“When are you planning to tell Magnus?” Ruby has her disapproving face on. I hate that face. It makes me feel small and mortified. Like that awful time she caught me giving ultrasound and texting at the same time.27 Ruby is someone you just instinctively want to impress.
“Tonight. Neither of you guys has seen it, have you?” I can’t help asking, even though it’s ridiculous, like they’ll suddenly say, “Oh yes, it’s in my bag!”
They both shrug “no.” Even Annalise is looking sorry for me.
Oh God. This is really bad.
By six o’clock it’s even worse. Annalise has Googled emerald rings.
Did I ask her to do this? No. I did not. Magnus has never told me how much the ring is worth. I asked him, jokingly, when he first put it on my finger, and he joked back that it was priceless, just like me. It was all very romantic and lovely. We were having dinner at Bluebird, and I had no idea he was going to propose. None.28
Anyway, the point is, I never knew what the ring cost and I never wanted to know. At the back of my mind I keep trying out lines to Magnus, like, “Well, I didn’t realize it was so valuable! You should have told me!”
Not that I’d have the nerve to say that. I mean, how dumb would you have to be not to realize that an emerald out of a bank vault is worth something? Still, it’s been quite comforting not to have a precise figure in my head.
But now here’s Annalise, brandishing a sheet of paper she’s printed out from the Internet.29
“Art deco, fine-quality emerald, with baguette diamonds,” she’s reading out. “Estimate twenty-five thousand pounds.”
What? My insides turn to jelly. That can’t be right.
“He wouldn’t have given me anything that expensive.” My voice is a bit shaky. “Academics are poor. ”
“He’s not poor! Look at his house! His dad’s a celebrity! Look, this one’s thirty grand.” She holds up another sheet. “It looks exactly like yours. Don’t you think, Ruby?”
I can’t look.
“ I never would have let it off my finger,” Annalise adds, arching her eyebrows, and I almost want to hit her.
“ You’re the one who wanted to try it on!” I say furiously. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still have it!”
“No, I wasn’t!” she retorts indignantly. “I just tried it on when everyone else did! It was already going round the table.”
“Well, whose idea was it, then?”
I’ve been racking my brains about this again—but if my memory was hazy yesterday, it’s even worse today.
I’m never going to believe a Poirot mystery again. Never. All those witnesses going, “Yes, I remember it was 3:06 pm exactly, because I glanced at the clock as I reached for the sugar tongs, and Lady Favisham was quite clearly sitting on the right-hand side of the fireplace.”
Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Favisham was, they just don’t want to admit it in front of Poirot. I’m amazed he gets anywhere.
“I’ve got to go.” I turn away before Annalise can taunt me with any more expensive rings.
“To tell Magnus?”
“Wedding meeting with Lucinda first. Then Magnus and his family.”
“Let us know what happens. Text us!” Annalise frowns. “Hey, that reminds me, Poppy: How come you changed your number?”
“Oh, that. Well, I went out of the hotel to get a better signal and I was holding out my phone—”
I break off. On second thought, I can’t be bothered to get into the whole story of the mugging and the phone in the bin and Sam Roxton. It’s all too way-out, and I haven’t got the energy.
Instead, I shrug. “You know. Lost my phone. Got another one. See you tomorrow.”
“Good luck, missus.” Ruby pulls me in for a quick hug.
“Text!” I hear Annalise calling after me as I head out the door. “We want hourly updates!”
She would have been great at public executions, Annalise. She would have been the one at the front, jostling for a good view of the ax, already sketching the gory bits to put up on the village notice board, in case anyone missed it.
Or, you know, whatever they did before Facebook.
I don’t know why I bothered rushing, because Lucinda’s late, as always.
In fact, I don’t know why I bothered to have a wedding planner. But I only ever think that thought very quietly to myself, because Lucinda is an old family friend of the Tavishes. Every time I mention her, Magnus says, “Are you two getting along?” in raised, hopeful tones, like we’re two endangered pandas who have to make a baby.
It’s not that I don’t like Lucinda. It’s just that she stresses me out. She sends me all these bulletins by text the whole time, of what she’s doing and where, and keeps telling me what an effort she’s making on my behalf, like the sourcing of the napkins, which was the hugest saga and took her forever and three trips to a fabric warehouse in Walthamstow.
Also, her priorities seem a little screwy. She hired an “IT wedding specialist” at great expense, who set up whizzy things like a text alert system to give all the guests updates30 and a webpage where guests can register what outfit they’re wearing and avoid “unfortunate clashes.”31 But while she was doing all that, she didn’t get back to the caterers we wanted, and we nearly lost them.
We’re meeting in the lobby of Claridge’s—Lucinda loves hotel lobbies; don’t ask me why. I sit there patiently for twenty minutes, drinking weak black tea, wishing I’d canceled, and feeling sicker and sicker at the thought of seeing Magnus’s parents. I’m wondering if I might actually have to go to the ladies’ and be ill—when she suddenly appears, all flying raven hair and Calvin Klein perfume and six mood boards under her arm. Her suede spiky kitten heels are tapping on the marble floor and her pink cashmere coat is billowing out behind her like a pair of wings.