“Hope it goes well.” Ruby glances meaningfully at the ring, then at me.
“Thanks.”
“Text us!” chips in Annalise. “Whatever happens. We’ll be dying to know!”
The thing to remember is, the ring fooled Magnus. And if it fooled him, surely it’ll fool his parents? As we arrive at St. Edmund’s Parish Church, I feel more optimistic than I have for ages. St. Edmund’s is a big, grand church in Marylebone. In fact we chose it because it’s so beautiful. As we head inside, someone’s practicing a flashy piece on the organ. There are pink and white flowers for another wedding decorating all the pews and a general air of expectancy.
I suddenly feel a tingle of excitement. In eight days, that’ll be us! A week from tomorrow, the place will be festooned with white silk and posies. All my friends and family will be waiting excitedly. The trumpeter will be in the organ loft and I’ll be in my dress and Magnus will be standing at the altar in his designer waistcoat.62 It’s really, really happening!
I can already see Wanda inside the church, peering at some old statue. As she turns, I force myself to wave confidently, as though everything’s great and we’re the best of friends and they don’t intimidate me at all.
Magnus is right, I tell myself. I’ve been overreacting. I’ve let them get to me. They probably can’t wait to welcome me into the family.
After all, I beat them all at Scrabble, didn’t I?
“Just think.” I clutch Magnus’s arm. “Not long now!”
“Hello?” Magnus answers his phone, which must be on vibrate. “Oh, hi, Neil.”
Great. Neil is Magnus’s keenest undergraduate and is writing a thesis on symbols in the work of Coldplay.63 They’ll be on the phone for hours. Mouthing apologetically, he disappears out of the church.
You’d think he could have turned his phone off. I’ve turned mine off.
Anyway, never mind.
“Hello!” I exclaim as Wanda comes down the aisle. “Good to see you! Isn’t this exciting?”
I’m not exactly proffering my ring hand. But neither am I hiding it. It’s neutral. It’s the Switzerland of hands.
“Poppy.” Wanda does a dramatic swoop toward my cheek. “Dear girl. Now, let me introduce Paul. Where’s he got to? How is your burn, by the way?”
For a moment I can’t move.
Paul. The dermatologist. Shit. I forgot about the dermatologist. How could I forget about the dermatologist? How could I be so stupid ? I was so relieved to get a ring substitute, I forgot I was supposed to be mortally injured.
“You’ve taken your bandage off,” observes Wanda.
“Oh.” I swallow. “Yes. I did. Because … my hand’s much better, actually. Much better.”
“Can’t be too careful, though, even with these small injuries.” Wanda is ushering me down the aisle, and there’s nothing I can do except walk obediently. “Colleague of ours in Chicago stubbed his toe and just soldiered on; next thing we know, he’s in hospital with gangrene! I said to Antony—>” Wanda interrupts herself. “ Here she is. The fiancée. The betrothed. The patient.”
Antony and an elderly man in a purple V-neck both turn from peering at a painting hanging on a stone pillar and peer at me instead.
“Poppy,” says Antony. “Let me introduce our neighbor, Paul McAndrew, one of the most eminent professors of dermatology in the country. Specialist in burns; isn’t that fortunate?”
“Great!” My voice is a nervous squeak and my hands have crept behind my back. “Like I say, it’s a lot better—”
“Let’s take a look,” says Paul, in a pleasant, matter-of-fact way.
There’s no way out. Mortified, I slowly extend my left hand. Everybody looks at my smooth, unblemished skin in silence.
“ Where was the burn, exactly?” asks Paul at last.
“Um … here.” I gesture vaguely at my thumb.
“Was it a scald? A cigarette burn?” He’s taken hold of my hand and is feeling it with an expert touch.
“No. It was … um … on a radiator.” I swallow. “It was really sore.”
“Her whole hand was bandaged.” Wanda sounds bemused. “She looked like a war victim! That was only yesterday!”
“I see.” The doctor relinquishes my hand. “Well, it seems OK now, doesn’t it?” he says kindly to me. ’Any pain? Any tenderness?”
I shake my head mutely.
“I’ll prescribe some aqueous cream,” he says kindly. “In case the symptoms return. How about that?”
I can see Wanda and Antony exchanging looks. Great. They obviously think I’m a total hypochondriac.
OK. Fine. I’ll go with that. I’ll be the family hypochondriac. It can be one of my little quirks. Could be worse. At least they haven’t exclaimed, “What the hell have you done with our priceless ring and what’s that piece of junk you’re wearing?”
As though reading my mind, Wanda glances again at my hand.
“My mother’s emerald ring, do you see, Antony?” She points at my hand. “Magnus gave it to Poppy when he proposed.”
OK. I’m definitely not making this up: There’s a pointed edge to her voice. And now she’s shooting Antony a significant look. What’s going on? Did she want the ring herself? Was Magnus not supposed to give it away? I feel like I’ve blundered into some tricksy family situation which is invisible to me but they’re all too polite to mention it and I’m never going to know what anybody really thinks.