Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

        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.

14

         After Lucinda’s gone, I stand motionless for about three minutes solid, in a state of

shock. Then, abruptly, I come to. I head for the stairwell and down the stairs. As I step out of the

building I switch off my phone. I can’t afford any distractions. I need to think. I need to be alone.

Like Lucinda said, I need to work this out for myself.

         I start walking along the pavement, not caring which direction I’m going. My mind is

circling around all the facts, the guesses, the speculation, and back to the facts. But gradually, as

I walk, thoughts seem to settle into place. My resolve hardens. I have a plan.

         I don’t know where my sudden determination has come from: whether Lucinda has

spurred me on or whether I’ve just had enough of avoiding confrontation while my stomach ties

itself up in knots. But I’m going to face this one down. I’m going to do it. The weirdest thing is, I

keep hearing Sam’s voice in my ear, reassuring me and bolstering me and telling me I can do it.

It’s as if he’s giving me a pep talk, even though he’s not here. And it’s making me stand taller.

It’s making me feel like I can do this. I’m going to be a Whole New Poppy.

         As I reach the corner of Battersea Rise, I feel ready. I haul out my phone, turn it on, and,

without reading a single new message, speed-dial Magnus. Of course he doesn’t answer, but I

expected that.

         “Hi, Magnus,” I say in the most crisp, businesslike tones I can muster. “Can you call me

as soon as possible? We need to talk.”

         OK. Good. That was dignified. A brief, cutting message that he will understand. Now

ring off.

         Ring off, Poppy.

         But I can’t. My hand feels welded to the phone. While I’m connected to him, or even just

to his voice mail, I can feel my defenses coming down. I want to talk. I want to hear from him. I

want him to know how shocked and hurt I am.

         “Because … I’ve heard some news, OK?” I hear myself continuing. “I’ve been speaking

to your great friend Lucinda.” I give Lucinda an angry little emphasis. “And what she told me

was a bit of a shock, to say the least, so I think we need to talk as soon as possible. Because

unless you’ve got some great, marvelous explanation, which I can’t think how you would,

because was Lucinda lying? Because someone must be lying, Magnus. Someone must be—”

         Beep.

         Damn, I got cut off.

         As I turn off my phone again, I’m cursing myself. So much for the brief, cutting message.

So much for a Whole New Poppy. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.

         Still, never mind. At least I made the call. At least I didn’t sit with my hands over my

ears, avoiding the whole thing. And now to the next thing on my mental list. I step into the road,

lift my hand, and flag down a cab.

         “Hi,” I say as I get in. “I’d like to go to Hampstead, please.”

         I know Wanda’s in today, because she said she was preparing for some radio show she’s

doing tonight. And, sure enough, as I draw up to the house, music is blasting out of the windows.

I have no idea if Antony is there too, but I don’t care. They can both hear this. As I approach the

house, I’m trembling, like I was the other night—but in a different way. In a positive way. In a

bring-it-on way.

         “Poppy!” As Wanda swings the door open, she beams widely. “What a lovely surprise!”

She swoops in for a kiss, then studies my face again. “Have you just dropped round to be

sociable, or was there anything—”

         “We need to talk.”

         There’s a brief moment of silence between us. I can tell she understands that I don’t mean

a jolly chitchat.

         “I see. Well, come in!” She smiles again, but I can see anxiety in the downward slant of

her eyes and the faint crinkling of her mouth. She has a very expressive face, Wanda: Her

English-rose skin is pale and fragile, like tissue paper, and the lines round her eyes crease in a

myriad of different ways according to her mood. I guess that’s what happens when you have no

Botox, makeup, or fake tan. You have expressions instead. “Shall I put on some coffee?”

         “Why not?” I follow her into the kitchen, which is about ten times as messy as it was

when I was living here with Magnus. I can’t help wrinkling my nose at a bad smell in the

air—which I guess is the bunch of flowers still in paper, gently rotting on the counter. A man’s

shoe is in the sink, along with a hairbrush, and there are huge piles of old cardboard folders on

every chair.

         “Ah.” Wanda gestures vaguely around as though hoping one of the chairs might

magically clear itself. ’We were having a sort-out. To what extent does one archive? That’s the

question.”

         Once upon a time I would have hastily cast around for something intelligent to say about

archives. But now I face her square-on and say bluntly, “Actually, there’s something else I want

to talk to you about.”

         “Indeed,” says Wanda after a pause. “I rather thought there might be. Let’s sit down.”

         She grabs a pile of folders off a chair, to reveal a large fish wrapped in fishmonger’s

paper. OK. So that was the smell.

         “That’s where that went. Extraordinary.” She frowns, hesitates a moment, then puts the

folders back on top of it. “Let’s try the drawing room.”

         I sit down on one of the bumpy sofas, and Wanda draws up an ancient

needlepoint-embroidered chair opposite. The smell of old wood smoke, musty kilim, and

potpourri is overwhelming. Golden light is streaming through the original stained-glass panels in

the windows. This room is so Tavish. And so is Wanda. She’s sitting in her usual

uncompromising position, knees firmly apart, dirndl skirt draping around her legs, head tilted

forward to listen, with her frizzy hennaed hair falling all around her face.

         “Magnus—” I begin, then immediately come to a halt.

         “Yes?”

         “Magnus—”

         I stop again. There’s silence for a moment.

         This woman is so significant in my life, but I barely know her. We’ve had a completely

civilized, distant relationship where we haven’t talked about anything except things that don’t

matter. Now it feels like I’m about to rip down the screen between us. But I don’t know where to

start. Words are buzzing around my head like flies. I need to catch one.

         “How many girls has Magnus proposed to?” I didn’t mean to start there, but then, why

not?

         Wanda looks caught out. “Poppy!” She swallows. “Goodness. I really think Magnus …

This is a matter … ” She rubs her face, and I notice that her fingernails are filthy.

         “Magnus is in Bruges. I can’t talk to him. So I’ve come to talk to you.”

         “I see.” Wanda’s expression becomes grave.

         “Lucinda told me there’s a list and she and I are at the end of it. Magnus never mentioned

anyone else. He never even told me he and Lucinda used to be an item. Nobody told me.” I can’t

keep the resentment out of my voice.

        “Poppy. You mustn’t … ” I can tell Wanda’s floundering. “Magnus is very, very fond of

you, and you shouldn’t worry about … about that. You’re a lovely girl.”

        She might be trying to be kind—but the way she says it makes me flinch. What does she

mean by “lovely girl”? Is that some patronizing way of saying, “You may not have a brain but

you look OK?”

        I have to say something. I have to. It’s now or never. Go, Poppy.

        “Wanda, you’re making me feel inferior.” The words rush out. “Do you think I’m

inferior, or is this just in my mind?”

        Argh. I did it. I can’t believe I said that out loud.

        “What?” Wanda’s eyes widen so far, I notice for the first time what a stunning periwinkle

blue they are. I’m taken aback by how shocked she seems, but I can’t back down now.

        “I feel inferior when I’m here.” I swallow. “Always. And I just wondered if you really

thought I was or …”

        Wanda has thrust both hands into her frizzy hair. She comes across a pencil, pulls it out,

and absentmindedly puts it down on the table.

        “I think we both need a drink,” she says at last. She heaves herself up out of the sagging

chair and pours two glasses of scotch from a bottle in the cabinet. She hands one to me, raises

her own, and takes a deep gulp. “I feel a bit knocked for six.”

        “I’m sorry.” Immediately I feel bad.

        “No!” She raises a hand. “Absolutely not! Dear girl! You do not have to apologize for a

bona fide expression of your perception of the situation, be it construct or not.”

        I have no idea what she’s going on about. But I think she’s trying to be nice.

        “It’s up to me to apologize,” she continues, “if you have ever felt uncomfortable, let

alone ‘inferior.’ Although this is such a ridiculous idea that I can barely … ” She trails off,

looking baffled. “Poppy, I simply don’t understand. May I just ask what has given you this

impression?”

        “You’re all so intelligent.” I shrug uncomfortably. “You publish things in journals and I

don’t.”

        Wanda looks perplexed. “But why should you publish things in journals?”

        “Because … ” I rub my nose. “I don’t know. It’s not that. It’s … like, I don’t know how

to pronounce Proust.”

        Wanda looks even more baffled. “You clearly do.”

        “OK, I do now! But I didn’t. The first time I met you, I kept getting things wrong, and

Antony said my physiotherapy degree was ‘amusing,’ and I felt so mortified—” I break off, my

throat suddenly blocked.

        “Ah.” A light dawns in Wanda’s eye. “Now, you must never take Antony seriously.

Didn’t Magnus warn you? His sense of humor can be, shall we say, a little off? He’s offended so

many of our friends with misplaced jokes, I can’t count.” She raises her eyes briefly to heaven.

“He is a dear man underneath it all, though, as you’ll get to know.”

        I can’t bring myself to reply so I take a gulp of my scotch. I never usually drink scotch,

but this is hitting the spot. As I look up, Wanda’s sharp eyes are on me.

        “Poppy, we’re not the type to gush. But, believe me, Antony thinks as highly of you as I

do. He would be devastated to hear of your anxieties.”

        “So what was the row in the church all about?” I fling the words at her furiously before I

can stop myself. Wanda looks as though I’ve slapped her.

        “Ah. You heard that. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” She takes another gulp of her scotch,

looking stressed out.

        Suddenly I’m sick of being polite and talking around things. I want to cut to the chase.

        “OK.” I put my glass down. “The reason I’ve come here is, it turns out Magnus has been

sleeping with Lucinda. I’m calling off the wedding. So you might as well be honest and say how

much you hated me from the start.”

        “Lucinda?” Wanda claps a hand over her mouth, looking aghast. “Oh, Magnus. That

wretched, wretched boy. When will he learn?” She seems absolutely deflated by this piece of

news. “Poppy, I’m so sorry. Magnus is … What can I say? A flawed individual.”

        “You guessed he might do this?” I stare at her. “Has he done it before?”

        “I was afraid he might do something stupid,” Wanda says after a pause. “I’m afraid

whatever gifts Magnus inherited from us, the gift of commitment was not among them. That’s

why we were concerned about the wedding. Magnus has a history of leaping into romantic

ventures, backtracking, changing his mind, making things messy for everyone.”

        “Then he has done it before.”

        “In a way.” She winces. “Although we’ve never got as far as the church before. There

have been three previous fiancées, and I gather Lucinda was an almost-fiancée. When he

announced yet again that he was marrying a girl we hardly knew, I’m afraid we didn’t rush to

celebrate.” She eyes me frankly. “You’re right. We did try to put him off the idea in the church,

quite forcibly. We thought the two of you should spend a year getting to know each other better.

The last thing we wanted was for you to be hurt by our son’s idiocy.”

        I feel dazed. I had no idea Magnus had proposed to anyone else, let alone four girls

(including Lucinda—half). How can this be? Is this my fault? Did I ever actually ask him about

his past?

        Yes. Yes! Of course I did. The memory comes back to me in a fully composed picture.

We were lying in bed, after that dinner at the Chinese place. We told each other about all our old

flames. And, OK, so I edited very slightly.94 but I didn’t leave out four previous proposals.

Magnus never said a word. Not a word. But everyone else knew.

        Now, of course, all the odd looks and edgy voices between Antony and Wanda make

sense. I was so paranoid. I assumed they were all about how crap I was.

        “I thought you hated me,” I say, almost to myself. “And I thought you were angry he’d

used the family ring, because … I dunno. I wasn’t worthy of it.”

        “Not worthy?” Wanda seems absolutely appalled. “Who has put these ideas into your

head?”

        “What was the problem, then?” I feel the old hurt rising again. “I know you weren’t

happy about it, so don’t pretend.”

        Wanda appears to debate internally for a moment. “We’re being frank with each other?”

        “Yes,” I say firmly. “Please.”

        “Well, then.” Wanda sighs. “Magnus has taken that family ring out of the bank’s safe so