I've Got Your Number

I've Got Your Number Page 114

“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?”

“But you took it!” I step inside her flat, even though she hasn’t invited me to, and can’t help glancing around. I’ve never been to Lucinda’s flat before. It’s quite grand and has clearly been interior-decorated, but it’s an absolute mess of cluttered surfaces and chairs, with wineglasses everywhere. No wonder she always wants to meet at hotels.

“Look, Poppy.” She sighs bad-temperedly. “I’ve got things to do, OK? If you’re going to come around and make offensive remarks, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Huh?

She’s the one who did something wrong. She’s the one who took a priceless engagement ring and pretended it was hers. How has she managed to leapfrog over that fact and make it look like I’m in the wrong for even mentioning it?

“Now, if that’s all, I am rather busy—”

“Stop right there.” The force of my own voice takes me by surprise. “That’s not all. I want to know exactly why you took my ring. Were you planning to sell it? Did you need the money?”