28 I know girls say that and what they really mean is, “I gave him an ultimatum and then let him think he’d come up with the idea himself, and six weeks later, bingo.” But it wasn’t like that. I honestly had no idea. Well, you wouldn’t, would you, after a month ?
29 Which I bet she did not do in her lunch hour. She should be the one getting the disciplinary hearing.
30 Which we’ve never used.
31 Which no one has registered on.
32 Personally, I’m doubtful about Lucinda’s so-called experience. Whenever I ask her about other weddings she’s done, she refers to only one, which was for another friend and consisted of thirty people in a restaurant. But obviously I never mention this in front of the Tavishes. Or Clemency. Or anyone.
33 Was I supposed to be psychic ?
34 “Deathly white,” as she called it.
4
I now have historical insight. I actually know what it felt like to have to trudge up to the guillotine in the French Revolution. As I walk up the hill from the tube clutching the wine I bought yesterday, my steps get slower and slower. And slower.
In fact, I realize, I’m not walking anymore. I’m standing. I’m staring up at the Tavishes’ house and swallowing hard, over and over again, willing myself to move forward.
Perspective, Poppy. It’s only a ring.
It’s only your prospective in-laws.
It was only a “falling-out.” According to Magnus,35 they never actually said straight out they didn’t want him to marry me. They only implied it. And maybe they’ve changed their minds!
Plus, I have discovered one tiny positive. My home insurance policy will pay out for losses, apparently. So that’s something. I’m even wondering whether to start the ring conversation via insurance and how handy it is. “You know, Wanda, I was reading an HSBC leaflet the other day—”
Oh God, who am I kidding? There’s no way to salvage this. It’s a nightmare. Let’s just get it over with.
My phone bleeps and I take it out of my pocket for old times’ sake. I’ve given up hoping for a miracle.
“You have one new message,” comes the familiar, unhurried tone of the voice-mail woman.
I feel like I know this woman, she’s talked to me so often. How many people have listened to her, desperate for her to hurry up, their hearts pounding with fear or hope? Yet she always sounds equally unfussed, like she doesn’t even care what you’re about to hear. You should be able to choose different options for different kinds of news, so she could start off: “Guess what! Ace news! Listen to your voice mail! Yay!” Or: “Sit down, love. Get a drink. You’ve got a message and it’s not good.”
I press 1, shift the mobile to the other hand, and start trudging again. The message was left while I was on the tube. It’s probably just Magnus, asking where I am.
“Hello, this is the Berrow Hotel, with a message for Poppy Wyatt. Miss Wyatt, it appears your ring was found yesterday. However, due to the chaos of the fire alarm—”
What? What?
Joy is whooshing through me like a sparkler. I can’t listen properly. I can’t take the words in. They’ve found it!
I’ve already abandoned the message. I’m on speed-dial to the concierge. I love him. I love him!
“Berrow Hotel—” It’s the concierge’s voice.
“Hi!” I say breathlessly. “It’s Poppy Wyatt. You’ve found my ring! You’re a star! Shall I come straight round and get it?—”
“Miss Wyatt,” he interrupts me. “Did you listen to the message?”
“I … Some of it.”
“I’m afraid … ” He pauses. “I’m afraid we are not presently sure of the ring’s whereabouts.”
I stop dead and peer at the phone. Did he just say what I thought he did?
“You said you’d found it.” I’m trying to stay calm. “How can you not be sure of its whereabouts?”
“According to one of our staff, a cleaner waitress did find an emerald ring on the carpet of the ballroom during the fire alarm and handed it to our guest manager, Mrs. Fairfax. However, we are uncertain as to what happened after that. We have been unable to find it in the safe or in any of our usual secure locations. We are deeply sorry, and will do our utmost to—”
“Well, talk to Mrs. Fairfax!” I try to control my impatience. “Find out what she did with it!”
“Indeed. Unfortunately, she has gone on holiday, and despite our best endeavors, we have been unable to contact her.”
“Has she pinched it?” I say in horror.
I’ll find her. Whatever it takes. Detectives, police, Interpol … I’m already standing in the courtroom, pointing at the ring in a plastic evidence bag, while a middle–aged woman, tanned from her Costa del Sol hideout, glowers at me from the dock.
