Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

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