I glance at the clock—2:45 a.m.—then at Magnus, breathing peacefully, and feel a surge of irrational resentment. It’s OK for him.
Abruptly, I swing my legs out from under the covers and reach for a dressing gown. I’ll go and have a cup of herbal tea, like they recommend in magazine articles on insomnia, along with writing down all your problems on a piece of paper.48
My phone is charging in the kitchen, and as I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, I idly click through all the messages, methodically forwarding on Sam’s. There’s a text from a new patient of mine who’s just had surgery on his anterior cruciate ligament and is finding it hard going, and I send a quick, reassuring text back, saying I’ll try to fit him in for a session tomorrow.49 I’m pouring hot water on a chamomile and vanilla tea bag when a text bleeps, making me start.
What are you doing up so late?
It’s Sam. Who else? I settle down with my tea and take a sip, then text back:
Can’t sleep. What are YOU doing up so late?
Waiting to speak to a guy in L.A. Why can’t you sleep?
My life ends tomorrow.
OK, that might be overstating it a tad, but right now that’s how it feels.
I can see how that might keep you up. Why does it end?
If he really wants to know, I’ll tell him. Sipping my tea, I fill five texts with the story of how the ring was found but then lost again. And how Paul the dermatologist wants to look at my hand. And how the Tavishes are being snippy enough about the ring already, and they don’t even know it’s lost. And how it’s all closing in on me. And how I feel like a gambler who needs just one more spin on the roulette wheel and everything might come good, but I’m out of chips.
I’ve been typing so furiously, my shoulders are aching. I rotate them a few times, take a few gulps of tea, and am wondering about cracking open the biscuits, when a new text arrives.
I owe you one.
I read the words and shrug. OK. He owes me. So what? A moment later a second text arrives.
I could get you a chip.
I stare at the screen, baffled. He does know the chip thing is a metaphor, doesn’t he? He’s not talking about a real poker chip?
Or a french fry?
The usual daytime traffic hum is absent, making the room abnormally silent, save for an occasional judder from the fridge. I blink at the screen in the artificial light, then rub my tired eyes, wondering if I should turn off the phone and go to bed.
What do you mean?
His reply comes back almost immediately, as though he realized his last text sounded odd.
Have jeweler friend. Makes replicas for TV. Very realistic. Would buy you time.
A fake ring?
I think I must be really, really thick. Because that had never even occurred to me.
43 Haven’t both Antony and Wanda ever invigilated exams as part of their jobs? Just saying.
44 The first time Magnus told me his specialism was symbols, I thought he meant cymbals. The ones you clash. Not that I’ve ever admitted that to him.
45 Not that I’ve been prying or anything. But you can’t help glancing at things as you forward them and noticing references to the PM and Number 10.
46 OK. Busted. I didn’t tell the absolute full truth in my disciplinary hearing.
Here’s the thing: I know I was totally unprofessional. I know I should be struck off. The physiotherapy ethics booklet practically starts, Don’t have sex with your patient on the couch, whatever you do.
But what I say is: If you do something wrong yet it doesn’t actually hurt anybody and nobody knows, should you be punished and lose your whole career? Isn’t there a bigger picture?
Plus, we did it only once. And it was really quick. (Not in a bad way. Just in a quick way.)
And Ruby once used the offices for a party and propped all the fire doors back, which is totally against health and safety. So. Nobody’s perfect.
47 This is part of my prewedding regimen, which consists of daily exfoliation, daily lotion, weekly face mask, hair mask, eye mask, a hundred sit-ups every day, and meditation to keep calm. I’ve got as far as the body lotion. And tonight I’m rather hampered by my bandaged hand.
48 What, for your boyfriend to find?
49 I don’t give my number out to all my patients. Just long-term patients, emergencies, and the ones who look like they need support. This guy is one of those types who says he’s absolutely fine and then you see he’s white with pain. I had to insist he should call me whenever he wanted and repeat it to his wife, otherwise he would have nobly struggled on.
OK. A fake ring is a bad idea. There are a million reasons why. Such as:
1. It’s dishonest.
2. It probably won’t look convincing.
3. It’s unethical.50
Nevertheless, here I am at Hatton Garden at ten the following morning, sauntering along, trying to hide the fact that my eyes are on stalks. I’ve never been to Hatton Garden before; I didn’t even know it existed. A whole street of jewelers?
There are more diamonds here than I’ve seen in my lifetime. Signs everywhere are boasting best prices, highest carats, superb value, and bespoke design. Obviously this is engagement ring city. Couples are wandering along and girls are pointing through the windows and the men are smiling but all look slightly sick whenever their girlfriends turn away.
I’ve never even been into a jewelry shop. Not a grown-up, proper one like these. The only jewelry I’ve ever had has come from markets and Topshop, places like that. My parents gave me a pair of pearl studs for my thirteenth birthday, but I didn’t go into the shop with them. Jewelry shops have been places I’ve walked past, thinking they’re for other people. But now, since I’m here, I can’t help having a good old look.
Who would buy a brooch made out of yellow diamonds in the shape of a spider for PS12,500? It’s a mystery to me, like who buys those revolting sofas with swirly arms they advertise on the telly.
Sam’s friend’s shop is called Mark Spencer Designs and thankfully doesn’t have any yellow spiders. Instead, it has lots of diamonds set in platinum bands and a sign saying Free champagne for engaged couples. Make your ring-choosing experience a special one. There’s nothing about replicas or fakes, and I start to feel nervous. What if Sam misunderstood? What if I end up buying a real emerald ring out of embarrassment and have to spend the rest of my life paying it off?
And where is Sam, anyway? He promised to pop along and introduce me to his friend. Apparently he works just round the corner—though he didn’t reveal exactly where. I turn and survey the street. It’s kind of weird that we’ve never met properly, face-to-face.
There’s a man with dark hair walking briskly on the other side of the road, and for a brief moment I think perhaps that’s him, but then a deep voice says, “Poppy?”
I turn—and, of course, that’s him: the guy with the dark rumpled hair striding toward me. He’s taller than I remember from my glimpse of him in the hotel lobby but has the same distinctive thick eyebrows and deep-set eyes. He’s wearing a dark suit and immaculate white shirt and a charcoal tie. He flashes me a brief smile, and I notice that his teeth are very white and even.
Well. They won’t be for much longer if he doesn’t go to the dentist.
“Hi. Poppy.” As he approaches he hesitates, then extends a hand. “Good to meet you properly.”
“Hi.” I smile awkwardly back and we shake hands. He has a nice handshake. Warm and positive.
“So, Vivien’s definitely staying with us.” He tilts his head. “Thanks again for your insight.”
“No problem!” I shrug. “It was nothing.”
“Seriously. I appreciate it.”
This is odd, talking face-to-face. I’m distracted by seeing the contours of his brow and his hair rippling in the breeze. It was easier by text. I wonder if he feels the same way.
“So.” He gestures at the jewelry shop. “Shall we?”
This shop is seriously cool and expensive. I wo
nder if he and Willow came and chose their ring here. They must have. I’m almost tempted to ask him—but somehow I can’t quite bring myself to mention her. It’s too embarrassing. I know far too much about them.
Most couples, you meet at the pub or at their house. You talk about anodyne stuff—holidays, hobbies, Jamie Oliver recipes. Only gradually do you venture on to personal stuff. But with these two, I feel as if I’ve been pitched straight into some fly-on-the-wall documentary and they don’t even know it. I found an old email last night from Willow which just said, Do you know how much PAIN you have caused me, Sam? Quite apart from all the fucking BRAZILIANS??
Which is something I really wish I hadn’t read. If I ever meet her, that’s the only thing I’m going to be able to think about. Brazilians.
Sam has pressed the buzzer and is ushering me into the smart, dimly lit shop. At once a girl in a dove-gray suit comes up.
“Hello, may I help?” She has a soft, honeylike voice, which completely suits the muted decor of the shop.
“We’re here to see Mark,” Sam says. “It’s Sam Roxton.”
“That’s right.” Another girl in dove-gray nods. “He’s waiting for you. Take them through, Martha.”
“May I get you a glass of champagne?” says Martha, giving me a knowing smile as we walk along. “Sir? Champagne?”
“No, thanks,” says Sam.
“Me neither,” I chime in.
“Are you sure?” She twinkles at me. “It’s a big moment for the two of you. Just a little glass to take off the nerves?”
Oh my God! She thinks we’re an engaged couple. I glance at Sam for help—but he’s typing something on his phone. And there’s no way I’m launching into the story of losing my priceless heirloom ring in front of a bunch of strangers and hearing all the gasps of horror.
“I’m fine, honestly.” I smile awkwardly. “It’s not—I mean, we’re not—”
“That’s a wonderful watch, sir!” Martha’s attention has been distracted. “Is that vintage Cartier? I haven’t seen one quite like it.”
“Thanks.” Sam nods. “Got it at auction in Paris.”
Now that I notice it, Sam’s watch is quite amazing. It’s got an old leather strap, and the dull gold dial has the patina of another age. And he got it in Paris. That’s pretty cool.
“Goodness.” As we walk, Martha takes my arm and leans in, lowering her voice, girl-to-girl. “He has exquisite taste. Lucky you! You can’t say the same of all the men who come in here. Some of them go for absolute horrors. But a man who buys himself vintage Cartier has got to be on the right track!”
This is painful. What do I say?
“Er … right,” I mumble, staring at the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you,” says Martha charmingly. “Please let me know if you change your mind about the champagne. Have a wonderful session with Mark!” She ushers us into a large back room with a concrete floor, lined with metal-fronted cabinets. A guy in jeans and rimless specs gets up from a trestle table and greets Sam warmly.
“Sam! Been too long!”
“Mark! How are you doing?” Sam claps Mark on the back, then steps aside. “This is Poppy.”
“Good to meet you, Poppy.” Mark shakes my hand. “So, I understand you need a replica ring.”
I feel an immediate lurch of paranoia and guilt. Did he have to say it out loud like that, for anyone to hear?
“Very temporarily.” I keep my voice almost to a whisper. “Just while I find the real thing. Which I will, really, really soon.”
“Understood.” He nods. “Useful to have a replica anyway. We do a lot of replacements for travel and so forth. Normally we only make replicas of jewelry we’ve designed ourselves, but we can make the odd exception for friends.” Mark winks at Sam. “Although we do try to be a little discreet about it. Don’t want to undermine our core business.”
“Yes!” I say quickly. “Of course. I want to be discreet too. Very much so.”
“Do you have a picture? A photo?”
“Here.” I haul out a photo which I printed off my computer this morning. It’s of Magnus and me at the restaurant where he proposed. We got the couple at the next table to take a picture of us, and I’m holding up my left hand proudly, with the ring clearly visible. I look absolutely giddy—which, to be fair, is how I was feeling.
Both men stare at it in silence.
“So, that’s the guy you’re marrying,” says Sam at last. “The Scrabble fiend.”
“Yes.”
There’s something in his tone which makes me feel defensive. I have no idea why.
“His name’s Magnus,” I add.
“Isn’t he the academic?” Sam’s frowning at the photo. “Had the TV series?”
“Yes.” I feel a flash of pride. “Exactly.”
“That’s a four-carat emerald, I’d guess?” Mark Spencer looks up from squinting at the photo.
“Maybe,” I say helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how many carats your engagement ring is?”
Both men shoot me an odd look.
“What?” I feel myself flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I’d lose it.”
“That’s very sweet,” says Mark with a wry little smile. “Most girls have it down to the nearest decimal. Then they round up.”
“Oh. Well.” I shrug to cover my embarrassment. “It’s a family ring. We didn’t really talk about it.”
“We have a lot of mounts in stock. Let me look….” Mark pushes his chair away and starts searching through the metal drawers.
“He still doesn’t know you’ve lost it?” Sam jerks a thumb at the picture of Magnus.
“Not yet.” I bite my lip. “I’m hoping it’ll turn up and …”
“He’ll never have to know you lost it,” Sam finishes for me. “You’ll keep the secret safe till your deathbed.”
I look away, feeling twingey with guilt. I don’t like this. I don’t like having secrets from Magnus. I don’t like being the kind of person who has assignations behind her fiance’s back. But there’s no other way.
“So, I’m still getting Violet’s emails on this.” I gesture at him with the phone, to distract myself. “I thought the tech people were sorting it out.”
“So did I.”
“Well, you’ve got some new ones. You’ve been asked about the Fun Run four times now.”
“Hmm.” He barely nods.
“Aren’t you going to answer? And what about your hotel room for this conference in Hampshire? Do you need it for one night or two?”
“I’ll see. Not sure yet.” Sam seems so unmoved, I feel a stab of frustration.
“Don’t you answer your emails?”
“I prioritize.” He calmly taps at his screen.
“Ooh, it’s Lindsay Cooper’s birthday!” Now I’m reading a round-robin email. “Lindsay in marketing. Do you want to say happy birthday to her?”
“No, I do not.” He sounds so adamant, I feel a bit affronted.
“What’s wrong with saying happy birthday to a colleague?”
“I don’t know her.”
“Yes, you do! You work with her.”
“I work with two hundred and forty-three people.”
“But isn’t she the girl who came up with that website strategy document the other day?” I say, suddenly remembering an old email correspondence. “Weren’t you all really pleased?”
“Yes,” he says blankly. “What’s that got to do with this?”
God, he’s stubborn. Giving up on Lindsay’s birthday, I scroll down to the next email.
“Peter has finalized the Air France deal. He wants to give you his full report on Monday straight after the team meeting. Is that OK?”
“Fine.” Sam barely glances up. “Just forward it. Thanks.”
If I forward it, he’ll let it sit there all day without answering.
“Why don’t I reply?” I offer. “Since you’re here and I’ve got the email open? It’ll o
nly take a minute.”
“Oh.” He seems surprised. “Thanks. Just say, Yes.”
Yes. I carefully type. “Anything else?”
“Put Sam.”
I stare at the screen, dissatisfied. Yes. Sam. It looks so bare. So curt.
“What about adding something like, Well done?” I suggest. “Or You did it! Yay! Or just Best wishes and thanks for everything?”
Sam looks unimpressed. “Yes, Sam will be plenty.”
“Typical,” I mutter under my breath. Except perhaps it wasn’t quite as submerged under my breath as I’d intended, because Sam looks up.
“Excuse me?”
I know I should bite my tongue. But I’m so frustrated I can’t stop myself.
“You’re so abrupt! Your emails are so short! They’re awful!”
There’s a long pause. Sam looks as astonished as if the chair had started to speak.
“Sorry,” I add, giving an awkward shrug. “But it’s true.”
“OK,” says Sam at last. “Let’s just get things straight. In the first place, borrowing this phone does not give you a license to read and critique my emails.” He hesitates. “In the second place, short is good.”
I’m already regretting having spoken. But I can’t back down now.
“Not that short,” I retort. “And you ignore most people completely! It’s rude!”
There. Said it.
Sam is glowering at me. “Like I said, I prioritize. Now, since your ring situation is sorted, maybe you’d like to hand the phone back and my emails won’t have to bother you anymore.” He holds out his hand.
Oh God. Is that why he’s helping me? So I’ll give the phone back?
“No!” I clutch the phone. “I mean … please. I still need it. The hotel might phone me any minute; Mrs. Fairfax will have this number….”
I know it’s irrational, but I feel like the moment I give this phone up, I’m saying goodbye to any chance of finding the ring.
I put it behind my back for good measure and gaze beseechingly at him.
“Jesus,” Sam exhales. “This is ridiculous. I’m interviewing for a new PA this afternoon. That’s a company phone. You can’t just keep it!”
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