Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

“No. It’s fine.” She draws her feet up onto her chair and regards me intently. “Why aren’t you sure if he is or not? What makes you think he is?”

“Someone sent me an anonymous text. That’s it.”

“So ignore it.” Violet gives me a close look. “Or do you have a gut feeling? Does it seem like something he might do?”

I’m silent for a moment. I so wish I could say, “Never! Not in a million years!” But too many moments are sticking in my brain. Moments I haven’t wanted to see, that I’ve tried to blank out. Magnus flirting with girls at parties. Magnus surrounded by all his female students, his arms casually draped around their shoulders. Magnus being practically molested by Annalise.

The thing is, girls like Magnus. And he likes them.

“I don’t know,” I say, staring into my coffee. “Maybe.”

“And do you have any idea who he’s doing it with?”

“Maybe.”

“So!” Violet seems galvanized. “Confront the situation. Have you spoken to him? Have you spoken to her?”

“He’s in Bruges, on his stag do. I can’t talk to him. And she’s—” I break off. “No. I can’t. I mean, it’s a possibility. She’s probably totally innocent.”

“Are you sure he’s on his stag do?” says Violet, raising her eyebrows, then grins. “No, I’m just winding you up.” She pushes my arm. “I’m sure he is. Hey, babe, I have to go and pack. Hope it all works out for you. Give my love to Sam.”

As she strides out of the coffee shop, about six male heads turn. I’m pretty sure that if Magnus were here, his would be one of them.

I stare morosely into my coffee for a little while. Why do people have to keep telling me to confront the situation? I do confront things. Loads of times. But it’s not like I can march up to Magnus on his stag do, or accost Lucinda and accuse her out of the blue. I mean, you need evidence. You need facts. One anonymous text doesn’t cut it.

My phone starts emitting Beyoncé and I stiffen, in spite of myself. Is that—

No. It’s Unknown Number. But which bloody Unknown Number? I take a swig of coffee, to steel myself, and answer.

“Hi, Poppy Wyatt here.”

“Hello, Poppy. My name is Brenda Fairfax. I’m calling from the Berrow Hotel. I’ve been away on holiday for a few days; otherwise of course I should have called at once. I do apologize.”

Mrs. Fairfax. After all this time. I almost want to burst out laughing.

To think how desperate I was to hear this woman’s voice. And now it’s all irrelevant. I’ve got the ring back. None of it matters. Why is she calling me, anyway? I told the concierge I’d got the ring safely. The whole thing is over.

“You don’t need to apologize—”

“But of course I do! What a dreadful mix-up.” She sounds quite flustered. Maybe the concierge gave her a hard time. Maybe he told her to call me and apologize.

“Please don’t worry. I had a bit of a fright, but it’s all fine now.”

“And such a valuable ring too!”

“It’s fine,” I say soothingly. “No harm done.”

“But I still can’t understand it! One of the waitresses had handed it to me and I was going to put it in the safe, you see. That’s what I was about to do.”

“Honestly, you don’t have to explain.” I feel quite sorry for her. “These things happen. It was a fire alarm, you got distracted—”

“No!” Mrs. Fairfax sounds a mite offended. “That’s not what happened at all. I was about to put it in the safe, as I say. But before I could do so, another lady rushed up to me and told me it was hers. Another guest at the tea.”

“Another guest?” I say, after a puzzled pause.

“Yes! She said it was her engagement ring and that she’d been frantically searching high and low. She was very credible. The waitress vouched for the fact that she’d been sitting at the table. And then she put it on. Well, who was I to disbelieve her?”

I rub my eyes, wondering if I’m hearing this correctly.

“You’re saying someone else took my ring? And said it was hers?”

“Yes! She was adamant that the ring belonged to her. She put it on straightaway and it fitted. It looked very nice, as it happens. I know that strictly speaking I should have asked her for proof that she was the owner, and we will be reviewing our official procedures in the light of this unfortunate occurrence—”

“Mrs. Fairfax.” I cut her off, not remotely interested in official procedures. “Can I just ask you—did she have long dark hair, by any chance? And a little diamanté hair band?”

“Yes. Long dark hair, with a diamanté hair band, as you say, and a wonderful orange dress.”

I close my eyes in disbelief. Lucinda. It was Lucinda.

The ring didn’t get caught on her bag lining. She deliberately took it. She knew how panicked I’d be. She knew how important it was. But she took it and pretended it was hers. God only knows why.

A pulse is beating in my head as I say goodbye to Mrs. Fairfax. I’m breathing hard and my hands are balling into fists. Enough is enough. Maybe I don’t have any evidence that she’s sleeping with Magnus—but I can sure as hell confront her about this. And I’m going to do it right now.

I don’t know what Lucinda’s doing today. I haven’t had any emails or messages from her for a couple of days, which is unusual. As I text, my hands are actually shaking.

Hi Lucinda! How’s it going? What are you up to? Can I help? Poppy.

Almost immediately she replies:

Just polishing off some loose ends at home. Don’t worry, nothing for you to help with. Lucinda

Lucinda lives in Battersea. Twenty minutes away by taxi. I’m not going to give her time to get her story straight. I’m going to take her by surprise.

I hail a cab and give her address, then sit back, trying to stay calm and steely, even though the more I think about this, the more flabbergasted I feel. Lucinda took my ring. Does that mean she’s a thief ? Did she make a copy and keep the real one and sell it? I glance at my left hand, suddenly doubtful. Am I so sure this is the real thing?

Or was she somehow meaning to be helpful? Did she forget she had it? Should I give her the benefit of the doubt—

No, Poppy. No chance.

As I arrive at her red-brick-mansion block, a guy in jeans is opening the main front door. I quickly dodge in behind him and head up the three flights of stairs to Lucinda’s flat. This way she’ll get absolutely no warning that I’m here.

Maybe she’ll open the door wearing the real ring, plus all the other jewelry she’s stolen from unsuspecting friends. Maybe no one will answer, because she’s actually in Bruges. Maybe Magnus will open the door dressed in a bedsheet—

Oh God. Stop it, Poppy.

I rap on the door, trying to sound like a delivery guy. It must have worked, because she swings the door open, her face creased in annoyance, her phone to her ear, before stopping dead, her mouth in an O.

I stare back, equally wordless. My eyes flick past Lucinda, to the huge suitcase in the hall, then to the passport in her hand, and then back to the suitcase.

“As soon as possible,” she says. “Terminal Four. Thanks.” She rings off and glares at me, as though daring me to ask what she’s doing.

I’m racking my brains for something inspired and caustic to say, but my inner five-year-old is quicker off the mark.

“You took my ring!” As the words burst out, I can feel my cheeks turning pink, to add to the effect. Maybe I should stamp my foot too.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Lucinda wrinkles her nose disparagingly, as though to accuse one’s wedding planner of theft is a total etiquette no-no. “You got it back, didn’t you?”