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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, ta
from her Costa del Sol hideout, glowers at me from the dock.
“Mrs. Fairfax has been a faithful employee for thirty years and has handled many
valuable artifacts belonging to guests.” He sounds slightly offended. “I find it very hard to
believe that she would have done such a thing.”
“So, it must be somewhere in the hotel?” I feel a glimmer of hope.
“That is what we are endeavoring to find out. Obviously, as soon as I know anything
more, I will be in touch. I can use this number still, can I?”
“Yes!” Instinctively, I grip the phone more tightly. “Use this number. Please call as soon
as you hear anything. Thank you.”
As I ring off, I’m breathing hard. I don’t know how to feel. I mean, it’s good news. Kind
of. Isn’t it?
Except that I still don’t have the ring safely on my finger. Everyone will still be worried.
Magnus’s parents will think I’m flaky and irresponsible and never forgive me for putting them
through such stress. So I still have a total nightmare ahead of me.
Unless … Unless I could—
No. I couldn’t possibly. Could I?
I’m standing like a pillar on the pavement, my mind circling furiously. OK. Let’s think
this through properly. Logically and ethically. If the ring isn’t actually lost …
I passed a Boots on the high street, about four hundred yards back. Almost without
knowing what I’m doing, I retrace my steps. I ignore the shop assistant who tries to tell me
they’re closing. My head down, I make my way to the first-aid counter. There’s a glove thing
you pull on, and some rolls of adhesive bandage. I’ll get it all.
Ten minutes later I’m striding up the hill again. My hand is swathed in bandages, and you
can’t tell whether I’m wearing a ring or not, and I don’t even have to lie. I can say, “It’s difficult
to wear a ring with a burned hand.” Which is true.
I’m nearly at the house when my phone bleeps and a text from Sam Roxton pops into my
in-box.
Where’s the attachment?
Typical. No “hello,” no explanation. He just expects me to know what he’s on about.
What do you mean?
The email from Ned Murdoch. There was no attachment.
That’s not my fault! I just sent on the email. They must have forgotten to put it on. Why
don’t you ask them to send it again, WITH the attachment? Directly to your computer?
I know I sound a bit exasperated, and of course he instantly picks up on it.
This phone-sharing was your idea, if you remember. If you’re tired of it, just return my
phone to my office.
Hurriedly I text back:
No, no! It’s OK. If it comes through, I’ll forward it. Don’t worry. I thought you were
getting emails transferred to your office???
Techies said they’d sort it asap. But they are liars.
There’s a short pause, then he texts:
Got the ring, btw?
Nearly. Hotel found it, but then lost it again.