“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 again—“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 as 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 fiancé 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.”