I've Got Your Number

  I stare back, equally wordless. My eyes flick past Lucinda, to the huge suitcase in the hall, then to the passport in her hand, and then back to the suitcase.

  “As soon as possible,” she says. “Terminal Four. Thanks.” She rings off and glares at me, as though daring me to ask what she’s doing.

  I’m racking my brains for something inspired and caustic to say, but my inner five-year-old is quicker off the mark.

  “You took my ring!” As the words burst out, I can feel my cheeks turning pink, to add to the effect. Maybe I should stamp my foot too.

  “Oh for God’s sake.” Lucinda wrinkles her nose disparagingly, as though to accuse one’s wedding planner of theft is a total etiquette no-no. “You got it back, didn’t you?”

  “But you took it!” I step inside her flat, even though she hasn’t invited me to, and can’t help glancing around. I’ve never been to Lucinda’s flat before. It’s quite grand and has clearly been interior-decorated, but it’s an absolute mess of cluttered surfaces and chairs, with wineglasses everywhere. No wonder she always wants to meet at hotels.

  “Look, Poppy.” She sighs bad-temperedly. “I’ve got things to do, OK? If you’re going to come around and make offensive remarks, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Huh?

  She’s the one who did something wrong. She’s the one who took a priceless engagement ring and pretended it was hers. How has she managed to leapfrog over that fact and make it look like I’m in the wrong for even mentioning it?

  “Now, if that’s all, I am rather busy—”

  “Stop right there.” The force of my own voice takes me by surprise. “That’s not all. I want to know exactly why you took my ring. Were you planning to sell it? Did you need the money?”

  “No, I didn’t need the money.” She glares at me. “You want to know why I took it, Miss Poppy? It’s because it should have been mine.”

  “Yours? Wh—”

  I can’t even finish the word, let alone the sentence.

  “You know Magnus and I are old flames.” She throws the information out casually, like a swatch of material on a table.

  “What? No! No one ever told me that! Were you engaged?”

  My mind is juddering with shock. Magnus was with Lucinda? Magnus was engaged? He never mentioned a previous fiancee, let alone that it was Lucinda. Why don’t I know any of this? What is going on?

  “No, we were never engaged,” she says reluctantly, then shoots me a murderous look. “But we should have been. He proposed to me. With that ring.”

  I feel a clench of disbelieving pain. Magnus proposed to another girl with my ring? With our ring? I want to turn on my heel and leave, escape, block my ears … but I can’t. I have to get to the bottom of all this. Nothing seems to make sense.

  “I don’t understand. I don’t get it. You said you should have been engaged. What happened?”

  “He bottled it, is what happened,” she says furiously. “The bloody coward.”

  “Oh God. At what stage? Had you planned the wedding? He didn’t jilt you, did he?” I say in sudden horror. “He didn’t leave you standing at the altar?”

  Lucinda has closed her eyes as though reliving it. Now she opens them and gives me a vicious glare.

  “Far worse. He chickened out halfway through the bloody proposal.”

  “What?” I peer at her, not quite understanding. “What do you—”

  “We were on a skiing holiday, two years ago.” Her brow tightens in memory. “I wasn’t stupid, I knew he’d brought the family ring. I knew he was going to propose. So we’d had dinner one night, and it was just us in the chalet. The fire was going, and he knelt down on the rug and brought out this little box. He opened it up, and there was this amazing vintage emerald ring.”

  Lucinda pauses, breathing hard. I don’t move a muscle.

  “He took hold of my hand, and he said, ‘Lucinda, my darling, will you …’ ” She inhales sharply, as though she can hardly bear to carry on. “And I was going to say yes! I was all poised! I was only waiting for him to get to the end. But then he stopped. He started sweating. And then he stood up and said, ‘Bugger. Sorry. I can’t do this. Sorry, Lucinda.’ “

  He didn’t. He didn’t. I stare at her in disbelief, almost wanting to laugh.

  “What did you say?”

  “I yelled, ‘Do what, you prick? You haven’t even bloody proposed yet!’ But he didn’t have anything to say. He closed up the box and put the ring away. And that was that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say lamely. “That’s really awful.”

  “He’s such a commitment-phobe, he couldn’t even commit to a fucking proposal! He couldn’t even see that through!” She looks absolutely livid, and I don’t blame her.

  “So, why on earth did you agree to organize his wedding?” I say incredulously. “Isn’t that rubbing it in your face, every day?”

  “It was the least he could do to make amends.” She glowers at me. “I needed a job. Although, actually, I’m thinking of changing career. Arranging weddings is a bloody nightmare.”

  No wonder Lucinda’s been in such a bad mood this whole time. No wonder she’s been so aggressive toward me. If I had known for one second that she was an old flame of Magnus’s …

  “I was never going to keep the ring,” she adds sulkily. “I just wanted to give you a scare.”

  “Well, you managed it, all right.”

  I can’t believe I’ve let this woman into my life, confided in her, discussed all my hopes for my wedding day—and she’s an ex of Magnus. How could he have let this happen? How could he have thought it would ever work?

  I feel like some kind of filter has been lifted from my eyes. I feel like I’m finally waking up to reality. And I haven’t even tackled my main fear yet.

  “I got the idea you were still sleeping with Magnus,” I blurt out. “I mean, not when you were going out together. Now. Recently. Last week.”

  There’s silence and I look up, hoping she’ll launch into some stinging denial. But as I meet her eye, she turns away.

  “Lucinda?”

  She grabs her suitcase and starts wheeling it toward the door. “I’m going away. I’ve had enough of this whole thing. I deserve a holiday. If I have to talk weddings for one more second—”

  “Lucinda?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she erupts impatiently. “Maybe I slept with him a few times for old times’ sake. If you can’t keep tabs on him, you shouldn’t marry him.” Her phone rings and she answers. “Hi. Yes. Coming down. Excuse me.” She ushers me out of the flat, bangs the door, and double-locks it.

  “You can’t just leave!” I’m shaking all over. “You have to tell me what happened!”

  “What do you want me to say?” She throws her hands up. “These things happen. You weren’t meant to find out, but there you go.” She manhandles her suitcase into the lift. “Oh, and by the way, if you think you and I are the only girls he’s hauled that emerald ring out of the safe for, think again. We’re on the end of a list, sweetie.”

  “What?” I’m starting to hyperventilate. “What list? Lucinda, wait! What are you talking about?”

  “Work it out, Poppy. It’s your problem. I’ve sorted the flowers and the order of service and the almonds and the fucking … dessert spoons.” She jabs a button and the lift doors start to close. “This one’s all yours.”

  88 OK, unlikely.

  89 OK, even less likely.

  90 Aka Clemency. Possibly.

  91 And if you think she wouldn’t, you don’t know Annalise.

  92 Either this is a very arty look, like you see in fashion magazines, or she didn’t take her makeup off yesterday. (Still. Like I can talk.)

  93 No one’s ever grabbed my hand to look at the ring before. That is definitely an invasion of personal space.

  After Lucinda’s gone, I stand motionless for about three minutes solid, in a state of shock. Then, abruptly, I come to. I head for the stairwell and down the stairs
. As I step out of the building I switch off my phone. I can’t afford any distractions. I need to think. I need to be alone. Like Lucinda said, I need to work this out for myself.

  I start walking along the pavement, not caring which direction I’m going. My mind is circling around all the facts, the guesses, the speculation, and back to the facts. But gradually, as I walk, thoughts seem to settle into place. My resolve hardens. I have a plan.

  I don’t know where my sudden determination has come from: whether Lucinda has spurred me on or whether I’ve just had enough of avoiding confrontation while my stomach ties itself up in knots. But I’m going to face this one down. I’m going to do it. The weirdest thing is, I keep hearing Sam’s voice in my ear, reassuring me and bolstering me and telling me I can do it. It’s as if he’s giving me a pep talk, even though he’s not here. And it’s making me stand taller. It’s making me feel like I can do this. I’m going to be a Whole New Poppy.

  As I reach the corner of Battersea Rise, I feel ready. I haul out my phone, turn it on, and, without reading a single new message, speed-dial Magnus. Of course he doesn’t answer, but I expected that.

  “Hi, Magnus,” I say in the most crisp, businesslike tones I can muster. “Can you call me as soon as possible? We need to talk.”

  OK. Good. That was dignified. A brief, cutting message that he will understand. Now ring off.

  Ring off, Poppy.

  But I can’t. My hand feels welded to the phone. While I’m connected to him, or even just to his voice mail, I can feel my defenses coming down. I want to talk. I want to hear from him. I want him to know how shocked and hurt I am.

  “Because … I’ve heard some news, OK?” I hear myself continuing. “I’ve been speaking to your great friend Lucinda.” I give Lucinda an angry little emphasis. “And what she told me was a bit of a shock, to say the least, so I think we need to talk as soon as possible. Because unless you’ve got some great, marvelous explanation, which I can’t think how you would, because was Lucinda lying? Because someone must be lying, Magnus. Someone must be—”

  Beep.

  Damn, I got cut off.

  As I turn off my phone again, I’m cursing myself. So much for the brief, cutting message. So much for a Whole New Poppy. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.

  Still, never mind. At least I made the call. At least I didn’t sit with my hands over my ears, avoiding the whole thing. And now to the next thing on my mental list. I step into the road, lift my hand, and flag down a cab.

  “Hi,” I say as I get in. “I’d like to go to Hampstead, please.”

  I know Wanda’s in today, because she said she was preparing for some radio show she’s doing tonight. And, sure enough, as I draw up to the house, music is blasting out of the windows. I have no idea if Antony is there too, but I don’t care. They can both hear this. As I approach the house, I’m trembling, like I was the other night—but in a different way. In a positive way. In a bring-it-on way.

  “Poppy!” As Wanda swings the door open, she beams widely. “What a lovely surprise!” She swoops in for a kiss, then studies my face again. “Have you just dropped round to be sociable, or was there anything—”

  “We need to talk.”

  There’s a brief moment of silence between us. I can tell she understands that I don’t mean a jolly chitchat.

  “I see. Well, come in!” She smiles again, but I can see anxiety in the downward slant of her eyes and the faint crinkling of her mouth. She has a very expressive face, Wanda: Her English-rose skin is pale and fragile, like tissue paper, and the lines round her eyes crease in a myriad of different ways according to her mood. I guess that’s what happens when you have no Botox, makeup, or fake tan. You have expressions instead. “Shall I put on some coffee?”

  “Why not?” I follow her into the kitchen, which is about ten times as messy as it was when I was living here with Magnus. I can’t help wrinkling my nose at a bad smell in the air—which I guess is the bunch of flowers still in paper, gently rotting on the counter. A man’s shoe is in the sink, along with a hairbrush, and there are huge piles of old cardboard folders on every chair.

  “Ah.” Wanda gestures vaguely around as though hoping one of the chairs might magically clear itself. “We were having a sort-out. To what extent does one archive? That’s the question.”

  Once upon a time I would have hastily cast around for something intelligent to say about archives. But now I face her square-on and say bluntly, “Actually, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

  “Indeed,” says Wanda after a pause. “I rather thought there might be. Let’s sit down.”

  She grabs a pile of folders off a chair, to reveal a large fish wrapped in fishmonger’s paper. OK. So that was the smell.

  “That’s where that went. Extraordinary.” She frowns, hesitates a moment, then puts the folders back on top of it. “Let’s try the drawing room.”

  I sit down on one of the bumpy sofas, and Wanda draws up an ancient needlepoint-embroidered chair opposite. The smell of old wood smoke, musty kilim, and potpourri is overwhelming. Golden light is streaming through the original stained-glass panels in the windows. This room is so Tavish. And so is Wanda. She’s sitting in her usual uncompromising position, knees firmly apart, dirndl skirt draping around her legs, head tilted forward to listen, with her frizzy hennaed hair falling all around her face.

  “Magnus—” I begin, then immediately come to a halt.

  “Yes?”

  “Magnus—”

  I stop again. There’s silence for a moment.

  This woman is so significant in my life, but I barely know her. We’ve had a completely civilized, distant relationship where we haven’t talked about anything except things that don’t matter. Now it feels like I’m about to rip down the screen between us. But I don’t know where to start. Words are buzzing around my head like flies. I need to catch one.

  “How many girls has Magnus proposed to?” I didn’t mean to start there, but then, why not?

  Wanda looks caught out. “Poppy!” She swallows. “Goodness. I really think Magnus … This is a matter …” She rubs her face, and I notice that her fingernails are filthy.

  “Magnus is in Bruges. I can’t talk to him. So I’ve come to talk to you.”

  “I see.” Wanda’s expression becomes grave.

  “Lucinda told me there’s a list and she and I are at the end of it. Magnus never mentioned anyone else. He never even told me he and Lucinda used to be an item. Nobody told me.” I can’t keep the resentment out of my voice.

  “Poppy. You mustn’t …” I can tell Wanda’s floundering. “Magnus is very, very fond of you, and you shouldn’t worry about … about that. You’re a lovely girl.”

  She might be trying to be kind—but the way she says it makes me flinch. What does she mean by “lovely girl”? Is that some patronizing way of saying, “You may not have a brain but you look OK”?

  I have to say something. I have to. It’s now or never. Go, Poppy.

  “Wanda, you’re making me feel inferior.” The words rush out. “Do you think I’m inferior, or is this just in my mind?”

  Argh. I did it. I can’t believe I said that out loud.

  “What?” Wanda’s eyes widen so far, I notice for the first time what a stunning periwinkle blue they are. I’m taken aback by how shocked she seems, but I can’t back down now.

  “I feel inferior when I’m here.” I swallow. “Always. And I just wondered if you really thought I was or …”

  Wanda has thrust both hands into her frizzy hair. She comes across a pencil, pulls it out, and absentmindedly puts it down on the table.

  “I think we both need a drink,” she says at last. She heaves herself up out of the sagging chair and pours two glasses of scotch from a bottle in the cabinet. She hands one to me, raises her own, and takes a deep gulp. “I feel a bit knocked for six.”

  “I’m sorry.” Immediately I feel bad.

  “No!” She raises a hand. “Ab
solutely not! Dear girl! You do not have to apologize for a bona fide expression of your perception of the situation, be it construct or not.”

  I have no idea what she’s going on about. But I think she’s trying to be nice.

  “It’s up to me to apologize,” she continues, “if you have ever felt uncomfortable, let alone ‘inferior.’ Although this is such a ridiculous idea that I can barely …” She trails off, looking baffled. “Poppy, I simply don’t understand. May I just ask what has given you this impression?”

  “You’re all so intelligent.” I shrug uncomfortably. “You publish things in journals and I don’t.”

  Wanda looks perplexed. “But why should you publish things in journals?”

  “Because …” I rub my nose. “I don’t know. It’s not that. It’s … like, I don’t know how to pronounce Proust.”

  Wanda looks even more baffled. “You clearly do.”

  “OK, I do now! But I didn’t. The first time I met you, I kept getting things wrong, and Antony said my physiotherapy degree was ‘amusing,’ and I felt so mortified—” I break off, my throat suddenly blocked.

  “Ah.” A light dawns in Wanda’s eye. “Now, you must never take Antony seriously. Didn’t Magnus warn you? His sense of humor can be, shall we say, a little off? He’s offended so many of our friends with misplaced jokes, I can’t count.” She raises her eyes briefly to heaven. “He is a dear man underneath it all, though, as you’ll get to know.”

  I can’t bring myself to reply so I take a gulp of my scotch. I never usually drink scotch, but this is hitting the spot. As I look up, Wanda’s sharp eyes are on me.

  “Poppy, we’re not the type to gush. But, believe me, Antony thinks as highly of you as I do. He would be devastated to hear of your anxieties.”

  “So what was the row in the church all about?” I fling the words at her furiously before I can stop myself. Wanda looks as though I’ve slapped her.

  “Ah. You heard that. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” She takes another gulp of her scotch, looking stressed out.