Sophie Kinsella - I’ve Got Your Number

I now have historical insight. I actually know what it felt like to have to trudge up to the guillotine in the French Revolution. As I walk up the hill from the tube clutching the wine I bought yesterday, my steps get slower and slower. And slower.

In fact, I realize, I’m not walking anymore. I’m standing. I’m staring up at the Tavishes’ house and swallowing hard, over and over again, willing myself to move forward.

Perspective, Poppy. It’s only a ring.

It’s only your prospective in-laws.

It was only a “falling-out.” According to Magnus,35 they never actually said straight out they didn’t want him to marry me. They only implied it. And maybe they’ve changed their minds!

Plus, I have discovered one tiny positive. My home insurance policy will pay out for losses, apparently. So that’s something. I’m even wondering whether to start the ring conversation via insurance and how handy it is. “You know, Wanda, I was reading an HSBC leaflet the other day—”

Oh God, who am I kidding? There’s no way to salvage this. It’s a nightmare. Let’s just get it over with.

My phone bleeps and I take it out of my pocket for old times’ sake. I’ve given up hoping for a miracle.

“You have one new message,” comes the familiar, unhurried tone of the voice-mail woman.

I feel like I know this woman, she’s talked to me so often. How many people have listened to her, desperate for her to hurry up, their hearts pounding with fear or hope? Yet she always sounds equally unfussed, like she doesn’t even care what you’re about to hear. You should be able to choose different options for different kinds of news, so she could start off: “Guess what! Ace news! Listen to your voice mail! Yay!” Or: “Sit down, love. Get a drink. You’ve got a message and it’s not good.”

I press 1, shift the mobile to the other hand, and start trudging again. The message was left while I was on the tube. It’s probably just Magnus, asking where I am.

“Hello, this is the Berrow Hotel, with a message for Poppy Wyatt. Miss Wyatt, it appears your ring was found yesterday. However, due to the chaos of the fire alarm—”

What? What?

Joy is whooshing through me like a sparkler. I can’t listen properly. I can’t take the words in. They’ve found it!

I’ve already abandoned the message. I’m on speed-dial to the concierge. I love him. I love him!

“Berrow Hotel—” It’s the concierge’s voice.

“Hi!” I say breathlessly. “It’s Poppy Wyatt. You’ve found my ring! You’re a star! Shall I come straight round and get it?—”

“Miss Wyatt,” he interrupts me. “Did you listen to the message?”

“I … Some of it.”

“I’m afraid … ” He pauses. “I’m afraid we are not presently sure of the ring’s whereabouts.”

I stop dead and peer at the phone. Did he just say what I thought he did?

“You said you’d found it.” I’m trying to stay calm. “How can you not be sure of its whereabouts?”

“According to one of our staff, a cleaner waitress did find an emerald ring on the carpet of the ballroom during the fire alarm and handed it to our guest manager, Mrs. Fairfax. However, we are uncertain as to what happened after that. We have been unable to find it in the safe or in any of our usual secure locations. We are deeply sorry, and will do our utmost to—”

“Well, talk to Mrs. Fairfax!” I try to control my impatience. “Find out what she did with it!”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, she has gone on holiday, and despite our best endeavors, we have been unable to contact her.”

“Has she pinched it?” I say in horror.

I’ll find her. Whatever it takes. Detectives, police, Interpol … I’m already standing in the courtroom, pointing at the ring in a plastic evidence bag, while a middle–aged woman, tanned from her Costa del Sol hideout, glowers at me from the dock.

“Mrs. Fairfax has been a faithful employee for thirty years and has handled many valuable artifacts belonging to guests.” He sounds slightly offended. “I find it very hard to believe that she would have done such a thing.”

“So, it must be somewhere in the hotel?” I feel a glimmer of hope.

“That is what we are endeavoring to find out. Obviously, as soon as I know anything more, I will be in touch. I can use this number still, can I?”

“Yes!” Instinctively, I grip the phone more tightly. “Use this number. Please call as soon as you hear anything. Thank you.”

As I ring off, I’m breathing hard. I don’t know how to feel. I mean, it’s good news. Kind of. Isn’t it?

Except that I still don’t have the ring safely on my finger. Everyone will still be worried. Magnus’s parents will think I’m flaky and irresponsible and never forgive me for putting them through such stress. So I still have a total nightmare ahead of me.

Unless … Unless I could—

No. I couldn’t possibly. Could I?

I’m standing like a pillar on the pavement, my mind circling furiously. OK. Let’s think this through properly. Logically and ethically. If the ring isn’t actually lost …

I passed a Boots on the high street, about four hundred yards back. Almost without knowing what I’m doing, I retrace my steps. I ignore the shop assistant who tries to tell me they’re closing. My head down, I make my way to the first-aid counter. There’s a glove thing you pull on, and some rolls of adhesive bandage. I’ll get it all.

Ten minutes later I’m striding up the hill again. My hand is swathed in bandages, and you can’t tell whether I’m wearing a ring or not, and I don’t even have to lie. I can say, “It’s difficult to wear a ring with a burned hand.” Which is true.

I’m nearly at the house when my phone bleeps and a text from Sam Roxton pops into my in-box.

Where’s the attachment?

Typical. No “hello,” no explanation. He just expects me to know what he’s on about.

What do you mean?

The email from Ned Murdoch. There was no attachment.

That’s not my fault! I just sent on the email. They must have forgotten to put it on. Why don’t you ask them to send it again, WITH the attachment? Directly to your computer?

I know I sound a bit exasperated, and of course he instantly picks up on it.

This phone-sharing was your idea, if you remember. If you’re tired of it, just return my phone to my office.

Hurriedly I text back:

No, no! It’s OK. If it comes through, I’ll forward it. Don’t worry. I thought you were getting emails transferred to your office???

Techies said they’d sort it asap. But they are liars.

There’s a short pause, then he texts:

Got the ring, btw?

Nearly. Hotel found it, but then lost it again.

Typical.

I know.

By now I’ve stopped walking and am leaning against a wall. I know I’m spinning out time before I have to go into the house, but I can’t help it. It’s quite comforting, having this virtual conversation through the ether with someone who doesn’t know Magnus or me, or anybody. After a few moments I text in a confessional rush:

Am not telling my in-laws have lost ring. Do you think that’s really bad?

There’s silence for a bit—then he replies:

Why should you tell them?

What kind of ridiculous question is that? I roll my eyes and type:

It’s their ring!

Almost at once, his reply comes beeping in.

Not their ring. Your ring. None of their business. No big deal.

How can he write No big deal? As I text back, I’m jabbing the keyboard crossly.

Is family bloody HEIRLOOM. Am about to have dinner with them right now. They will expect to see ring on my finger. Is huge deal, thank you.

For a while there’s silence, and I think he’s given up on our conversation. Then, just as I’m about to move on, another text beeps into the phone.

How will you explain missing ring?

I have a moment’s internal debate. Why not get a second opinion? Lining up the screen carefully, I take a photo of my bandaged hand and MMS it to him. Five seconds later he replies:

You cannot be serious.

I feel a twinge of resentment and find myself typing:

What would YOU do, then?

I’m half-hoping he might have some brilliant idea I hadn’t thought of. But his next text just says:

This is why men don’t wear rings.

Great. Well, that’s really helpful. I’m about to type something sarcastic back, when a second text arrives:

It looks phony. Take off one bandage.

I stare at my hand in dismay. Perhaps he’s right.

OK. Thx.

I unpeel a bandage and am stuffing it into my bag just as Magnus’s voice rings out: “Poppy! What are you doing?”

I look up—and he’s striding along the street toward me. Flustered, I drop the phone into my bag and zip it shut. I can hear the bleep of another text arriving, but I’ll have to look at it later.

“Hi, Magnus! What are you doing here?”

“On my way to get some milk. We’re out.” He stops in front of me and rests two hands on my shoulders, his brown eyes regarding me in tender amusement. “What’s up? Putting the evil moment off?”