I've Got Your Number

7

The fake ring’s perfect!

OK, not perfect. It’s a tad smaller than the original. And a bit tinnier. But who’s going to know without the other one to compare? I’ve worn it most of the afternoon and it feels really comfortable. In fact, it’s lighter than the real thing, which is an advantage.

Now I’ve finished my last appointment of the day and am standing with my hands spread out on the reception desk. All the patients have gone, even sweet Mrs. Randall, with whom I’ve just had to be quite firm. I told her not to come back here for two weeks. I told her she was perfectly capable of exercising at home alone, and there was no reason she shouldn’t be back on the tennis court.

Then, of course, it all came out. It turned out she was nervous of letting down her doubles partner, and that’s why she was coming in so often: to give herself confidence. I told her she was absolutely ready and I wanted her to text me her next score before she came back to see me. I said if it came to it, I’d play tennis with her, at which point she laughed and said I was right, she was being nonsensical.

Then, when she’d gone, Angela told me that Mrs. Randall is some shit-hot player who once played in Junior Wimbledon. Yowser. Probably a good thing we didn’t play, since I can’t even hit a backhand.

Angela’s gone home too now. It’s just Annalise, Ruby, and me, we’re surveying the ring in silence except for a spring storm outside. One minute it was a bright breezy day; the next, rain was hammering at the windows.

“Excellent.” Ruby is nodding energetically. Her hair is up in a ponytail today, and it bounces as she nods. “Very good. You’d never know.”

“I’d know,” Annalise retorts at once. “It’s not the same green.”

“Really?” I peer at it in dismay.

“The question is, how observant is Magnus?” Ruby raises her eyebrows. “Does he ever look at it?”

“I don’t think so …”

“Well, maybe keep your hands away from him for a while, to be on the safe side.”

“Keep my hands away from him? How do I do that?”

“You’ll have to restrain yourself!” says Annalise tartly. “It can’t be that hard.”

“How about his parents?” says Ruby.

“They’re bound to want to see it. We’re meeting in the church, so the lights will be pretty dim, but even so … ” I bite my lip, suddenly nervous. “Oh God. Does it look real?”

“Yes!” says Ruby at once.

“No,” says Annalise, equally firmly. “Sorry, but it doesn’t. Not if you look carefully.”

“Well, don’t let them!” says Ruby. “If they start looking too closely, create a diversion.”

“Like what?”

“Faint? Pretend to have a fit? Tell them you’re pregnant?”

“Pregnant?” I stare at her, wanting to laugh. “Are you nuts?”

“I’m only trying to help,” she says defensively. “Maybe they’d like you to be pregnant. Maybe Wanda’s gunning to be a granny.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No way. She’d freak out.”

“Perfect! Then she won’t look at the ring. She’ll be too consumed with rage.” Ruby nods in satisfaction, as though she’s solved all my problems.

“I don’t want a raging mother-in-law, thanks very much!”

“She’ll be raging either way,” Annalise points out. “You just have to decide which is worse: pregnant daughter-in-law or flaky daughter-in-law who lost the priceless heirloom ring? I’d say go with pregnant.”

“Stop it! I’m not saying I’m pregnant!” I look at the ring again and rub the fake emerald. “I think it’ll be fine,” I say, as much to convince myself as anything. “It’ll be fine.”

“Is that Magnus?” says Ruby suddenly. “Across the street?”

I follow her gaze. There he is, holding an umbrella against the rain, waiting for the traffic lights to change.

“Shit.” I leap to my feet and clasp my right hand casually over my left. No. Too unnatural. I thrust my left hand into my uniform pocket, but and my arm is left sticking out at an awkward angle.

“Bad.” Ruby is watching. “Really bad.”

“What shall I dooo?” I wail.

“Hand cream.” She reaches for a tube. “Come on. I’m giving you a manicure. Then you can leave a bit of the cream on. Accidentally on purpose.”

“Genius.” I glance over at Annalise and blink in surprise. “Er … Annalise? What are you doing?”

In the thirty seconds since Ruby spotted Magnus, Annalise seems to have applied a fresh layer of lip gloss and sprayed scent on, and is now pulling a few sexy strands of hair out of her ballerina’s bun.

“Nothing!” she says defiantly, as Ruby starts rubbing cream into my hands.

I only have time to dart her a suspicious look before the door opens and Magnus appears, shaking water from his umbrella.

“Hello, girls!” He beams around as though we’re an appreciative audience waiting for his entrance. Which I suppose we are.

“Magnus! Let me take your coat.” Annalise has rushed forward. “It’s OK, Poppy. You’re having your manicure. I’ll do it. And maybe a cup of tea?”

Ooh. Typical. I watch as she slides Magnus’s linen jacket from his shoulders. Isn’t she doing that a bit slowly and lingeringly? Why does he need to take his jacket off, anyway? We’re about to go.

“We’re nearly finished.” I glance at Ruby. “Aren’t we?”

“No hurry,” says Magnus. “Plenty of time.” He looks around the reception and breathes in, as though appreciating some beautiful vista. “Mmmm. I remember coming here the first time as though it were yesterday. You remember, Pops? God, that was amazing, wasn’t it?” He meets my eye with a suggestive glint and I hastily telegraph back, Shut up, you idiot. He is going to get me in so much trouble.

“How’s your wrist, Magnus?” Annalise is approaching him with a cup of tea from the machine. “Did Poppy ever give you a three-month follow-up appointment?”

“No.” He looks taken aback. “Should she have done?”

“Your wrist’s fine,” I say firmly.

“Shall I take a look?” Annalise is ignoring me completely. “Poppy shouldn’t be giving you therapy now, you know. Conflict of interests.” She takes his wrist. “Where was the pain exactly? Here?” She unbuttons his cuff, moving up his arm. “Here?” Her voice deepens slightly and she bats her eyelashes at him. “What about … here?”

OK. This is the limit.

“Thanks, Annalise!” I beam brightly at her. “But we’d better be going to the church. For the meeting about our wedding,” I add pointedly.

“About that.” Magnus frowns briefly. “Poppy, can we have a quick chat? Maybe go into your room a moment?”

“Oh.” I feel a flicker of foreboding. “OK.”

Even Annalise looks taken aback, and Ruby raises her eyebrows.

“Cuppa, Annalise?” she says. “We’ll just be out here. No rush.”

As I usher Magnus in, my mind is skittering in panic. He knows about the ring. The Scrabble. Everything. He’s having cold feet. He wants a wife he can talk to about Proust.

“Can you lock the door?” He fiddles with the catch and after a moment has secured it. “There. Excellent!” As he turns, there’s an unmistakable light in his eyes. “God, Poppy, you look hot.”

It takes about five seconds for the penny to drop.

“What? No. Magnus, you have to be joking.”

He’s heading toward me with an intent, familiar expression. No way. I mean, no way.

“Stop!” I bat him away as he reaches for the top button of my uniform. “I’m at work!”

“I know.” He closes his eyes briefly as though in some paroxysm of bliss. “I don’t know what it is about this place. Your uniform, maybe. All that white.”

“Well, too bad.”

“You know you want to.” He nibbles one of my earlobes. “Come on … ”

Damn him for knowing about my earlobes. For a moment—only a moment—I slightly lose my focus. But then, as he makes another salvo on my uniform buttons, I snap back into reality. Ruby and Annalise are three feet away on the other side of the door.61 This cannot happen.

“No! Magnus, I thought you wanted to talk about something serious! The wedding or something!”

“Why would I want to do that?” He’s pressing the button which reclines the couch all the way down. “Mmm. I remember this bed.”

“It’s not a bed, it’s a professional couch!”

“Is that massage oil?” He’s reached for a nearby bottle.

“Shhh!” I hiss. “Ruby’s right outside! I’ve already had one disciplinary hearing—”

“What’s this thing? Ultrasound?” He’s grabbed the ultrasound wand. “I bet we could have some fun with this. Does it heat up?” His eyes suddenly glint. “Does it vibrate?”

This is like having a toddler to control.

“We can’t! I’m sorry.” I step away, putting the couch between him and me. “We can’t. We just can’t.” I smooth down my uniform.

For a moment Magnus looks so sulky I think he might shout at me.

I’m sorry,” I say again. “But it’s like asking you to have sex with a student. You’d get fired. Your career would be over!”

Magnus seems about to contradict me—then thinks better of whatever he was about to say.

“Well, great.” He gives a grumpy shrug. “Really great. What are we supposed to do instead?”

“We could do loads of things!” I say brightly. “Have a chat? Go through wedding stuff? Only eight more days to go!”

Magnus doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. His lack of enthusiasm is emanating from him like some kind of psychic force.

“Or have a drink?” I suggest at last. “We’ve got time to go to the pub before the meeting.”

“All right,” he says heavily at last. “Let’s go to the pub.”

“We’ll come back here,” I say coaxingly. “Another day. Maybe at a weekend.”

What the hell am I promising? Oh God. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

As we head out of the room, Ruby and Annalise look up artificially from magazines they obviously haven’t been reading.

“Everything OK?” says Ruby.

“Yes, great!” I smooth my skirt. “Just … wedding chitchat. Veils, almonds, that kind of thing… . Anyway, we’d better be off.”

I’ve glimpsed my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are bright scarlet and I’m talking nonsense. Total giveaway.

“Hope it goes well.” Ruby glances meaningfully at the ring, then at me.

“Thanks.”

“Text us!” chips in Annalise. “Whatever happens. We’ll be dying to know!”

The thing to remember is, the ring fooled Magnus. And if it fooled him, surely it’ll fool his parents? As we arrive at St. Edmund’s Parish Church, I feel more optimistic than I have for ages. St. Edmund’s is a big, grand church in Marylebone. In fact we chose it because it’s so beautiful. As we head inside, someone’s practicing a flashy piece on the organ. There are pink and white flowers for another wedding decorating all the pews and a general air of expectancy.

I suddenly feel a tingle of excitement. In eight days, that’ll be us! A week from tomorrow, the place will be festooned with white silk and posies. All my friends and family will be waiting excitedly. The trumpeter will be in the organ loft and I’ll be in my dress and Magnus will be standing at the altar in his designer waistcoat.62 It’s really, really happening!

I can already see Wanda inside the church, peering at some old statue. As she turns, I force myself to wave confidently, as though everything’s great and we’re the best of friends and they don’t intimidate me at all.

Magnus is right, I tell myself. I’ve been overreacting. I’ve let them get to me. They probably can’t wait to welcome me into the family.

After all, I beat them all at Scrabble, didn’t I?

“Just think.” I clutch Magnus’s arm. “Not long now!”

“Hello?” Magnus answers his phone, which must be on vibrate. “Oh, hi, Neil.”

Great. Neil is Magnus’s keenest undergraduate and is writing a thesis on symbols in the work of Coldplay.63 They’ll be on the phone for hours. Mouthing apologetically, he disappears out of the church.

You’d think he could have turned his phone off. I’ve turned mine off.

Anyway, never mind.

“Hello!” I exclaim as Wanda comes down the aisle. “Good to see you! Isn’t this exciting?”

I’m not exactly proffering my ring hand. But neither am I hiding it. It’s neutral. It’s the Switzerland of hands.

“Poppy.” Wanda does a dramatic swoop toward my cheek. “Dear girl. Now, let me introduce Paul. Where’s he got to? How is your burn, by the way?”

For a moment I can’t move.

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?

“I haven’t quite got to the McDowell book yet.” I clear my throat. “Although obviously it’s on my reading list.”

“I believe Stoicism has often been misunderstood as a philosophy, isn’t that right, Poppy?”

“Absolutely.” I nod, trying to look as knowledgeable as possible. “It’s completely misunderstood. Very much so.”

“The Stoics weren’t emotionless, as I understand it.” He gestures with his hands as though lecturing to three hundred people. “They simply valued the virtue of fortitude. Apparently they displayed such impassiveness to hostility that their aggressors wondered if they were made of stone.”

“Extraordinary!” says Paul with a laugh.

“That’s correct, isn’t it, Poppy?” Antony turns to me. “When the Gauls attacked Rome, the old senators sat in the forum, calmly waiting. The attackers were so taken aback by their dispassionate attitude, they thought they must be statues. One Gaul even tugged the beard of a senator, to check.”

“Quite right.” I nod confidently. “That’s exactly it.”

As long as Antony just keeps talking and I keep nodding, then I’ll be OK.

“Fascinating! And what happened next?” Paul turns expectantly to me.

I glance at Antony for the answer—but he’s waiting for me too. And so is Wanda.

Three eminent professors. All waiting for me to tell them about Greek philosophy.

“Well!” I pause thoughtfully, as though wondering where to begin. “Well, now. It was … interesting. In many, many ways. For philosophy. And for Greece. And for history. And humanity. One could, in fact, say that this was the most significant moment in Greek … ness.” I come to a finish, hoping no one will realize I haven’t actually answered the question.

There’s a puzzled pause.

“But what happened?” says Wanda, a little impatiently.

“Oh, the senators were massacred, of course,” says Antony with a shrug. “But what I wanted to ask you, Poppy, was—”

’That’s a lovely painting!” I cry desperately, pointing to a picture hanging on a pillar. “Look over there!”

“Ah, now, that is an interesting piece.” He wanders over to have a look.

The great thing about Antony is, he’s so curious about everything, he’s quite easily distracted.

“I need to check something on my calendar,” I say hastily. “I’ll just … ”

My legs are shaking slightly as I escape to a nearby pew. This is a disaster. Now I’ll now have to pretend to be a Greek philosophy expert for the rest of my life. Every Christmas and family gathering, I’ll have to have a view on Greek philosophy. Not to mention be able to recite Robert Burns’s poetry.

I should never, ever have cheated. This is karma. This is my punishment.

Anyway, too late. I did.

I’m going to have to start taking notes. I take out my phone, open a new email, and start typing notes to myself.

THINGS TO DO BEFORE WEDDING

1. Become expert on Greek philosophy.

2. Memorize Robert Burns poems.

3. Learn long Scrabble words.

4. Remember: am HYPOCHONDRIAC.

5. Beef stroganoff. Get to like. (Hypnosis?)64

I look at the list for a few moments. It’s fine. I can be that person. It’s not that different from me.

“Well, of course, you know my views on art in churches.” Antony’s voice is ringing out. “Absolutely scandalous … ”

I shrink down out of view, before anyone can drag me into the conversation. Everyone knows Antony’s views on art in churches, mostly because he’s the founder of a national campaign to turn churches into art galleries and get rid of all the vicars. A few years ago he was on TV and said, “Treasures such as these should not be left in the hands of Philistines.” It got repeated everywhere, and there was a big fuss and headlines like PROFESSOR DUBS CLERICS PHILISTINES65 and PROF DISSES REVS (that one was in The Sun).

I wish he’d keep his voice down. What if the vicar hears him? It’s not exactly tactful.

Now I can hear him laying into the order of service.

“Dearly beloved.” He gives that sarcastic little laugh. “Beloved by whom? Beloved by the stars and the cosmos? Does anyone expect us to believe that some beneficent being is up there, loving us? In the sight of God. I ask you, Wanda! Absolute weak-minded nonsense.”

I suddenly see the vicar of the church walking up the aisle toward us. He’s obviously heard Antony, from his glowering expression. Yikes.

“Good evening, Poppy.”

I hastily leap up from my pew. “Good evening, Reverend Fox! How are you? We were just saying … how lovely the church looks.” I smile lamely.

“Indeed,” he says frostily.

“Have you … ” I swallow. “Have you met my future father-in-law? Professor Antony Tavish.”

Thankfully, Antony shakes hands quite pleasantly with Reverend Fox, but there’s still a prickly atmosphere.

“So, you’re doing a reading, Professor Tavish,” says Reverend Fox after he’s checked a few other details. “From the Bible?”

“Hardly.” Antony’s eyes glitter at the vicar.

“I thought not.” The Reverend Fox smiles back aggressively. “Not really your ‘bag,’ shall we say.”

Oh God. You can feel the animosity crackling through the air between them. Should I make a joke, lighten the atmosphere?

Maybe not.

Reverend Fox checks his notes. “And, Poppy, you’ll be given away by your brothers?”

“That’s right.” I nod. “Toby and Tom. They’re going to lead me down the aisle, either side.”

“Your brothers!” chimes in Paul with interest. “That’s a nice idea. But why not your father?”

“Because my father is … ” I hesitate. “Well, actually, both my parents are dead.”

And, like night follows day, here it is. The awkward pause. I stare at the stone floor, counting down the seconds, waiting patiently for it to pass.

How many awkward pauses have I caused in the last ten years? It’s always the same. No one knows where to look. No one knows what to say. At least this time no one’s trying to give me a hug.

“My dear girl,” says Paul, in consternation. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine!” I cut him off brightly. “Really. It was an accident. Ten years ago. I don’t talk about it. I don’t think about it. Not anymore.”

I smile at him as off-puttingly as I can. I’m not getting into this. I never do get into it. It’s all folded up in my mind. Packaged away.

No one wants to hear stories about bad things. That’s the truth. I remember that my tutor at college once asked me if I was all right and if I wanted to talk. The moment I started, he said, “You mustn’t lose your confidence, Poppy!” in this brisk way that meant “Actually I don’t want to hear about this, please stop now.”

There was a counseling group. But I didn’t go. It clashed with hockey practice. Anyway, what’s there to talk about? My parents died. My aunt and uncle took us in. My cousins had left home anyway, so they had the bedrooms and everything.

It happened. There’s nothing else to say.

“Beautiful engagement ring, Poppy,” says Reverend Fox at last, and everyone seizes on the distraction.

“Isn’t it lovely? It’s an antique.”

“It’s a family piece,” puts in Wanda.

“Very special.” Paul pats my hand kindly. “An absolute one-off.”

The back door opens with a clang of iron bolts. “Sorry I’m late,” comes a familiar piercing voice. “It’s been a bugger of a day.”

Striding up the aisle, holding several bags full of silk, is Lucinda. She’s wearing a beige shift dress and massive sunglasses on her head and looks hassled. “Reverend Fox! Did you get my email?”

“Yes, Lucinda,” says Reverend Fox wearily. “I did. I’m afraid the church pillars cannot be sprayed silver under any circumstances.”

Lucinda stops dead, and a bolt of gray silk starts unraveling, all the way down the aisle.

“They can’t? Well, what am I supposed to do? I promised the florist silver columns!” She sinks down on a nearby pew. “This bloody wedding! If it’s not one thing it’s another—”

“Don’t worry, Lucinda, dear,” says Wanda, swooping down on her fondly. “I’m sure you’re doing a marvelous job. How’s your mother?”

“Oh, she’s fine.” Lucinda waves a hand. “Not that I ever see her. I’m up to my eyes with it—where is that dratted Clemency?”

“I’ve booked the cars, by the way,” I say quickly. “All done. And the confetti. I was also wondering, shall I book some rosebuds for the ushers’ buttonholes?”

“If you could,” she says a little tetchily. “I would appreciate it.” She looks up and seems to take me in properly for the first time. “Oh, Poppy. One piece of good news: I’ve got your ring! It was caught on the lining of my bag.”

She pulls out the emerald ring and holds it out. I’m so blindsided, all I can do is blink.

The real ring. My real, vintage, priceless emerald engagement ring. Right there, in front of my eyes.

How did she—

What the hell—

I can’t bring myself to look at anybody else. Even so, I’m aware of glances of astonishment all around me, crisscrossing like laser beams, moving from my fake ring to the real one and back again.

“I don’t quite understand—” begins Paul at last.

“What’s up, everyone?” Magnus is striding up the aisle, taking in the tableau. “Someone seen a ghost? The Holy Ghost?” He laughs at his own joke, but no one joins in.

“If that’s the ring”—Wanda seems to have found her voice—“then what’s that?” She points at the fake on my finger, which of course now looks like something out of a fairground machine.

My throat is so tight I can hardly breathe. Somehow I have to save this situation. Somehow. They must never know I lost the ring.

“Yes! I … thought you’d be surprised!” Somehow I find some words; somehow I muster a smile. I feel as though I’m walking over a bridge which I’m having to construct myself as I go, out of playing cards. “I actually … had a replica made!” I try to sound casual. “Because I lent the original to Lucinda.”

I look at her desperately, willing her to go along with this. Thankfully she seems to have realized what a faux pas she’s committed.

“Yes!” she joins in quickly. “That’s right. I borrowed the ring for … for—”

“—for design reasons.”

“Yes! We thought the ring could be inspiration for—”

“—the napkin rings,” I grasp from nowhere. “Emerald napkin rings! Which we didn’t go with in the end,” I add carefully.

There’s silence. I pluck up the courage to look around.

Wanda’s face is creased deeply with a frown. Magnus looks perplexed. Paul has taken a step backward from the group, as though to say, “Nothing to do with me.”

“So thanks very much.” I take the ring from Lucinda with trembling hands. “I’ll just … put that back on.”

I’ve crashed onto the far bank and am clinging to the grass. Made it. Thank God.

But as I rip the fake ring off, drop it into my bag, and slide the real thing on, my mind is in overdrive. How come Lucinda had the ring? What about Mrs. Fairfax? What the fuck is going on?

“Why exactly did you have a replica made, sweets?” Magnus looks totally baffled.

I stare at him, desperately trying to think. Why would I have gone to all the trouble and expense of making a fake ring?

“Because I thought it would be nice to have two,” I venture feebly after a pause.

Oh God. No. Bad. I should have said, “For travel.”

“You wanted two rings?” Wanda seems almost speechless.

“Well, I hope that desire won’t apply to your husband as well as your engagement ring!” Antony says, with heavy humor. “Eh, Magnus?”

“Ha-ha-ha!” I give a loud, sycophantic laugh. “Ha-ha-ha! Very good! Anyway.” I turn to Reverend Fox, trying to hide my desperation. “Shall we crack on?”

Half an hour later, my legs are still shaking. I’ve never experienced such a near-miss in my life. I’m not sure Wanda believes me. She keeps shooting me suspicious looks, plus she’s asked me how much the replica ring cost and where I had it made, and all sorts of questions I really didn’t want to answer.

What does she think? That I was going to sell the original or something?

We’ve practiced me coming up the aisle, and going back down the aisle together, and worked out where we’ll kneel and sign the register. And now the vicar has suggested a run-through of the vows.

But I can’t. I just can’t say those magical words with Antony there, making clever-clever comments and mocking every phrase. It’ll be different in the wedding. He’ll have to shut up.

““Magnus.” I pull him aside with a whisper. “Let’s not do our vows today after all. Not with your father here. They’re too special to ruin.”

“OK.” He looks surprised. “I don’t mind either way.”

“Let’s just say them once. On the day.” I squeeze his hand. “For real.”

Even without Antony, I don’t want to preempt the big moment, I realize. I don’t want to rehearse. It’ll take the specialness out of it all.

“Yes, I agree.” Magnus nods. “So … are we done now?”

“No, we’re not done!” says Lucinda, sounding outraged. “Far from it! I want Poppy to walk up the aisle again. You went far too fast for the music.”

“OK.” I shrug, heading to the back of the church.

“Organ, please!” shrieks Lucinda. “Or-gan! From the top! Glide smoothly, Poppy,” she says as I pass. “You’re wobbling! Clemency, where are those cups of tea?”

Clemency is just back from a Costa run, and I can see her out of the corner of my eye, hastily tearing open sachets of sugar and milk.

“I’ll help!” I say, and break off from gliding. “What can I do?”

“Thanks,” whispers Clemency as I come over. “Antony wants three sugars, Magnus is the cappuccino, Wanda has the biscotti … ”

“Where’s my double-chocolate extra-cream muffin?” I say with a puzzled frown, and Clemency jumps sky-high in the air.

“I didn’t—I can go back—”

“Joke!” I say. “Just joking!”

The longer Clemency works for Lucinda, the more like a terrified rabbit she looks. It really can’t be good for her health.

Lucinda takes her tea (milk, no sugar) with the briefest of nods. She seems totally hassled again and has laid a massive spreadsheet printout across the pews. It’s such a mess of highlighter and scribbled notes and Post-it notes, I’m amazed she’s organized anything.

“Oh God, oh God,” she’s saying under her breath. “Where’s the fucking florist’s number?” She riffles through a bundle of papers, then clasps her hair despairingly. “Clemency!”

“Shall I Google it for you?” I suggest.

“Clemency will Google it. Clemency!” Poor Clemency starts so badly, tea slops out of one of the cups.

“I’ll take that,” I say hastily, and relieve her of the Costa tray.

“If you could, that would be helpful.” Lucinda exhales sharply. “Because you know, we are all here for your benefit, Poppy. And the wedding is only a week away. And there is still an awful lot to do.”

“I know,” I say awkwardly. “Um … sorry.”

I have no idea where Magnus and his parents have got to, so I head toward the back of the church, holding the Costa tray full of cups, trying to glide, imagining myself in my veil.

“Ridiculous!” I hear Wanda’s muffled voice first. “Far too fast.”

I look around uncertainly—then realize it’s coming from behind a heavy closed wooden door to the side of the church. They must be in the antechapel.

“Everyone knows … Attitude to marriage … ” That’s Magnus speaking—but the door is so thick I can catch only the odd word.

“ … not about marriage per se!” Wanda’s voice is suddenly raised. “ … pair of you! … just can’t understand … ”

“Quite misguided … ” Antony’s voice is like a bassoon chiming in.

I’m rooted to the spot, ten yards away from the door, holding the Costa coffee tray. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop. But I can’t stop myself.

“ … admit it, Magnus … complete mistake …”

“ … cancel. Not too late. Better now than a messy divorce … ”

I swallow hard. My hands are trembling around the tray. What am I hearing? What was that word, divorce?

I’m probably misinterpreting, I tell myself. It’s only a few stray words, they could mean anything.

“Well, we’re getting married, whatever you say! So you might as well bloody like it!” Magnus’s voice soars out, clear as a bell.

A chill settles on me. It’s quite hard to find an alternative interpretation of that.

There’s some rumbling reply from Antony, then Magnus yells again, “ … will not end in bloody disaster!”

I feel a swell of love for Magnus. He sounds so furious. A moment later there’s a rattling at the door, and in a flash I backtrack about ten steps. As he emerges, I walk forward again, trying to look relaxed.

“Hi! Cup of tea?” Somehow I manage a natural tone. “Everything all right? I wondered where you’d got to!”

“Fine.” He smiles affectionately and snakes an arm around my waist.

He’s giving no hint that he was just yelling at his parents. I never realized he was such a good actor. He should go into politics.

“I’ll take those in to my parents, actually.” He quickly removes the tray from my grasp. “They’re … er … looking at the art.”

“Great!” I manage a smile, but my chin is wobbling. They’re not looking at the art. They’re telling each other what a terrible choice their son has made for a wife. They’re making bets that we’ll be divorced within a year.

As Magnus emerges from the antechapel again, I take a deep breath, feeling sick with nerves.

“So … what do your parents make of all this?” I say as lightly as I can manage. “I mean, your father’s not really into church, is he? Or … or … marriage, even.”

I’ve given him the perfect cue to tell me. It’s all set up. But Magnus shrugs sulkily.

“They’re OK.”

I sip my tea a few times, staring miserably at the ancient stone floor, willing myself to pursue it. I should contradict him. I should say, “I heard you arguing.” I should have it out with him.

But … I can’t do it. I’m not brave enough. I don’t want to hear the truth—that his parents think I’m crap.

“Just got to check an email.” Is it my imagination or is Magnus avoiding my gaze?

“Me too.” I peel away from him miserably and go to sit by myself on a side pew. For a few moments I hunch my shoulders, trying to resist the urge to cry. At last I reach for my phone and switch it on. I might as well catch up with some stuff. I haven’t looked at it for hours. As I switch it on, I almost recoil at the number of buzzes and flashes and bleeps which greet me. How many messages have I missed? I quickly text the concierge at the Berrow Hotel, telling him he can call off the search for the ring, and thanking him for his time. Then I turn my attention to the messages.

Top of the pile is a text from Sam, which arrived about twenty minutes ago:

On way to Germany over weekend. Heading to mountainous region. Will be off radar for a bit.

Seeing his name fills me with a longing to talk to someone, and I text back:

Hi there. Sounds cool. Why Germany?

There’s no reply, but I don’t care; it’s cathartic just to type.

So much for fake ring. Did not work. Was found out and now M’s parents think I’m a weirdo.

For a moment I wonder whether to tell him that Lucinda had the ring and ask him what he thinks. But … no. It’s too complicated. He won’t want to get into it. I send the text—then realize he might think I’m having a go at him. Quickly I type a follow-up:

Thx for help, anyway. Appreciate it.

Maybe I should have a look at his in-box. I’ve been neglecting it. There are so many emails with the same subject heading, I find myself squinting at the screen in puzzlement—till it dawns on me. Of course. Everyone’s responded to my invitation to send in ideas! These are all the replies!

For the first time this afternoon, I feel a small glow of pride in myself. If one of these people has come up with a groundbreaking idea and revolutionizes Sam’s company, then it will all be down to me.

I click on the first one, full of anticipation.

Dear Sam,

I think we should have yoga at lunchtimes, funded by the company, and several others agree with me.

Best,

Sally Brewer.

I frown uncertainly. It’s not exactly what I was expecting, but I suppose yoga is a good idea.

OK, next one.

Dear Sam,

Thanks for your email. You asked for honesty. The rumor among our department is that this so-called ideas exercise is a weeding-out process. Why not just be honest yourself and tell us if we’re going to be fired?

Kind regards,

Tony

I blink in astonishment. What?

OK, that’s just a ridiculous reaction. He’s got to be a nutter. I quickly scroll down to the next one.

Dear Sam,

Is there a budget for this “new ideas’ program you’ve launched? A few team leaders are asking.

Thanks,

Chris Davies

That’s another ridiculous reaction. A budget? Who needs a budget for ideas?

Sam,

What the fuck is going on? Next time you feel like announcing a new staff initiative, would you mind consulting the other directors?

Malcolm

The next is even more to the point:

Sam,

What’s this all about? Thanks for the heads-up. Not.

Vicks

I feel a twinge of guilt. It never occurred to me that I might get Sam into trouble with his colleagues. But surely everyone will see the beneficial side as soon as the ideas start flooding in.

Dear Sam,

The word is that you’re appointing a new “ideas czar.” You may recall that this was my idea, which I raised in a departmental meeting three years ago. I find it a little rich that my initiative has been appropriated and very much hope that when the appointment is made, I will be at the top of the short list.

Otherwise, I fear I will have to make a complaint to a more senior level.

Best,

Martin

What?

Dear Sam,

Will we be having a special presentation of all our ideas? Could you please let me know the time limit on a PowerPoint presentation? May we work as teams?

Best wishes,

Mandy

There. You see? A brilliant, positive reaction. Teamwork! Presentations! This is fantastic!

Dear Sam,

Sorry to bother you again.

If we don’t want to work in a team after all, will we be penalized? I have fallen out with my team, but now they know all my ideas, which is totally unfair.

Just so you know, I had the idea about restructuring the marketing department first. Not Carol.

Best,

Mandy

OK. Well, obviously you have to expect a few glitches. It doesn’t matter. It’s still a positive result …

Dear Sam,

I’m sorry to do this, but I wish to make a formal complaint about the behavior of Carol Hanratty.

She has behaved totally unprofessionally in the new-ideas exercise, and I am forced to take the rest of the day off, due to my great distress. Judy is also too distressed to work for the rest of the day, and we are thinking of contacting our union.

Best,

Mandy

What? What?

Dear Sam,

Forgive the long email. You ask for ideas.

Where to start?

I have worked at this company for fifteen years, during which time a long process of disillusionment has silted up my very veins, until my mental processes …

This guy’s email is about fifteen pages long. I drop my phone into my lap, my jaw slack.

I can’t believe all these replies. I never ever meant to cause all this kerfuffle. Why are people so stupid? Why do they have to fight? What on earth have I stirred up?

I’ve read only the first few emails. There are about thirty more to go. If I forward all these to Sam, and he steps off the plane in Germany and gets them in one fell swoop … I suddenly hear his voice again: round-robin emails are the work of the devil.

And I sent one out in his name. To the whole company. Without consulting him.

Oh God. I’m really wishing I could go back in time. It seemed like such a great idea. What was I thinking? All I know is, I can’t land this on him out of the blue. I need to explain it all to him first. Tell him what I was trying to achieve.

My mind is ticking over now. I mean, he’s in a plane. He’s off-radar. And it’s Friday night, after all. There’s no point forwarding anything to him. Maybe everyone will have calmed down by Monday. Yes.

The phone suddenly bleeps with a text and I jump, startled.

Taking off. Anything I need to know about? Sam

I stare at the phone, my heart beating with slight paranoia. Does he need to know about this right at this very moment? Does he need to?

No. He does not.

Not right now. Have a good trip! Poppy

61 In fact, probably pressing a glass up to it.

62 His waistcoat cost nearly the same amount as my dress.

63 I think cymbals in the work of Coldplay would make more sense, but what do I know?

64 Wanda made beef stroganoff for us the first time I met her. How could I tell her the truth, which is that it makes me gag?

65 He was on Newsnight and everything. According to Magnus, Antony loved all the attention, although he pretended he didn’t. He’s been saying even more-controversial things ever since, but none has ever taken off like the Philistines thing.