“No, thanks,” says Sam.

“Me neither,” I chime in.

“Are you sure?” She twinkles at me. “It’s a big moment for the two of you. Just a little glass to take off the nerves?”

Oh my God! She thinks we’re an engaged couple. I glance at Sam for help—but he’s typing something on his phone. And there’s no way I’m launching into the story of losing my priceless heirloom ring in front of a bunch of strangers and hearing all the gasps of horror.

“I’m fine, honestly.” I smile awkwardly. “It’s not—I mean, we’re not—”

“That’s a wonderful watch, sir!” Martha’s attention has been distracted. “Is that vintage Cartier? I haven’t seen one quite like it.”

“Thanks.” Sam nods. “Got it at auction in Paris.”

Now that I notice it, Sam’s watch is quite amazing. It’s got an old leather strap, and the dull gold dial has the patina of another age. And he got it in Paris. That’s pretty cool.

“Goodness.” As we walk, Martha takes my arm and leans in, lowering her voice, girl-to-girl. “He has exquisite taste. Lucky you! You can’t say the same of all the men who come in here. Some of them go for absolute horrors. But a man who buys himself vintage Cartier has got to be on the right track!”

This is painful. What do I say?

“Er … right,” I mumble, staring at the floor.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you,” says Martha charmingly. “Please let me know if you change your mind about the champagne. Have a wonderful session with Mark!” She ushers us into a large back room with a concrete floor, lined with metal-fronted cabinets. A guy in jeans and rimless specs gets up from a trestle table and greets Sam warmly.

“Sam! Been too long!”

“Mark! How are you doing?” Sam claps Mark on the back, then steps aside. “This is Poppy.”

“Good to meet you, Poppy.” Mark shakes my hand. “So, I understand you need a replica ring.”

I feel an immediate lurch of paranoia and guilt. Did he have to say it out loud like that, for anyone to hear?

“Very temporarily.” I keep my voice almost to a whisper. “Just while I find the real thing. Which I will, really, really soon.”

“Understood.” He nods. “Useful to have a replica anyway. We do a lot of replacements for travel and so forth. Normally we only make replicas of jewelry we’ve designed ourselves, but we can make the odd exception for friends.” Mark winks at Sam. “Although we do try to be a little discreet about it. Don’t want to undermine our core business.”

“Yes!” I say quickly. “Of course. I want to be discreet too. Very much so.”

“Do you have a picture? A photo?”

“Here.” I haul out a photo which I printed off my computer this morning. It’s of Magnus and me at the restaurant where he proposed. We got the couple at the next table to take a picture of us, and I’m holding up my left hand proudly, with the ring clearly visible. I look absolutely giddy—which, to be fair, is how I was feeling.

Both men stare at it in silence.

“So, that’s the guy you’re marrying,” says Sam at last. “The Scrabble fiend.”

“Yes.”

There’s something in his tone which makes me feel defensive. I have no idea why.

“His name’s Magnus,” I add.

“Isn’t he the academic?” Sam’s frowning at the photo. “Had the TV series?”

“Yes.” I feel a flash of pride. “Exactly.”

“That’s a four-carat emerald, I’d guess?” Mark Spencer looks up from squinting at the photo.

“Maybe,” I say helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how many carats your engagement ring is?”

Both men shoot me an odd look.

“What?” I feel myself flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I’d lose it.”

“That’s very sweet,” says Mark with a wry little smile. “Most girls have it down to the nearest decimal. Then they round up.”

“Oh. Well.” I shrug to cover my embarrassment. “It’s a family ring. We didn’t really talk about it.”

“We have a lot of mounts in stock. Let me look… .” Mark pushes his chair away and starts searching through the metal drawers.

“He still doesn’t know you’ve lost it?” Sam jerks a thumb at the picture of Magnus.

“Not yet.” I bite my lip. “I’m hoping it’ll turn up and … ”

“He’ll never have to know you lost it,” Sam finishes for me. “You’ll keep the secret safe till your deathbed.”

I look away, feeling twingey with guilt. I don’t like this. I don’t like having secrets from Magnus. I don’t like being the kind of person who has assignations behind her fiancé’s back. But there’s no other way.

“So, I’m still getting Violet’s emails on this.” I gesture at him with the phone, to distract myself. “I thought the tech people were sorting it out.”

“So did I.”

“Well, you’ve got some new ones. You’ve been asked about the Fun Run four times now.”

“Hmm.” He barely nods.

“Aren’t you going to answer? And what about your hotel room for this conference in Hampshire? Do you need it for one night or two?”

“I’ll see. Not sure yet.” Sam seems so unmoved, I feel a stab of frustration.

“Don’t you answer your emails?”

“I prioritize.” He calmly taps at his screen.

“Ooh, it’s Lindsay Cooper’s birthday!” Now I’m reading a round-robin email. “Lindsay in marketing. Do you want to say happy birthday to her?”

“No, I do not.” He sounds so adamant, I feel a bit affronted.

“What’s wrong with saying happy birthday to a colleague?”

“I don’t know her.”

“Yes, you do! You work with her.”

“I work with two hundred forty-three people.”

“But isn’t she the girl who came up with that website strategy document the other day?” I say, suddenly remembering an old email correspondence. “Weren’t you all really pleased?”

“Yes,” he says blankly. “What’s that got to do with this?”

God, he’s stubborn. Giving up on Lindsay’s birthday, I scroll down to the next email.

“Peter has finalized the Air France deal. He wants to give you his full report on Monday straight after the team meeting. Is that OK?”

“Fine.” Sam barely glances up. “Just forward it. Thanks.”

If I forward it, he’ll let it sit there all day without answering.

“Why don’t I reply?” I offer. “Since you’re here and I’ve got the email open? It’ll only take a minute.”

“Oh.” He seems surprised. “Thanks. Just say, Yes.”

Yes. I carefully type. “Anything else?”

“Put Sam.”

I stare at the screen, dissatisfied. Yes. Sam. It looks so bare. So curt.

“What about adding something like, Well done?” I suggest. “Or You did it! Yay! Or just Best wishes and thanks for everything>”

Sam looks unimpressed. “Yes, Sam will be plenty.”

“Typical,” I mutter under my breath. Except perhaps it wasn’t quite as submerged under my breath as I’d intended, because Sam looks up.

“Excuse me?”

I know I should bite my tongue. But I’m so frustrated I can’t stop myself.

“You’re so abrupt! Your emails are so short! They’re awful!”

There’s a long pause. Sam looks as astonished as if the chair had started to speak.

“Sorry,” I add giving an awkward shrug. “But it’s true.”

“OK,” says Sam at last. “Let’s just get things straight. In the first place, borrowing this phone does not give you a license to read and critique my emails.” He hesitates. “In the second place, short is good.”

I’m already regretting having spoken. But I can’t back down now.

“Not that short,” I retort. “And you ignore most people completely! It’s rude!”

There. Said it.

Sam is glowering at me. “Like I said, I prioritize. Now, since your ring situation is sorted, maybe you’d like to hand the phone back and my emails won’t have to bother you anymore.” He holds out his hand.

Oh God. Is that why he’s helping me? So I’ll give the phone back?

“No!” I clutch the phone. “I mean … please. I still need it. The hotel might phone me any minute; Mrs. Fairfax will have this number … ”

I know it’s irrational, but I feel like the moment I give this phone up, I’m saying goodbye to any chance of finding the ring.

I put it behind my back for good measure and gaze beseechingly at him.

“Jesus,” Sam exhales. “This is ridiculous. I’m interviewing for a new PA this afternoon. That’s a company phone. You can’t just keep it!”

“I won’t! But can I have it a few more days? I won’t critique your emails anymore,” I add tamely. “Promise.”

“OK, guys!” Mark interrupts us. “Good news. I’ve found a mount. Now I’ll select some stones for you to look at. Excuse me a moment… .”

As he heads out of the room, my phone bleeps with a new text.

“It’s from Willow,” I say, glancing down. “Look.” I gesture at my hands. “Forwarding. Not passing any comment. None at all.”51

“Hrrmm.” Sam gives the same noncommittal growl he gave before when I mentioned Willow.

There’s an odd little pause. What should happen now is I ask something polite like, “So, how did you two meet?” and “When are you getting married?” and we start a conversation about wedding lists and the price of caterers. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to. Their relationship is so peculiar, I don’t want to go there.

I know he can be growly and curt, but I still can’t see him with a self-obsessed, whingy bitch like Willow. Especially now I’ve met him in the flesh. She must be really, really, really attractive, I decide. Like, supermodel standard. Her dazzling looks have blinded him to everything else about her. It’s the only explanation.

“Loads of people are replying to the email about Lindsay’s birthday,” I observe, to fill the silence. “They obviously don’t have a problem with it.”

“Round-robin emails are the work of the devil.” Sam barely misses a beat. “I’d rather shoot myself than reply to one.”

Well, that’s a nice attitude.

This Lindsay is obviously popular. Every twenty seconds some fresh reply all message arrives on the screen, like, Happy birthday, Lindsay! Have a wonderful celebration, whatever you’re doing. The phone keeps buzzing and flashing. It’s like a party in here. And only Sam is refusing to join in.

Oh, I can’t stand it. How hard is it to type happy birthday? Why wouldn’t you? It’s two words.

“Can’t I write happy birthday from you?” I beg. “Go on. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll type it.”

“Fuck’s sake!” Sam looks up from his own phone. “OK. Whatever. Say happy birthday. But no smiley faces or kisses,” he adds warningly. “Just happy birthday. Sam.”

Happy birthday, Lindsay! I type defiantly. Hope you’re having a great time today. Well done again on that website strategy, it was awesome. Best wishes, Sam.

Hurriedly, I send it, before he can wonder why I’m typing so much.

“What about the dentist?” I decide to push my luck.

“What about the dentist?” he echoes, and I feel an almighty surge of exasperation. Is he pretending he doesn’t know what I’m talking about or has he genuinely forgotten?

“Here we are!” The door opens and Mark appears, holding out a dark-blue velvet tray. “These are our simulated emeralds.”

“Wow,” I breathe, my attention torn away from the phone.

In front of me are ten rows of gleaming emeralds. I mean, I know they’re not real, but quite frankly I couldn’t tell the difference.52

“Is there any stone which strikes you as having a resemblance to the one you’ve lost?”

“That one.” I point to an oval rock in the middle. “It’s almost exactly the same. It’s amazing!”

“Great.” He picks it up with a pair of tweezers and places it on a small plastic dish. “The diamonds are obviously smaller and less noticeable, so I’m fairly confident of a match. You want a little distressing?” he adds. “Take the shine off?”

“Can you do that?” I say in amazement.

“We can do anything,” he says confidently. “We once made the Crown Jewels for a Hollywood movie. Looked absolutely genuine, although they never even used them in the end.”

“Wow. Well … yes, please!”

“No problem. We should get this knocked out in”—he glances at his watch—“three hours?”

“Great!”

As I stand up, I’m astounded. I can’t believe this was so easy. In fact, I feel quite exhilarated with relief. This will see me through a couple of days and then I’ll get the real thing back and it’ll all be OK.

When we return to the showroom, I sense a rustle of interest. Martha’s head pops up from the book she was writing in, and a couple of girls in dove gray are whispering and nodding at me from their position by the door. Mark leads us over to Martha again, who beams at me even more widely than before.