Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "
Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella
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straightaway, OK? Ring me.”
I open my mouth automatically to say, “What about your dad? Why don’t you ever ring
him?” Then I close it again. No, Poppy. Bad idea.
“Ooh, there was a phone message earlier,” I say, suddenly remembering. “About
liposuction or something, I think. That wasn’t for you?”
“Liposuction?” he echoes incredulously. “Not that I’m aware of.”
He doesn’t need to sound so scoffing. I was only asking. It must have been for Violet.
Not that she’s likely to need liposuction, if she’s off modeling.
“So … we’re on? We have a deal?”
For a while he doesn’t reply, and I have an image of him glowering at his cell phone. I
don’t exactly get the feeling he’s relishing this arrangement. But then, what choice does he have?
“I’ll get the PA email address transferred back to my inbox,” he says grouchily, almost to
himself. “I’ll speak to the tech guys tomorrow. But the texts will keep coming to you. If I miss
any of them—”
“You won’t! Look, I know this isn’t ideal,” I say, trying to mollify him. “And I’m sorry.
But I’m really desperate. All the hotel staff have this number … all the cleaners … it’s my only
hope. Just for a couple of days. And I promise I’ll send every single message on. Brownie’s
honor.”
“Brownie’s what?” He sounds mystified.
“Honor! Brownie Guides? Like Scouts? You hold up one hand and you make the sign
and you swear an oath … Hang on, I’ll show you… .” I disconnect the phone.
There’s a sheet of grimy mirror opposite me on the bus. I pose in front of it, holding the
phone in one hand, making the Brownie sign with the other, and wearing my best “I’m a sane
person’ smile. I take a picture and text it at once to Sam Mobile.
Five seconds later a text message pings back.
I could send this to the police and have you arrested.
I feel a little whoosh of relief. Could. That means he’s not going to.
I really, really appreciate it, I text back. Thx
But there’s no reply.
7 The Lion King. Natasha got free tickets. I thought it would be some lame kids’ thing,
but it was brilliant.
8 Which I think you can.
9 I’ve never been quite sure what that means.
10 Maybe not a pervert, then.
11 OK, not just like Beyoncé. Like me imitating Beyoncé.
12 Not books with plots, by the way. Books with footnotes. Books about subjects, like
history and anthropology and cultural relativism in Turkmenistan.
13 I wonder if they all take fish oil. I must remember to ask.
14 Don’t ask me. I listened really carefully and I still couldn’t work out how they
disagreed. I don’t think the presenter could follow either.
15 Magnus said afterward he was joking. But it didn’t sound like a joke.
16 I’ve never even read any Proust. I don’t know why I had to bring him up.
17 I know. I’ve told him, a million times.
18 Not ponytail long, which would be gross. Just on the long side.
19 I don’t think Annalise’s ever forgiven me. In her head, if she hadn’t switched
appointments, she’d be marrying him now.
20 You see? It’s all about the footnotes.
21 Assuming he lives in a little cottage. He sounds like he does. All alone, with maybe
just a faithful dog for company.
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.
WillowI stare at the phone in shock, almost wanting to laugh. Willow must be his
fiancée. Yowzer.
Her email address is [email protected]. 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.
SamYou 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.
WillowMy 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