Even then, it’s not as if I was worried. I didn’t think the ring would have gone. I assumed one of my friends had it safe and I’d meet up with everyone outside and get it back.
Outside, of course, it was mayhem. There was some big business conference happening at the hotel as well as our tea, and all the delegates were spilling out of different doors into the road, and hotel staff were trying to make announcements with loud-hailers, and cars were beeping, and it took me ages just to find Natasha and Clare in the mêlée.
‘Have you got my ring?’ I demanded at once, trying not to sound accusatory. ‘Who’s got it?’
Both of them looked blank.
‘Dunno.’ Natasha shrugged. ‘Didn’t Annalise have it?’
So then I plunged back into the throng to find Annalise, but she didn’t have it; she thought Clare had it. And Clare thought Clemency had it. And Clemency thought Ruby might have had it, but hadn’t she gone already?
The thing about panic is, it creeps up on you. One minute you’re still quite calm, still telling yourself, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it can’t be lost.’ The next, the Marie Curie staff are announcing that the event will be curtailed early due to unforeseen circumstances, and handing out goody bags. And all your friends have disappeared to catch the tube. And your finger is still bare. And a voice inside your head is screeching, ‘Oh my God! I knew this would happen! Nobody should ever have entrusted me with an antique ring! Big mistake! Big mistake!’
And that’s how you find yourself under a table an hour later, groping around a grotty hotel carpet, praying desperately for a miracle. (Even though your fiancé’s father has written a whole bestselling book on how miracles don’t exist and it’s all superstition and even saying ‘OMG’ is the sign of a weak mind.)4
Suddenly I realize my phone is flashing, and grab it with trembling fingers. Three messages have come through, and I scroll through them in hope.
Found it yet? Annalise xx
Sorry babe, haven’t seen it. Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to Magnus. C xxx
Hi Pops! God, how awful, to lose your ring! Actually I thought I saw it…(incoming text)
I stare at my phone, galvanized. Clare thought she saw it? Where?
I crawl out from under the table and wave my phone around, but the rest of the text resolutely refuses to come through. The signal in here is rubbish. How can this call itself a five-star hotel? I’ll have to go outside.
‘Hi!’ I approach the grey-haired cleaner, raising my voice above the Hoover’s roar. ‘I’m popping out to check a text. But if you do find the ring, just call me, I’ve given you my mobile number, I’ll just be on the street …’
‘Right you are, dear,’ says the cleaner patiently.
I hurry through the lobby, dodging groups of conference delegates, slowing slightly as I pass the concierge’s desk.
‘Any sign of—’
‘Nothing handed in yet, madam.’
The air outside is balmy, with just a hint of summer, even though it’s only mid April. I hope the weather will still be like this in ten days’ time, because my wedding dress is backless and I’m counting on a fine day.
There are wide shallow steps in front of the hotel and I walk up and down them, swishing my phone back and forth, trying to get a signal but with no success. At last I head down on to the actual pavement, waving my phone around more wildly, holding it over my head, then leaning into the quiet Knightsbridge street, my phone in my outstretched fingertips.
Come on, phone, I mentally cajole it. You can do it. Do it for Poppy. Fetch the message. There must be a signal somewhere … you can do it …
‘Aaaaaaah!’ I hear my own yell of shock before I even clock what’s happened. There’s a twisting pain in my shoulder. My fingers feel scratched. A figure on a bike is pedalling swiftly towards the end of the road. I only have time to register an old grey hoodie and skinny black jeans before the bike turns the corner.
My hand’s empty. What the hell—
I stare at my palm in numb disbelief. It’s gone. That guy stole my phone. He bloody stole it.
My phone’s my life. I can’t exist without it. It’s a vital organ.
‘Madam, are you all right?’ The doorman is hurrying down the steps. ‘Did something happen? Did he hurt you?’
‘I … I’ve been mugged,’ I somehow manage to stutter. ‘My phone’s been nicked.’
The doorman clicks sympathetically. ‘Chancers, they are. Have to be so careful in an area like this …’
I’m not listening. I’m starting to shake all over. I’ve never felt so bereft and panicky. What do I do without my phone? How do I function? My hand keeps automatically reaching for my phone in its usual place in my pocket. Every instinct in me wants to text someone, ‘OMG, I’ve lost my phone!’ but how can I do that without a bloody phone?
My phone is my people. It’s my friends. It’s my family. It’s my work. It’s my world. It’s everything. I feel like someone’s wrenched my life-support system away from me.
‘Shall I call the police, madam?’ The doorman is peering at me anxiously.
I’m too distracted to reply. I’m consumed with a sudden, even more terrible realization. The ring. I’ve handed out my mobile number to everyone: the cleaners, the cloakroom attendants, the Marie Curie people, everyone. What if someone finds it? What if someone’s got it and they’re trying to call me right this minute and there’s no answer because Hoodie Guy has already chucked my SIM card into the river?
Oh God.5 I need to talk to the concierge. I’ll give him my home number instead—
No. Bad idea. If they leave a message, Magnus might hear it.6
OK, so … so … I’ll give my work number. Yes.
Except no one will be at the physio clinic this evening. I can’t go and sit there for hours, just in case.
I’m starting to feel seriously freaked out now. Everything’s unravelling.
To make matters even worse, as I run back into the lobby, the concierge is busy. His desk is surrounded by a large group of conference delegates, talking about restaurant reservations. I try to catch his eye, hoping he’ll beckon me forward as a priority, but he studiously ignores me, and I feel a twinge of hurt. I know I’ve taken up quite a lot of his time this afternoon – but doesn’t he realize what a hideous crisis I’m in?
‘Madam.’ The doorman has followed me into the lobby, his brow creased with concern. ‘Can we get you something for the shock? Arnold!’ He briskly calls over a waiter. ‘A brandy for the lady, please, on the house. And if you talk to our concierge, he’ll help you with the police. Would you like to sit down?’
‘No thanks.’ A thought suddenly occurs to me. ‘Maybe I should phone my own number! Call the mugger! I could ask him to come back, offer him a reward … What do you think? Could I borrow your phone?’
The doorman almost recoils as I thrust out a hand.
‘Madam, I think that would be a very foolhardy action,’ he says severely. ‘And I’m sure the police would agree you should do no such thing. I think you must be in shock. Kindly have a seat and try to relax.’
Hmm. Maybe he’s right. I’m not wild about setting up some assignation with a criminal in a hoodie. But I can’t sit down and relax; I’m far too hyper. To calm my nerves I start walking round and round the same route, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Past the massive potted ficus tree … past the table with newspapers … past a big shiny litter bin … back to the ficus. It’s a comforting little circuit, and I can keep my eyes fixed on the concierge the whole time, waiting for him to be free.