Oh God. You can feel the animosity crackling through the air between them. Should I make a joke, lighten the atmosphere?
Maybe not.
Reverend Fox checks his notes. “And, Poppy, you’ll be given away by your brothers?”
“That’s right.” I nod. “Toby and Tom. They’re going to lead me down the aisle, either side.”
“Your brothers!” chimes in Paul with interest. “That’s a nice idea. But why not your father?”
“Because my father is …” I hesitate. “Well, actually, both my parents are dead.”
And, like night follows day, here it is. The awkward pause. I stare at the stone floor, counting down the seconds, waiting patiently for it to pass.
How many awkward pauses have I caused in the last ten years? It’s always the same. No one knows where to look. No one knows what to say. At least this time no one’s trying to give me a hug.
“My dear girl,” says Paul, in consternation. “I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine!” I cut him off brightly. “Really. It was an accident. Ten years ago. I don’t talk about it. I don’t think about it. Not anymore.”
I smile at him as off-puttingly as I can. I’m not getting into this. I never do get into it. It’s all folded up in my mind. Packaged away.
No one wants to hear stories about bad things. That’s the truth. I remember that my tutor at college once asked me if I was all right and if I wanted to talk. The moment I started, he said, “You mustn’t lose your confidence, Poppy!” in this brisk way that meant “Actually I don’t want to hear about this, please stop now.”
There was a counseling group. But I didn’t go. It clashed with hockey practice. Anyway, what’s there to talk about? My parents died. My aunt and uncle took us in. My cousins had left home already, so they had the bedrooms and everything.
It happened. There’s nothing else to say.
“Beautiful engagement ring, Poppy,” says Reverend Fox at last, and everyone seizes on the distraction.
“Isn’t it lovely? It’s an antique.”
“It’s a family piece,” puts in Wanda.
“Very special.” Paul pats my hand kindly. “An absolute one-off.”
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 cannot 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 mome
nt, 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 number?” She riffles through a bundle of papers, then clasps her hair despairingly. “Clemency!”
“Shall I Google it for you?” I suggest.
“Clemency will Google it. Clemency!” Poor Clemency starts so badly, tea slops out of one of the cups.
“I’ll take that,” I say hastily, and relieve her of the Costa tray.
“If you could, that would be helpful.” Lucinda exhales sharply. “Because you know, we are all here for your benefit, Poppy. And the wedding is only a week away. And there is still an awful lot to do.”
“I know,” I say awkwardly. “Um … sorry.”
I have no idea where Magnus and his parents have got to, so I head toward the back of the church, holding the Costa tray full of cups, trying to glide, imagining myself in my veil.
“Ridiculous!” I hear Wanda’s muffled voice first. “Far too fast.”
I look around uncertainly—then realize it’s coming from behind a heavy closed wooden door to the side of the church. They must be in the antechapel.
“Everyone knows … Attitude to marriage …” That’s Magnus speaking—but the door is so thick I can catch only the odd word.
“… not about marriage per se!” Wanda’s voice is suddenly raised. “… pair of you! … just can’t understand …”
“Quite misguided …” Antony’s voice is like a bassoon chiming in.
I’m rooted to the spot, ten yards away from the door, holding the Costa coffee tray. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop. But I can’t stop myself.
“… admit it, Magnus … complete mistake …”
“… cancel. Not too late. Better now than a messy divorce …”
I swallow hard. My hands are trembling around the tray. What am I hearing? What was that word, divorce?
I’m probably misinterpreting, I tell myself. It’s only a few stray words, they could mean anything.
“Well, we’re getting married, whatever you say! So you might as well bloody like it!” Magnus’s voice soars out, clear as a bell.
A chill settles on me. It’s quite hard to find an alternative interpretation of that.
There’s some rumbling reply from Antony, then Magnus yells again, “… will not end in bloody disaster!”
I feel a swell of love for Magnus. He sounds so furious. A moment later there’s a rattling at the door, and in a flash I backtrack about ten steps. As he emerges, I walk forward again, trying to look relaxed.
“Hi! Cup of tea?” Somehow I manage a natural tone. “Everything all right? I wondered where you’d got to!”
“Fine.” He smiles affectionately and snakes an arm around my waist.
He’s giving no hint that he was just yelling at his parents. I never realized he was such a good actor. He should go into politics.
“I’ll take those in to my parents, actually.” He quickly removes the tray from my grasp. “They’re … er … looking at the art.”
“Great!” I manage a smile, but my chin is wobbling. They’re not looking at the art. They’re telling each other what a terrible choice their son has made for a wife. They’re making bets that we’ll be divorced within a year.
As Magnus emerges from the antechapel again, I take a deep breath, feeling sick with nerves.
“So … what do your parents make of all this?” I say as lightly as I can manage. “I mean, your father’s not really into church, is he? Or … or … marriage, even.”
I’ve given him the perfect cue to tell me. It’s all set up. But Magnus shrugs sulkily.
“They’re OK.”
I sip my tea a few times, staring miserably at the ancient stone floor, willing myself to pursue it. I should contradict him. I should say, “I heard you arguing.” I should have it out with him.
But … I can’t do it. I’m not brave enough. I don’t want to hear the truth—that his parents think I’m crap.
“Just got to check an email.” Is it my imagination or is Magnus avoiding my gaze?
“Me too.” I peel away from him miserably and go to sit by myself on a side pew. For a few moments I hunch my shoulders, trying to resist the urge to cry. At last I reach for my phone and switch it on. I might as well catch up with some stuff. I haven’t looked at it for hours. As I switch it on, I almost recoil at the number of buzzes and flashes and bleeps which greet me. How many messages have I missed? I quickly text the concierge at the Berrow Hotel, telling him he can call off the search for the ring, and thanking him for his time. Then I turn my attention to the messages.
Top of the pile is a text from Sam, which arrived about twenty minutes ago:
On way to Germany over weekend. Heading to mountainous region. Will be off radar for a bit.
Seeing his name fills me with a longing to talk to someone, and I text back:
Hi there. Sounds cool. Why Germany?
There’s no reply, but I don’t care; it’s cathartic just to type.
So much for fake ring. Did not work. Was found out and now M’s parents think I’m a weirdo.
For a moment I wonder whether to tell him that Lucinda had the ring and ask him what he thinks. But … no. It’s too complicated. He won’t want to get into it. I send the text—then realize he might think I’m having a go at him. Quickly I type a follow-up:
Thx for help, anyway. Appreciate it.
Maybe I should have a look at his in-box. I’ve been neglecting it. There are so many emails with the same subject heading, I find myself squinting at the screen in puzzlement—till it dawns on me. Of course. Everyone’s responded to my invitation to send in ideas! These are all the replies!
For the first time this afternoon, I feel a small glow of pride in myself. If one of these people has come up with a groundbreaking idea and revolutionizes Sam’s company, then it will all be down to me.
I click on the first one, full of anticipation.
Dear Sam,
I think we should have yoga at lunchtimes, funded by the company, and several others agree with me.
Best,
Sally Brewer
I frown uncertainly. It’s not exactly what I was expecting, but I suppose yoga is a good idea.
OK, next one.
Dear Sam,
Thanks for your email. You asked for honesty. The rumor among our department is that this so-called ideas exercise is a weeding-out process. Why not just be honest yourself and tell us if we’re going to be fired?
Kind regards,
Tony
I blink in astonishment. What?
OK, that’s just a ridiculous reaction. He’s got to be a nutter. I quickly scroll down to the next one.
Dear Sam,
Is there a budget for this “new ideas” program you’ve launched? A few team leaders are asking.
Thanks,
Chris Davies
That’s another ridiculous reaction. A budget? Who needs a budget for ideas?
Sam,
What the fuck is going on? Next time you feel like announcing a new staff initiative, would you mind consulting the other directors?
Malcolm
The next is even more to the point:
Sam,
What’s this all about? Thanks for the heads-up. Not.
Vicks
I feel a twinge of guilt. It never occurred to me that I might get Sam into trouble with his colleagues. But surely everyone will see the beneficial side as soon as the ideas start flooding in.
Dear Sam,
The word is that you’re appointing a new “ideas czar.” You may recall that this was my idea, which I raised in a departmental meeting three years ago. I find it a little rich that my initiative has been appropriated and very much hope that when the appointment is made, I will be at the top of the short list.
Otherwise, I fear I will have to make a complaint to a more senior level.
Best,
Martin
What?
Dear Sam,
Will we be having a special presentation of all our ideas? Could you please let me know the time limit on a PowerPoint presentation? May we work as teams?
Best wishes,
Mandy
I've Got Your Number Page 14