I've Got Your Number (19 page)

Anyway, too late. I did.

I’m going to have to start taking notes. I take out my phone, open a new email, and start typing notes to myself.

THINGS TO DO BEFORE WEDDING

1. Become expert on Greek philosophy.

2. Memorize Robert Burns poems.

3. Learn long Scrabble words.

4. Remember: am HYPOCHONDRIAC.

5. Beef stroganoff. Get to like. (Hypnosis?)
⁶⁴

I look at the list for a few moments. It’s fine. I can be that person. It’s not
that
different from me.

“Well, of course you know
my
views on art in churches.” Antony’s voice is ringing out. “Absolutely
scandalous
…”

I shrink down out of view, before anyone can drag me into the conversation. Everyone knows Antony’s views on art in churches, mostly because he’s the founder of a national campaign to turn churches into art galleries and get rid of all the vicars. A few years ago he was on TV and said, “Treasures such as these should not be left in the hands of Philistines.” It got repeated everywhere, and there was a big fuss and headlines like
PROFESSOR DUBS CLERICS PHILISTINES
⁶⁵
and
PROF DISSES REVS
(that one was in
The Sun
).

I wish he’d keep his voice down. What if the vicar hears him? It’s not exactly tactful.

Now I can hear him laying into the order of service.

“Dearly beloved.”
He gives that sarcastic little laugh. “Beloved by whom? Beloved by the stars and the cosmos? Does anyone expect us to believe that some beneficent being is up there,
loving
us?
In the sight of God
. I ask you, Wanda! Absolute weak-minded nonsense.”

I suddenly see the vicar of the church walking up the aisle toward us. He’s obviously heard Antony, from his glowering expression. Yikes.

“Good evening, Poppy.”

I hastily leap up from my pew. “Good evening, Reverend Fox! How are you? We were just saying … how lovely the church looks.” I smile lamely.

“Indeed,” he says frostily.

“Have you …” I swallow. “Have you met my future father-in-law? Professor Antony Tavish.”

Thankfully, Antony shakes hands quite pleasantly with Reverend Fox, but there’s still a prickly atmosphere.

“So, you’re doing a reading, Professor Tavish,” says Reverend Fox after he’s checked a few other details. “From the Bible?”

“Hardly.” Antony’s eyes glitter at the vicar.

“I thought not.” The Reverend Fox smiles back aggressively. “Not really your ‘bag,’ shall we say.”

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
moment, 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.