“I won’t! But can I have it a few more days? I won’t critique your emails anymore,” I add tamely. “Promise.”
“OK, guys!” Mark interrupts us. “Good news. I’ve found a mount. Now I’ll select some stones for you to look at. Excuse me a moment….”
As he heads out of the room, my phone bleeps with a new text.
“It’s from Willow,” I say, glancing down. “Look.” I gesture at my hands. “Forwarding. Not passing any comment. None at all.”51
“Hrrmm.” Sam gives the same noncommittal growl he gave before when I mentioned Willow.
There’s an odd little pause. What should happen now is I ask something polite like, “So, how did you two meet?” and “When are you getting married?” and we start a conversation about wedding lists and the price of caterers. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to. Their relationship is so peculiar, I don’t want to go there.
I know he can be growly and curt, but I still can’t see him with a self-obsessed, whingy bitch like Willow. Especially now I’ve met him in the flesh. She must be really, really, really attractive, I decide. Like, supermodel standard. Her dazzling looks have blinded him to everything else about her. It’s the only explanation.
“Loads of people are replying to the email about Lindsay’s birthday,” I observe, to fill the silence. “They obviously don’t have a problem with it.”
“Round-robin emails are the work of the devil.” Sam barely misses a beat. “I’d rather shoot myself than reply to one.”
Well, that’s a nice attitude.
This Lindsay is obviously popular. Every twenty seconds some fresh reply all message arrives on the screen, like, Happy birthday, Lindsay! Have a wonderful celebration, whatever you’re doing. The phone keeps buzzing and flashing. It’s like a party in here. And only Sam is refusing to join in.
Oh, I can’t stand it. How hard is it to type Happy birthday? Why wouldn’t you? It’s two words.
“Can’t I write Happy birthday from you?” I beg. “Go on. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll type it.”
“Fuck’s sake!” Sam looks up from his own phone. “OK. Whatever. Say Happy birthday. But no smiley faces or kisses,” he adds warningly. “Just Happy birthday. Sam.”
Happy birthday, Lindsay! I type defiantly. Hope you’re having a great time today. Well done again on that website strategy, it was awesome. Best wishes, Sam.
Hurriedly, I send it, before he can wonder why I’m typing so much.
“What about the dentist?” I decide to push my luck.
“What about the dentist?” he echoes, and I feel an almighty surge of exasperation. Is he pretending he doesn’t know what I’m talking about or has he genuinely forgotten?
“Here we are!” The door opens and Mark appears, holding out a dark-blue velvet tray. “These are our simulated emeralds.”
“Wow,” I breathe, my attention torn away from the phone.
In front of me are ten rows of gleaming emeralds. I mean, I know they’re not real, but quite frankly I couldn’t tell the difference.52
“Is there any stone which strikes you as having a resemblance to the one you’ve lost?”
“That one.” I point to an oval rock in the middle. “It’s almost exactly the same. It’s amazing!”
“Great.” He picks it up with a pair of tweezers and places it on a small plastic dish. “The diamonds are obviously smaller and less noticeable, so I’m fairly confident of a match. You want a little distressing?” he adds. “Take the shine off?”
“Can you do that?” I say in amazement.
“We can do anything,” he says confidently. “We once made the Crown Jewels for a Hollywood movie. Looked absolutely genuine, although they never even used them in the end.”
“Wow. Well … yes, please!”
“No problem. We should get this knocked out in”—he glances at his watch—”three hours?”
“Great!”
As I stand up, I’m astounded. I can’t believe this was so easy. In fact, I feel quite exhilarated with relief. This will see me through a couple of days and then I’ll get the real thing back and it’ll all be OK.
When we return to the showroom, I sense a rustle of interest. Martha’s head pops up from the book she was writing in, and a couple of girls in dove gray are whispering and nodding at me from their position by the door. Mark leads us over to Martha again, who beams at me even more widely than before.
“Look after these lovely people for me, Martha, will you?” he says, giving her a folded piece of paper. “Here are the details. Bye, again.”
He and Sam shake hands warmly, then Mark disappears off to the rear of the shop.
“You look happy!” Martha says to me with a twinkle.
“I’m so happy!” I can’t contain my delight. “Mark’s brilliant. I just can’t believe what he can do!”
“Yes, he is rather special. Oh, I’m so pleased for you.” She squeezes my arm. “What a wonderful day for you both!”
Oh … shit. Suddenly I realize what she means. I glance sharply at Sam, but he’s stepped aside to read something on his phone and is oblivious.
“So, we’re all dying to know.” Martha’s eyes are twinkling. “What are you getting?”
“Er …”
This conversation has definitely lurched in the wrong direction. But I can’t think how to steer it back.
“Martha told us about the vintage Cartier watch!” Another girl in dove gray joins the conversation, and I can see two other girls edging forward to listen.
“We’ve all been guessing out here.” Martha nods. “I think Mark will have made you something really special and bespoke. With some wonderful, romantic touch.” She clasps her hands. “Maybe a flawless diamond—”
“Those princess-cut ones are exquisite,” a girl in dove gray gushes.
“Or an antique,” chimes in another girl eagerly. “Mark has some amazing old diamonds with stories attached to them. There’s an incredible pale-pink one; did he show you that?”
“No!” I say quickly. “Um … you don’t understand. I’m not—I mean—”
Oh God. What can I say? I’m not getting into the whole story.
“We love a beautiful ring.” Martha sighs happily. “It doesn’t matter what it is, really, as long as it’s magical for you. Oh, come on.” She gives an impish smile. “I have to know.” She opens the paper with a beaming flourish. “And the answer is …”
As she reads the words on the page, Martha’s voice cuts off in a sort of gasp. For a moment she seems unable to speak. “Oh! A simulated emerald,” she manages at last, sounding strangled. “Lovely. And simulated diamonds too. So pretty.”
There’s nothing I can say. I’m aware of four crestfallen faces gazing at me. Martha looks most devastated of all.
“We thought it was a lovely ring,” I offer lamely.
“It is! It is!” Martha is obviously forcing herself to nod animatedly. “Well … congratulations! So sensible of you to go for simulations.” She exchanges looks with the other girls in dove gray, who all hastily chime in.
“Absolutely!”
“Very sensible!”
“Lovely choice!”
The bright voices so don’t match the faces. One girl almost looks like she wants to cry.
Martha seems slightly fixated by Sam’s vintage gold Cartier. I can practically read her mind: He can afford vintage Cartier for himself and he bought his girlfriend a FAKE?
“Can I just see the price?” Sam has finished tapping at his phone and takes the paper from Martha. As he reads it, he frowns. “Four hundred and fifty pounds—that’s a lot. I thought Mark promised a discount.” He turns to me. “Don’t you think that’s too much?”
“Maybe.”53 I nod, a bit mortified.
“Why’s it so expensive?” He turns to Martha, and her eyes flick yet again to his Cartier watch before she addresses him with a professional smile.
“It’s the platinum, sir. It’s a precious, timeless material. M
ost of our customers value a material that will last a lifetime.”
“Well, can we have something cheaper? Silver plate?” Sam turns to me. “You agree, don’t you, Poppy? As cheap as possible?”
I hear a couple of stifled gasps across the shop. I catch a glimpse of Martha’s horrified face and can’t help flushing.
“Yes! Of course,” I mutter. “Whatever’s cheapest.”
“I’ll just check with Mark,” says Martha after rather a long pause. She moves away and makes a brief phone call. As she returns to the register, she’s blinking fast and can’t look me in the eye. “I’ve spoken to Mark and the ring can be made in silver-plated nickel, which brings the price down to”—she taps the register keys—”one hundred and twelve pounds. Would you prefer that option?”
“Well, of course we would.” Sam glances at me. “No-brainer, right?”
“I see. Of course.” Martha’s bright smile has frozen solid. “That’s … fine. Silver-plated nickel it is.” She seems to gather control of herself. “In terms of presentation, sir, we offer a deluxe leather ring box at thirty pounds, or a simpler wooden box for ten pounds. Each option will be lined with rose petals and can have a personalization. Perhaps initials or a little message?”
“A message?” Sam gives an incredulous laugh. “No, thanks. And no packaging. We’ll have it as is. D’you want a carrier bag or something, Poppy?” He glances at me.
Martha is breathing harder and harder. For a moment I think she might lose it.
“Fine!” she says at last. “Absolutely fine. No box, no rose petals, no message …” She taps at her computer. “And how will you be paying for the ring, sir?” She’s obviously mustering all her energies to stay pleasant.
“Poppy?” Sam nods at me expectantly.
As I pull out my purse, Martha’s expression is so aghast, I nearly expire with embarrassment.
“So … you’ll be paying for the ring, madam.” She can barely get the words out. “Wonderful! That’s … wonderful. No problem at all.”
I tap in my PIN and take the receipt. Yet more girls in dove gray have appeared in the showroom, and they’re standing in clusters, whispering and staring at me. My entire body is drenched in mortification.
Sam, of course, has noticed nothing.
“Will we see you both later?” Martha clearly makes a supreme effort to recover herself as she ushers us to the door. “We’ll have champagne waiting and we’ll take a photo for your album, of course.” A tiny glow comes back into her eyes. “It’s such a special moment when you first take the ring and slide it onto her finger—”
“No, I’ve spent far too long here already,” says Sam, absently glancing at his watch. “Can’t you just bike it round to Poppy?”
This seems to be the last straw for Martha. When I’ve given her my details and we’re walking out, she suddenly exclaims, “Could I have a little word about care and upkeep, madam? Just very quickly?” She grabs my arm and pulls me back into the shop, her grip surprisingly strong. “In seven years of selling engagement rings, I’ve never done this before,” she whispers urgently into my ear. “I know he’s a friend of Mark. And I know he’s very handsome. But … are you sure?”
As I eventually emerge onto the street, Sam is waiting for me, looking impatient.
“What was that about? Everything OK?”
“Yes! All fine!”
My face is scarlet and I just want to get out of here. As I glance back toward the shop, I can see Martha talking animatedly to the other girls in dove gray and gesticulating out the window toward Sam, a look of outrage on her face.
“What’s going on?” Sam frowns. “She didn’t try to sell you the expensive ring, did she? Because I’ll have a word with Mark—”
“No! Nothing like that.” I hesitate, almost too embarrassed to tell him.
“Then what?” Sam peers at me.
“She thought you were my fiance and you were making me buy my own engagement ring,” I admit at last. “She told me not to marry you. She was very worried for me.”
I won’t go into Martha’s theory about generosity in the jewelry shop and generosity in bed and how they relate.54
I can see the light slowly dawning on Sam’s face.
“Oh, that’s funny.” He bursts into laughter. “That’s very funny. Hey.” He hesitates. “You didn’t want me to pay for it, did you?”
“No, of course not!” I say, shocked. “Don’t be ridiculous! I just feel terrible that the whole shop thinks you’re a cheapskate, when you were actually doing me a massive favor. I’m really sorry.” I wince.
Sam looks baffled. “What does that matter? I don’t care what they think of me.”
“You must care a bit.”
“Not one bit.”
I peer at him closely. His face is calm. I think he means it. He doesn’t care. How can you not care?
Magnus would care. He always flirts with shop assistants and tries to work out if they recognize him from TV. And one time, when his card was declined in our local supermarket, he made a point of going back in there the next day and telling them about how his bank completely cocked up the day before.
Oh well. Now I don’t feel quite so bad.
“I’m going to grab a Starbucks.” Sam starts heading off down the street. “Want one?”
“I’ll get them.” I hurry after him. “I owe you one. Big-time.”
I don’t have to be back at the clinic till after lunch, because I got Annalise to swap her morning off with mine. For a hefty bribe.
“You remember I mentioned a man called Sir Nicholas Murray,” Sam says as he swings the coffee shop door open. “He’s sending over a document. I’ve told him to use my own email address, but if by any chance he sends it your way by mistake, please let me know at once.”
“OK. He’s quite famous, isn’t he?” I can’t resist adding. “Wasn’t he number eighteen in the world’s movers and shakers in 1985?”
I did some Googling last night, and I’m totally on top of the whole subject of Sam’s company. I know everything. I could go on Mastermind. I could do a PowerPoint presentation. In fact, I wish someone would ask me to do one! Facts I know about White Globe Consulting, in no particular order:
1. It was started in 1982 by Nicholas Murray and now it’s been bought out by some big multinational group.
2. Sir Nicholas is still the CEO. Apparently he can smooth a meeting’s atmosphere by just arriving and can stop a deal in its tracks with a single shake of the head. He always wears floral shirts. It’s his thing.
3. The finance director was a protege of Sir Nicholas, but he’s recently left the company. His name is Ed Exton.55
4. Ed and Sir Nicholas’s friendship has disintegrated over the years, and Ed didn’t even attend the party when Sir Nicholas was knighted.56
5. They had this scandal recently when a guy called John Gregson made a politically incorrect joke at a lunch and had to resign.57 Some people thought it was unfair, but the new chairman of the board apparently has “zero tolerance for inappropriate behavior.”58
6. Sir Nicholas is currently advising the prime minister on a new special “happiness and well-being” committee, which all the newspapers have been rude about. One even described Sir Nicholas as past his prime and had a cartoon of him as a flower with straggly petals. (I won’t mention that to Sam.)
7. They won an award for their paper recycling program last year.
“Well done on the recycling, by the way,” I add, eager to display my knowledge. “I saw your statement that environmental responsibility is a fundamental linchpin for any company that aspires to excellence. So true. We recycle too.”
“What?” Sam seems taken aback, even suspicious. “How did you see that?”
“Google search. It’s not against the law!” I add, at his expression. “I was interested. Since I’m sending on emails all the time, I thought I’d find out a bit about your company.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” Sam shoots me a dubious look. “Do
uble tall cappuccino, please.”
“So, Sir Nicholas is advising the prime minister! That’s really cool!”
This time, Sam doesn’t even answer. Honestly. He’s not exactly a great ambassador.
“Have you been to Number Ten?” I persist. “What’s it like?”
“They’re waiting for your coffee order.” Sam gestures at the barista.
Obviously he’s going to give away absolutely nothing. Typical. You’d think he’d be pleased that I’m interested in what he does.
“Skinny latte for me.” I haul out my purse. “And a chocolate chip muffin. You want a muffin?”
“No, thanks.” Sam shakes his head.
“Probably for the best.” I nod wisely. “Since you refuse to go to the dentist.”
Sam gives me a blank look, which could mean, “Don’t go there,” or “I’m not listening,” or, again, “What do you mean, the dentist?”
I’m beginning to learn how he works. It’s like he has an on switch and an off switch. And he only flips the on switch when he can be bothered.
I click on my browser, search for another revolting picture of manky teeth, and forward it to him silently.
“This Savoy reception, by the way,” I say as we go to pick up our drinks. “You need to send your acceptance.”
“Oh, I’m not going to that,” he says, as though it’s obvious.
“Why not?” I stare at him.
“I have no particular reason to.” He shrugs. “And it’s a heavy week for social events.”
I don’t believe this. How can he not want to go to the Savoy? God, it’s all right for top businessmen, isn’t it? Free champagne, yawn, yawn. Goody bags, yet another party, yawn, how tedious and dull.
“Well, you should let them know, then.” I barely hide my disapproval. “In fact, I’ll do it right now. Dear Blue, Thanks so much for the invitation,” I read aloud as I type. “Unfortunately, Sam will be unable to attend on this occasion. Best wishes, Poppy Wyatt.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Sam is staring at me, bemused. “One of the PAs at the office is helping me out now. Girl called Jane Ellis. She can do that.”
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