none of my business what he writes or doesn’t write. He can do what he likes. It’s a free country. My opinion is neither here nor there—

God, his replies are abrupt! It’s driving me nuts! Does everything have to be so short? Does he have to be so curt and unfriendly? As I clock yet another brief email, I can’t help exclaiming out loud, “Are you allergic to typing or something?”

It’s ridiculous. It’s like he’s determined to use the least possible words.

Yes, fine. Sam

Done. Sam

OK, Sam

Would it kill him to add Best wishes? Or a smiley face? Or say thank you?

And while I’m on the subject, why can’t he just reply to people? Poor Rachel Elwood is trying to organize an office Fun Run and has asked him twice now if he could lead a team. Why wouldn’t he want to do that? It’s fun, it’s healthy, it raises money for charity—what’s not to love?

Nor has he replied about accommodation for the company conference in Hampshire next week. It’s at the Chiddingford Hotel, which sounds amazing, and he’s booked into a suite, but he has to specify to someone called Lindy whether he’s still planning to come down late. And he hasn’t.

Worst of all, his dentist’s office has emailed him about scheduling a checkup four times. Four times.

I can’t help glancing back at the previous correspondence, and Violet’s obviously given up trying. Each time she’s made an appointment for him, he’s emailed her: Cancel it. S, and once even, You have to be joking.

Does he want his teeth to rot?

By the time I’m leaving for work at eight-forty, a whole new series of emails has arrived. Obviously these people all start work at the crack of dawn. The top one, from Jon Mailer, is entitled What’s the story? That sounds quite intriguing, so as I’m walking along the street, I open it.

Sam,

Ran into Ed at the Groucho Club last night, looking worse for wear. All I’ll say is, don’t let him in the same room as Sir Nicholas anytime soon, will you?

Regards,

Jon

Ooh, now I want to know the story too. Who’s Ed, and why was he worse for wear at the Groucho Club?23

The second email is from someone called Willow, and as I click on it, my eyes are assaulted by capitals everywhere.

Violet,

Let’s be grown-ups about this. You’ve HEARD Sam and me fighting. There’s no point hiding anything from you.

So, since Sam REFUSES to answer the email I sent half an hour ago, maybe you could be so kind to print this attachment out and PUT IT ON HIS DESK SO HE READS IT?

Thanks so much.

Willow

I stare at the phone in shock, almost wanting to laugh. Willow must be his fiancée. Yowzer.

Her email address is willowharte@whiteglobeconsulting.com. So she obviously works at White Globe Consulting, but she’s still emailing Sam? Isn’t that odd? Unless maybe they work on different floors. Fair enough. I once emailed Magnus from upstairs to ask him to make me a cup of tea.

I wonder what’s in the attachment.

My fingers hesitate as I pause at a pedestrian crossing. It would be wrong to read it. Very, very wrong. I mean, this isn’t some open email cc’ed to loads of people. This is a private document between two people in a relationship. I shouldn’t look at it. It was bad enough reading that email from his father.

But on the other hand … she wants it printed out, doesn’t she? And put on Sam’s desk, where anyone could read it if they walked by. And it’s not like I’m indiscreet. I won’t mention this to anyone; no one will ever even know I’ve seen it… .

My fingers seem to have a life of their own. Already I’m clicking on the attachment. It takes me a moment to focus on the text, it’s so heavy with capital letters.

Sam

You still haven’t answered me.

Are you intending to? Do you think this is NOT IMPORTANT?????

Jesus.

It’s only the most important thing IN OUR LIFE. And how you can go about your day so calmly … I don’t know. It makes me want to weep.

We need to talk, so, so badly. And I know some of this is my fault, but until we start untying the knots TOGETHER, how will we know who’s pulling which string? How?

The thing is, Sam, sometimes I don’t even know if you have a string. It’s that bad. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU HAVE A STRING.

I can see you shaking your head, Mr. Denial. But it is. It’s THAT BAD, OK???

If you were a human being with a shred of emotion, you’d be crying by now. I know I am. And that’s another thing—I have a ten o’clock with Carter, which you have now FUCKED UP as I left my FUCKING MASCARA at home.

So, be proud of yourself.

Willow

My eyes are like saucers. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

I read it over again—and suddenly find myself giggling. I know I shouldn’t. It’s not funny. She’s obviously really upset. And I know I’ve said some pretty screwy things to Magnus when I’ve been pissed and hormonal. But I would never, ever put them in an email and get his assistant to print it out

My head bobs up in realization. Shit! There’s no Violet anymore. No one’s going to print it out and put it on Sam’s desk. He won’t know about it and he won’t reply and Willow will get even more livid. The awful thing is, this thought makes me want to giggle more.

I wonder if this is a bad day or if she’s always this intense. I can’t resist typing Willow in the search engine, and a whole series of emails pop up. There’s one from yesterday, with the title Are you trying to fuck me or fuck WITH me, Sam? Or CAN’T YOU DECIDE???, and I get another fit of the giggles. Yikes. They must have one of those up and down relationships. Maybe they throw things at each other and shriek and bellow, then have mad passionate sex in the kitchen—

Beyoncé blasts out from the phone, and I nearly drop it as I see Sam Mobile appear on the screen. I have a mad thought that he’s psychic and knows I’ve been spying on his love life.

No more snooping, I hastily promise myself. No more Willow searches. I count to three—then press answer.

“Oh, hi there!” I try to sound relaxed and guiltless, like I was just thinking about something else altogether and not at all imagining him screwing his fiancée amongs a pile of broken crockery.

“Did I have an email from Ned Murdoch this morning?” he launches in without so much as a “Hi.”

“No. I’ve sent all your emails over. Good morning to you too,” I add brightly. “I’m really well, how about you?”

“I thought you might have missed one.” He completely ignores my little dig. “It’s extremely important.”

“Well, I’m extremely thorough,” I retort pointedly. “Believe me, everything that’s coming in to this phone, you’re getting. And there wasn’t anything from Ned Murdoch. Someone called Willow just emailed, by the way,” I add casually. “I’ll forward it on. There’s an attachment, which sounded quite important. But obviously I didn’t look at it at all. Or read it or anything.”

“Hrrrmm.” He gives a kind of noncommittal growl. “So, have you found your ring?”

“Not yet,” I admit reluctantly. “But I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

“You should inform your insurers anyway, you know. They sometimes have a time limit for claiming. Colleague of mine got caught out that way.”

Insurers? Time limits?

I suddenly feel clammy with guilt. I’ve given this no thought at all. I haven’t checked up on my insurance or the Tavishes’ insurance or anything. Instead, I’ve been standing at a pedestrian crossing, missing my chance to walk, reading other people’s emails and laughing at them. Priorities, Poppy.

“Right,” I manage at last. “Yes, I knew that. I’m on it.”

I ring off and stand motionless for a moment, the traffic whizzing in front of me. It’s like he’s pricked my bubble. I have to come clean. It’s the Tavishes’ ring. They should know it’s lost. I’ll have to tell them.

Hi there! It’s me, the girl you don’t want to marry your son, and, guess what? I’ve lost your priceless family ring!

I’ll give myself twelve more hours, I abruptly decide, pressing the pedestrian button again. Just in case. Just in case.

And then I’ll tell them.

I always thought I might be a dentist. Several of my family are dentists, and it always seemed like a pretty decent career. But then, when I was fifteen, my school sent me on a weeklong work experience placement at the physio unit at our local hospital. All the therapists were so enthusiastic about what they did that focusing only on teeth suddenly felt a bit narrow for me. And I’ve never regretted my decision for a moment. It just suits me, being a physio.

First Fit Physio Studio is exactly eighteen minutes’ walk from my flat in Balham, past Costa, and next to Greggs, the baker. It’s not the grandest practice in the world—I’d probably earn more if I went to some smart sports center or a big hospital. But I’ve been working there ever since I qualified and can’t imagine working anywhere else. Plus, I work with friends. You wouldn’t give that up in a hurry, would you?

I arrive at nine o’clock, expecting to have the usual staff meeting. We have one every Thursday morning, where we discuss patients and targets, new therapies, the latest research, stuff like that.24 There’s one particular patient I want to talk about, actually: Mrs. Randall, my sweet sixty-five-year-old with the ligament problem. She’s pretty much recovered—but last week she came in twice, and this week she’s booked three appointments. I’ve told her she just needs to exercise at home with her Dyna-Bands, but she insists she needs my help. I think she’s become totally dependent on us—which might be good for the cash register but is not good for her.

So I’m quite looking forward to the meeting. But, to my surprise, the meeting room is set up differently from usual. The table has been pulled to one end of the room, with two chairs behind it—and there’s a sole chair facing it in the middle of the room. It looks like an interview setup.

The reception door pings to signal that someone’s entered, and I turn to see Annalise coming in with a Costa coffee tray. She’s got some complicated braided arrangement in her long blond hair, and she looks like a Greek goddess.

“Hi, Annalise! What’s up?”

“You’d better talk to Ruby.” She gives me a sidelong look, without smiling.

“What?”

“I don’t think I should say.” She takes a sip of cappuccino, eyeing me secretively over the top.

What’s up now? Annalise’s quite prickly—in fact, she’s a bit of a child. She goes all quiet and sulky, and then it comes out that yesterday you asked her for that file too impatiently and hurt her feelings.

Ruby is the opposite. She’s got smooth latte-colored skin, a huge, motherly bust, and is packed so full of common sense it’s practically wafting out of her ears. The minute you’re in her company, you feel saner, calmer, jollier, and stronger. No wonder this physio practice has been a success. I mean, Annalise and I are OK at what we do, but Ruby is the star turn. Everyone loves her. Men, women, grannies, kids. She also put up the money for the business,25 so she’s officially my boss.

“Morning, babe.” Ruby comes breezing out from her treatment room, beaming her usual wide smile. Her hair has been back-combed and pinned in a bun, with intricate twisted sections on either side. Both Annalise and Ruby are totally into their hairdos—it’s almost a competition between them. “Now, look, it’s a real pain, but I have to give you a disciplinary hearing.”

“What?” I gape at her.

“Not my fault!” She lifts her hands. “I want to get accreditation from this new body, the PFFA. I’ve just been reading the material, and it says if your staff chat up the patients you have to discipline them. We should have done it anyway, you know that, but now I need to have the notes ready for the inspector. We’ll get it done really quickly.”

“I didn’t chat him up,” I say defensively. “He chatted me up!”

“I think the panel will decide that, don’t you?” chimes in Annalise forbiddingly. She looks so grave, I feel a tickle of worry. “I told you you’d been unethical,” she adds. “You should be prosecuted.”

“Prosecuted?” I appeal to Ruby. I can’t believe this is happening. Back when Magnus proposed, Ruby said it was such a romantic story she wanted to cry, and that, OK, strictly it was against the rules, but in her opinion love conquered all, and please could she be a bridesmaid?

“Annalise, you don’t mean ‘prosecuted.’ ” Ruby rolls her eyes. “Come on. Let’s convene the panel.”

“Who’s on the panel?”

“Us,” says Ruby blithely. “Annalise and me. I know we should have an external person, but I didn’t know who to get. I’ll tell the inspector I had someone lined up and they were ill.” She glances at her watch. “OK, we’ve got twenty minutes. Morning, Angela!” she adds cheerily as our receptionist pushes the front door open. “Don’t let any calls through, OK?”

Angela just nods and sniffs and dumps her rucksack on the floor. She has a boyfriend in a band, so she’s never very communicative in the mornings.

“Oh, Poppy,” Ruby says over her shoulder as she leads the way into the meeting room. “I was supposed to give you two weeks’ notice to prepare. You don’t need that, do you? Can we say you had it? Because there’s only a week and a bit till the wedding, so it would mean dragging you away from your honeymoon or leaving it till you’re back, and I really want to get the paperwork done… .”

She’s ushering me to the sole chair, marooned in the middle of the floor, while she and Annalise take their seats behind the table. Any minute I expect a bright light to shine in my eyes. This is horrible. Everything’s suddenly turned. It’s them against me.

“Are you going to fire me?” I feel ridiculously panicked.

“No! Of course not!” Ruby is unscrewing her pen. “Don’t be silly!”

“We might,” says Annalise, shooting me an ominous look.

She’s obviously loving her role as chief henchwoman. I know what this is all about. It’s because I got Magnus and she didn’t.

Here’s the thing. Annalise’s the beautiful one. Even I want to stare at her all day, and I’m a girl. If you’d said to anyone last year, “Which of these three will land a guy and be engaged by next summer?” they’d have said immediately, “Annalise.”

So I can understand her point of view. She must look in the mirror and see herself (Greek goddess) and then see me (lanky legs, dark hair; best feature—long eyelashes) and think: WTF?

Plus, as I said, Magnus was originally booked with her. And at the last minute we switched appointments. Which is not my fault.

“So.” Ruby looks up from her foolscap pad. “Let’s run over the facts, Miss Wyatt. On December fifteenth last year, you treated a Mr. Magnus Tavish here at the clinic.”

“Yes.”

For what form of injury?”

“A sprained wrist sustained while skiing.”

“And during this appointment, did he show any … inappropriate interest in you? Or you in him?”

I cast my mind back to that first instant Magnus walked into my room. He was wearing a long gray tweed coat, and his tawny hair was glistening with rain and his face was flushed from walking. He was ten minutes late, and he immediately rushed over, clasped both my hands, and said, “I’m most terribly sorry,” in this lovely, well-educated voice.

“I … er … no,” I say defensively. “It was just a standard appointment.”

Even as I say this, I know it’s not true. In standard appointments, your heart doesn’t start to pound as you take the patient’s arm. The hairs on the back of your neck don’t rise. You don’t hold on to his hand very slightly longer than you need to.

Not that I can say any of this. I really would be fired.

“I treated the patient over the course of a number of appointments.” I try to sound calm and professional. “By the time we realized our affection for each other, his treatment was over. It was therefore totally ethical.”

“He told me it was love at first sight!” shoots back Annalise. “How do you explain that? He told me you were instantly attracted to each other and he wanted to ravish you right there on the couch. He said he’d never known anything so sexy as you in your uniform.”

I’m going to shoot Magnus. What did he have to say that for?

“Objection!” I glower at her. “That evidence was procured while under the influence of alcohol and in a nonprofessional capacity. It therefore cannot be allowed in court.”

“Yes, it can! And you are under oath!” She jabs a finger at me.

“Objection sustained,” Ruby interrupts, and looks up from writing, a distant, wistful look in her eyes. “Was it really love at first sight?” She leans forward, her great big uniformed bosom bulging everywhere. “Did you know?”

I close my eyes and try to visualize that day. I’m not sure what I knew, except I wanted to ravish him on the couch too.

“Yes,” I say at last. “I think so.”

“It’s so romantic.” Ruby sighs.

“And wrong!” Annalise chimes in sharply. “The minute he showed any interest in you, you should have said, ‘Sir, this is inappropriate behavior. I would like this session to end and for you to transfer to another therapist.’ ”

“Oh, another therapist!” I can’t help a short laugh. “Like you, by any chance?”

“Maybe! Why not?”

“And what if he’d shown interest in you?”

She lifts her chin proudly. “I would have handled it without compromising my ethical principles.”

“I was ethical!” I say in outrage. “I was totally ethical!”

“Oh yes?” She narrows her eyes like a prosecuting barrister. “What led you to suggest exchanging appointments with me in the first place, Miss Wyatt? Had you in fact already Googled him and decided you wanted him for yourself?”

Aren’t we over this?

“Annalise, you wanted to swap appointments! I never suggested anything! I had no idea who he was! So if you feel like you missed out, tough luck. Don’t swap next time!”

For a moment, Annalise says nothing, She’s getting pinker and pinker in the face.

“I know,” she bursts out at last, and bangs a fist to her forehead. “I know! I was so stupid. Why did I swap?”

“So what?” cuts in Ruby firmly. “Annalise, get over it. Magnus obviously wasn’t meant for you, he was meant for Poppy. So what does it matter?”

Annalise is silent. I can tell she isn’t convinced.

“It’s not fair,” she mutters at last. “Do you know how many bankers I’ve massaged at the London Marathon? Do you know how much effort I’ve made?”

Annalise cottoned on to the London Marathon a few years ago, when she was watching it on telly and realized it was stuffed full of fit, motivated guys in their forties, who were probably single because all they did was go running, and, OK, forties was a bit old, but think what kind of salary they must be on.

So she’s been volunteering as an emergency physiotherapist every year since. She makes a beeline for all the attractive men and works their calf muscles or whatever, while fixing them with her huge blue eyes and telling them she’s always supported that charity too.26

To be fair, she’s got lots of dates out of it—one guy even took her to Paris—but nothing long-term or serious, which is what she wants. What she won’t admit, of course, is that she’s extremely picky. She pretends that she wants a “really nice, straightforward guy with good values,” but she’s had several of those desperately in love with her and she dumped them, even the really good-looking actor (his stage play ended and he had no other work coming up). What she’s really after is a guy who looks like he’s out of a Gillette commercial, with a massive salary and/or a title. Preferably both. I think that’s why she’s so mad about losing Magnus, since he’s Dr. She once asked me if he would become Professor one day and I said probably yes, and she went a kind of green.

Ruby scribbles something else down, then screws her pen lid on. “Well, I think we’ve covered the facts. Well done, everyone.”

“Aren’t you going to give her a warning or something?” Annalise is still pouting.

“Oh, fair point.” Ruby nods, then clears her throat. “Poppy, don’t do it again.”

“OK.” I shrug.

“I’ll put that in writing, show it to the inspector; that’ll shut him up. By the way, did I tell you I’ve found the perfect strapless bra to go under my bridesmaid’s dress?” Ruby beams at me, back to her usual cheery self. “Aquamarine satin. It’s lush.”

“Sounds amazing!” I get up and reach for the Costa coffee tray. “Is one of these for me?”

“I got you a flat white,” says Annalise grudgingly. “With nutmeg.”

As I take it, Ruby gives a small gasp. “Poppy! Haven’t you found your ring?”

I look up to see both Annalise and Ruby staring at my left hand.

“No,” I admit reluctantly. “I mean, I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere.”

“Shit.” Annalise has a hand over her mouth.

“I thought you found it.” Ruby is frowning. “I’m sure somebody said you’d found it.”

“No. Not yet.”

I’m really not enjoying their reaction. Neither of them is saying “Not to worry” or “These things happen.” They both look horrified, even Ruby.

“So, what will you do?” Ruby’s brows are knitted.

“What did Magnus say?” chips in Annalise.

“I … ” I take a gulp of flat white, playing for time. “I haven’t told him yet.”

“Sheeesh.” Ruby exhales.

“How much is it worth?” Trust Annalise to ask all the questions I don’t want to think about.

“Quite a bit, I suppose. I mean, there’s always insurance … ” I trail off lamely.

“When are you planning to tell Magnus?” Ruby has her disapproving face on. I hate that face. It makes me feel small and mortified. Like that awful time she caught me giving ultrasound and texting at the same time.27 Ruby is someone you just instinctively want to impress.

“Tonight. Neither of you guys has seen it, have you?” I can’t help asking, even though it’s ridiculous, like they’ll suddenly say, “Oh yes, it’s in my bag!”

They both shrug “no.” Even Annalise is looking sorry for me.

Oh God. This is really bad.

By six o’clock it’s even worse. Annalise has Googled emerald rings.

Did I ask her to do this? No. I did not. Magnus has never told me how much the ring is worth. I asked him, jokingly, when he first put it on my finger, and he joked back that it was priceless, just like me. It was all very romantic and lovely. We were having dinner at Bluebird, and I had no idea he was going to propose. None.28

Anyway, the point is, I never knew what the ring cost and I never wanted to know. At the back of my mind I keep trying out lines to Magnus, like, “Well, I didn’t realize it was so valuable! You should have told me!”

Not that I’d have the nerve to say that. I mean, how dumb would you have to be not to realize that an emerald out of a bank vault is worth something? Still, it’s been quite comforting not to have a precise figure in my head.

But now here’s Annalise, brandishing a sheet of paper she’s printed out from the Internet.29

“Art deco, fine-quality emerald, with baguette diamonds,” she’s reading out. “Estimate twenty-five thousand pounds.”

What? My insides turn to jelly. That can’t be right.

“He wouldn’t have given me anything that expensive.” My voice is a bit shaky. “Academics are poor.”

“He’s not poor! Look at his house! His dad’s a celebrity! Look, this one’s thirty grand.” She holds up another sheet. “It looks exactly like yours. Don’t you think, Ruby?”

I can’t look.

“I never would have let it off my finger,” Annalise adds, arching her eyebrows, and I almost want to hit her.

“You’re the one who wanted to try it on!” I say furiously. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still have it!”

“No, I wasn’t!” she retorts indignantly. “I just tried it on when everyone else did! It was already going round the table.”

“Well, whose idea was it, then?”

I’ve been racking my brains about this again—but if my memory was hazy yesterday, it’s even worse today.

I’m never going to believe a Poirot mystery again. Never. All those witnesses going, “Yes, I remember it was 3:06 pm exactly, because I glanced at the clock as I reached for the sugar tongs, and Lady Favisham was quite clearly sitting on the right-hand side of the fireplace.”

Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Favisham was, they just don’t want to admit it in front of Poirot. I’m amazed he gets anywhere.

“I’ve got to go.” I turn away before Annalise can taunt me with any more expensive rings.

“To tell Magnus?”

“Wedding meeting with Lucinda first. Then Magnus and his family.”

“Let us know what happens. Text us!” Annalise frowns. “Hey, that reminds me, Poppy: How come you changed your number?”

“Oh, that. Well, I went out of the hotel to get a better signal and I was holding out my phone—”

I break off. On second thought, I can’t be bothered to get into the whole story of the mugging and the phone in the bin and Sam Roxton. It’s all too way-out, and I haven’t got the energy.

Instead, I shrug. “You know. Lost my phone. Got another one. See you tomorrow.”

“Good luck, missus.” Ruby pulls me in for a quick hug.

“Text!” I hear Annalise calling after me as I head out the door. “We want hourly updates!”

She would have been great at public executions, Annalise. She would have been the one at the front, jostling for a good view of the ax, already sketching the gory bits to put up on the village notice board, in case anyone missed it.

Or, you know, whatever they did before Facebook.

I don’t know why I bothered rushing, because Lucinda’s late, as always.

In fact, I don’t know why I bothered to have a wedding planner. But I only ever think that thought very quietly to myself, because Lucinda is an old family friend of the Tavishes. Every time I mention her, Magnus says, “Are you two getting along?” in raised, hopeful tones, like we’re two endangered pandas who have to make a baby.

It’s not that I don’t like Lucinda. It’s just that she stresses me out. She sends me all these bulletins by text the whole time, of what she’s doing and where, and keeps telling me what an effort she’s making on my behalf, like the sourcing of the napkins, which was the hugest saga and took her forever and three trips to a fabric warehouse in Walthamstow.

Also, her priorities seem a little screwy. She hired an “IT wedding specialist” at great expense, who set up whizzy things like a text alert system to give all the guests updates30 and a webpage where guests can register what outfit they’re wearing and avoid “unfortunate clashes.”31 But while she was doing all that, she didn’t get back to the caterers we wanted, and we nearly lost them.

We’re meeting in the lobby of Claridge’s—Lucinda loves hotel lobbies; don’t ask me why. I sit there patiently for twenty minutes, drinking weak black tea, wishing I’d canceled, and feeling sicker and sicker at the thought of seeing Magnus’s parents. I’m wondering if I might actually have to go to the ladies’ and be ill—when she suddenly appears, all flying raven hair and Calvin Klein perfume and six mood boards under her arm. Her suede spiky kitten heels are tapping on the marble floor and her pink cashmere coat is billowing out behind her like a pair of wings.

Trailing in her wake is Clemency, her “assistant”. (If an unpaid eighteen-year-old can be called an assistant. I’d call her slave labor.) Clemency is very posh and very sweet and terrified of Lucinda. She answered Lucinda’s ad in The Lady for an intern and keeps telling me how great it is to learn the ropes firsthand from an experienced professional.32

“So, I’ve been talking to the vicar. Those arrangements aren’t going to work. The wretched pulpit has to stay where it is.” Lucinda descends into a chair in a leggy, Joseph-trousered sprawl, and the mood boards slide out of her grasp and all over the floor. “I just don’t know why people can’t be more helpful. I mean, what are we going to do now? And I haven’t heard back from the caterer … ”

I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. I’m suddenly wishing I’d arranged to meet Magnus first, on my own, to tell him about the ring. Then we could have faced his parents together. Is it too late? Could I quickly text him on the way?

“ … and I still haven’t got a trumpeter.” Lucinda exhales sharply, two lacquered nails to her forehead. “There’s so much to do. It’s insane. Insane. It would have helped if Clemency had typed out the order of service properly,” she adds, a little savagely.

Poor Clemency flushes beet-red and I shoot her a sympathetic smile. It’s not her fault she’s severely dyslexic and put hymen instead of hymn and the whole thing had to be redone.

“We’ll get there!” I say encouragingly. “Don’t worry!”

“I’m telling you, after this is over I’m going to need a week in a spa. Have you seen my hands?” Lucinda pushes them toward me. “That’s stress!”

I have no idea what she’s talking about—her hands look perfectly normal to me. But I stare at them obediently.

“You see? Wrecked. All for your wedding, Poppy! Clemency, order me a G&T.”

“Right. Absolutely.” Clemency leaps eagerly to her feet.

I try to ignore a tiny rub of irritation. Lucinda’s always throwing little references like that into the conversation: “All for your wedding.” “Just to make you happy, Poppy!” “The bride’s always right!”

She can sound quite pointed sometimes, which I find disconcerting. I mean, I didn’t ask her to be a wedding planner, did I? And we are paying her quite a lot, aren’t we? But I don’t want to say anything, because she’s Magnus’s old friend and everything.

“Lucinda, I was wondering, have we sorted out the cars yet?” I say tentatively.

There’s an ominous silence. I can tell that a wave of fury is rising inside Lucinda, from the way her nose starts to twitch. At last it erupts, just as poor Clemency arrives back.

“Oh, bloody hell. Oh fucking … Clemency!” She turns her wrath on the trembling girl. “Why didn’t you remind me about the cars? They need cars! We need to hire them!”

“I … ” Clemency looks helplessly at me. “Um … I didn’t know … ”

“There’s always something!” Lucinda is almost talking to herself. “Always something else to think about. It’s endless. However much I run myself into the ground, it goes on and on and on—>”

“Look, shall I do the cars?” I say hastily. “I’m sure I can sort them.”

“Would you?” Lucinda seems to wake up. “Could you do that? It’s just, there’s only one of me, you know, and I have spent the entire week working on details, all for your wedding, Poppy.”

She looks so stressed out, I feel a pang of guilt.

“Yes! No problem. I’ll go on yellow pages or something.”

“How’s your hair coming along, Poppy?” Lucinda suddenly focuses on my head, and I silently will my hair to grow another centimeter, very quickly.

“Not bad! I’m sure it will go in the chignon. Definitely.” I try to sound more positive than I feel.

Lucinda has told me about a hundred times how shortsighted and foolish it was to cut my hair to above the shoulder when I was about to become engaged.33 She also told me at the wedding-dress shop that with my pale skin,34 a white dress would never work and I should wear lime green. For my wedding. Luckily the wedding-dress-shop owner chimed in and said Lucinda was speaking nonsense: My dark hair and eyes would set off the white beautifully. So I chose to believe her instead.

The G&T arrives and Lucinda takes a deep slug. I take another sip of tepid black tea. Poor old Clemency hasn’t got anything, but she looks like she’s trying to blend into her chair and not attract any attention at all.

“And … you were going to find out about confetti?” I add cautiously. “But I can do that too,” I backtrack quickly at Lucinda’s expression. “I’ll phone the vicar.”

“Great!” Lucinda breathes out sharply. “I’d appreciate that! Because there is only one of me and I can only be in one place at once—” She breaks off abruptly as her gaze alights on my hand. “Where’s your ring, Poppy? Oh my God, haven’t you found it yet?”

As she lifts her eyes, she looks so thunderstruck, I start to feel sick again.

“Not yet. But it’ll turn up soon. I’m sure it will. The hotel staff are all looking—”

“And you haven’t told Magnus?”

“I will!” I swallow hard. “Soon.”

“But isn’t it a really important family piece?” Lucinda’s hazel eyes are wide. “Won’t they be livid?”

Is she trying to give me a nervous breakdown?

My phone buzzes and I grab it, grateful for the distraction. Magnus has just sent me a text which dashes my secret hope that his parents would suddenly catch gastric flu and have to cancel:

Dinner at 8, whole family here, can’t wait to see you!

“Is that your new phone?” Lucinda frowns critically at it. “Did you get my forwarded texts?”

“Yes, thanks.” I nod. Only about thirty-five of them, all clogging up my in-box. When she heard I’d lost my phone, Lucinda insisted on forwarding all her recent texts to me, just so I didn’t “drop the ball.” To be fair, it was quite a good idea. I got Magnus to forward all his most recent messages too, and the girls at work.

Ned Murdoch, whoever he is, has also finally contacted Sam. I’ve been looking out for that email all day. I glance at it distractedly, but it doesn’t seem particularly earth-shattering to me. Re: Ellerton’s bid. Sam, hi. A few points. You’ll see from the attachment, blah blah blah.

Anyway, I’d better send it on straightaway. I press forward and make sure it’s gone through. Then I type a quick reply to Magnus, my fingers fumbling with nerves.

Great! Can’t wait to see your parents!!!! So exciting!!!! PS: Could we meet outside first? Something I want to talk about. Just a really tiny thing. Xxxxxxxxx

22 OK, it wasn’t a couple of texts. It was about seven. But I only pressed send on five of them.

23 Poirot would probably have worked it out already.

24 There are only three of us, and we’ve known each other for yonks. So occasionally we lurch off onto other areas like our boyfriends and the Zara sale.

25 Or, rather, her dad did. He already owns a string of photocopy shops.

26 She also completely ignores all the poor women with twisted ankles. If you’re a girl, never do the marathon with Annalise on duty.

27 It was an emergency, in my defense. Natasha had split up with her boyfriend. And it’s not like the patient could see what I was doing. But, yes, I know it was wrong.

28 I know girls say that and what they really mean is, “I gave him an ultimatum and then let him think he’d come up with the idea himself, and six weeks later, bingo.” But it wasn’t like that. I honestly had no idea. Well, you wouldn’t, would you, after a month?

29 Which I bet she did not do in her lunch hour. She should be the one getting the disciplinary hearing.

30 Which we’ve never used.

31 Which no one has registered on.

32 Personally, I’m doubtful about Lucinda’s so-called experience. Whenever I ask her about other weddings she’s done, she refers to only one, which was for another friend and consisted of thirty people in a restaurant. But obviously I never mention this in front of the Tavishes. Or Clemency. Or anyone.

33 Was I supposed to be psychic?

34 “Deathly white,” as she called it.