“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.
“… admit it, Magnus … complete mistake …”
“… cancel. Not too late. Better now than a messy divorce …”
I swallow hard. My hands are trembling around the tray. What am I hearing? What was that word, divorce?
I’m probably misinterpreting, I tell myself. It’s only a few stray words, they could mean anything.
“Well, we’re getting married, whatever you say! So you might as well bloody like it!” Magnus’s voice soars out, clear as a bell.
A chill settles on me. It’s quite hard to find an alternative interpretation of that.
There’s some rumbling reply from Antony, then Magnus yells again, “… will not end in bloody disaster!”
I feel a swell of love for Magnus. He sounds so furious. A moment later there’s a rattling at the door, and in a flash I backtrack about ten steps. As he emerges, I walk forward again, trying to look relaxed.
“Hi! Cup of tea?” Somehow I manage a natural tone. “Everything all right? I wondered where you’d got to!”
“Fine.” He smiles affectionately and snakes an arm around my waist.
He’s giving no hint that he was just yelling at his parents. I never realized he was such a good actor. He should go into politics.
“I’ll take those in to my parents, actually.” He quickly removes the tray from my grasp. “They’re … er … looking at the art.”
“Great!” I manage a smile, but my chin is wobbling. They’re not looking at the art. They’re telling each other what a terrible choice their son has made for a wife. They’re making bets that we’ll be divorced within a year.
As Magnus emerges from the antechapel again, I take a deep breath, feeling sick with nerves.
“So … what do your parents make of all this?” I say as lightly as I can manage. “I mean, your father’s not really into church, is he? Or … or … marriage, even.”
I’ve given him the perfect cue to tell me. It’s all set up. But Magnus shrugs sulkily.
“They’re OK.”
I sip my tea a few times, staring miserably at the ancient stone floor, willing myself to pursue it. I should contradict him. I should say, “I heard you arguing.” I should have it out with him.
But … I can’t do it. I’m not brave enough. I don’t want to hear the truth—that his parents think I’m crap.
“Just got to check an email.” Is it my imagination or is Magnus avoiding my gaze?
“Me too.” I peel away from him miserably and go to sit by myself on a side pew. For a few moments I hunch my shoulders, trying to resist the urge to cry. At last I reach for my phone and switch it on. I might as well catch up with some stuff. I haven’t looked at it for hours. As I switch it on, I almost recoil at the number of buzzes and flashes and bleeps which greet me. How many messages have I missed? I quickly text the concierge at the Berrow Hotel, telling him he can call off the search for the ring, and thanking him for his time. Then I turn my attention to the messages.
Top of the pile is a text from Sam, which arrived about twenty minutes ago:
On way to Germany over weekend. Heading to mountainous region. Will be off radar for a bit.
Seeing his name fills me with a longing to talk to someone, and I text back:
Hi there. Sounds cool. Why Germany?
There’s no reply, but I don’t care; it’s cathartic just to type.
So much for fake ring. Did not work. Was found out and now M’s parents think I’m a weirdo.
For a moment I wonder whether to tell him that Lucinda had the ring and ask him what he thinks. But … no. It’s too complicated. He won’t want to get into it. I send the text—then realize he might think I’m having a go at him. Quickly I type a follow-up:
Thx for help, anyway. Appreciate it.
Maybe I should have a look at his in-box. I’ve been neglecting it. There are so many emails with the same subject heading, I find myself squinting at the screen in puzzlement—till it dawns on me. Of course. Everyone’s responded to my invitation to send in ideas! These are all the replies!
For the first time this afternoon, I feel a small glow of pride in myself. If one of these people has come up with a groundbreaking idea and revolutionizes Sam’s company, then it will all be down to me.
I click on the first one, full of anticipation.
Dear Sam,
I think we should have yoga at lunchtimes, funded by the company, and several others agree with me.
Best,
Sally Brewer
I frown uncertainly. It’s not exactly what I was expecting, but I suppose yoga is a good idea.
OK, next one.
Dear Sam,
Thanks for your email. You asked for honesty. The rumor among our department is that this so-called ideas exercise is a weeding-out process. Why not just be honest yourself and tell us if we’re going to be fired?
Kind regards,
Tony
I blink in astonishment. What?
OK, that’s just a ridiculous reaction. He’s got to be a nutter. I quickly scroll down to the next one.
Dear Sam,
Is there a budget for this “new ideas” program you’ve launched? A few team leaders are asking.
Thanks,
Chris Davies
That’s another ridiculous reaction. A budget? Who needs a budget for ideas?