I've Got Your Number

        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 ca

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

asked me how much the replica ring cost and where I had it made, and all sorts of questions I

really didn’t want to answer.

        What does she think? That I was going to sell the original or something?

        We’ve practiced me coming up the aisle, and going back down the aisle together, and

worked out where we’ll kneel and sign the register. And now the vicar has suggested a

run-through of the vows.

        But I can’t. I just can’t say those magical words with Antony there, making clever-clever

comments and mocking every phrase. It’ll be different in the wedding. He’ll have to shut up.

        ““Magnus.” I pull him aside with a whisper. “Let’s not do our vows today after all. Not

with your father here. They’re too special to ruin.”

        “OK.” He looks surprised. “I don’t mind either way.”

        “Let’s just say them once. On the day.” I squeeze his hand. “For real.”

        Even without Antony, I don’t want to preempt the big moment, I realize. I don’t want to

rehearse. It’ll take the specialness out of it all.

        “Yes, I agree.” Magnus nods. “So … are we done now?”

        “No, we’re not done!” says Lucinda, sounding outraged. “Far from it! I want Poppy to

walk up the aisle again. You went far too fast for the music.”

        “OK.” I shrug, heading to the back of the church.

        “Organ, please!” shrieks Lucinda. “Or-gan! From the top! Glide smoothly, Poppy,” she

says as I pass. “You’re wobbling! Clemency, where are those cups of tea?”

        Clemency is just back from a Costa run, and I can see her out of the corner of my eye,

hastily tearing open sachets of sugar and milk.

        “I’ll help!” I say, and break off from gliding. “What can I do?”

        “Thanks,” whispers Clemency as I come over. “Antony wants three sugars, Magnus is the

cappuccino, Wanda has the biscotti … ”

        “Where’s my double-chocolate extra-cream muffin?” I say with a puzzled frown, and

Clemency jumps sky-high in the air.

         “I didn’t—I can go back—”

         “Joke!” I say. “Just joking!”

         The longer Clemency works for Lucinda, the more like a terrified rabbit she looks. It

really can’t be good for her health.

         Lucinda takes her tea (milk, no sugar) with the briefest of nods. She seems totally hassled

again and has laid a massive spreadsheet printout across the pews. It’s such a mess of highlighter

and scribbled notes and Post-it notes, I’m amazed she’s organized anything.

         “Oh God, oh God,” she’s saying under her breath. “Where’s the fucking florist’s