I've Got Your Number

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 anyway, 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—”