I've Got Your Number
“Lucinda?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she erupts impatiently. “Maybe I slept with him a few times for old times’ sake. If you can’t keep tabs on him, you shouldn’t marry him.” Her phone rings and she answers. “Hi. Yes. Coming down. Excuse me.” She ushers me out of the flat, bangs the door, and double-locks it.
“You can’t just leave !” I’m shaking all over. “You have to tell me what happened!”
“What do you want me to say?” She throws her hands up. “These things happen. You weren’t meant to find out, but there you go.” She manhandles her suitcase into the lift. “Oh, and by the way, if you think you and I are the only girls he’s hauled that emerald ring out of the safe for, think again. We’re on the end of a list, sweetie.”
“What?” I’m starting to hyperventilate. “What list? Lucinda, wait! What are you talking about?”
“Work it out, Poppy. It’s your problem. I’ve sorted the flowers and the order of service and the almonds and the fucking … dessert spoons.” She jabs a button and the lift doors start to close. “This one’s all yours.”
88 OK, unlikely.
89 OK, even less likely.
90 Aka Clemency. Possibly.
91 And if you think she wouldn’t, you don’t know Annalise.
92 Either this is a very arty look, like you see in fashion magazines, or she didn’t take her makeup off yesterday. (Still. Like I can talk.)
93 No one’s ever grabbed my hand to look at the ring before. That is definitely an invasion of personal space.
14
After Lucinda’s gone, I stand motionless for about three minutes solid, in a state of shock. Then, abruptly, I come to. I head for the stairwell and down the stairs. As I step out of the building I switch off my phone. I can’t afford any distractions. I need to think. I need to be alone. Like Lucinda said, I need to work this out for myself.
I start walking along the pavement, not caring which direction I’m going. My mind is circling around all the facts, the guesses, the speculation, and back to the facts. But gradually, as I walk, thoughts seem to settle into place. My resolve hardens. I have a plan.
I don’t know where my sudden determination has come from: whether Lucinda has spurred me on or whether I’ve just had enough of avoiding confrontation while my stomach ties itself up in knots. But I’m going to face this one down. I’m going to do it. The weirdest thing is, I keep hearing Sam’s voice in my ear, reassuring me and bolstering me and telling me I can do it. It’s as if he’s giving me a pep talk, even though he’s not here. And it’s making me stand taller. It’s making me feel like I can do this. I’m going to be a Whole New Poppy.
As I reach the corner of Battersea Rise, I feel ready. I haul out my phone, turn it on, and, without reading a single new message, speed-dial Magnus. Of course he doesn’t answer, but I expected that.
“Hi, Magnus,” I say in the most crisp, businesslike tones I can muster. “Can you call me as soon as possible? We need to talk.”
OK. Good. That was dignified. A brief, cutting message that he will understand. Now ring off.
Ring off, Poppy.
But I can’t. My hand feels welded to the phone. While I’m connected to him, or even just to his voice mail, I can feel my defenses coming down. I want to talk. I want to hear from him. I want him to know how shocked and hurt I am.
“Because … I’ve heard some news, OK?” I hear myself continuing. “I’ve been speaking to your great friend Lucinda. ” I give Lucinda an angry little emphasis. “And what she told me was a bit of a shock, to say the least, so I think we need to talk as soon as possible. Because unless you’ve got some great, marvelous explanation, which I can’t think how you would, because was Lucinda lying ? Because someone must be lying, Magnus. Someone must be—”
Beep.
Damn, I got cut off.
As I turn off my phone again, I’m cursing myself. So much for the brief, cutting message. So much for a Whole New Poppy. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.
Still, never mind. At least I made the call. At least I didn’t sit with my hands over my ears, avoiding the whole thing. And now to the next thing on my mental list. I step into the road, lift my hand, and flag down a cab.
“Hi,” I say as I get in. “I’d like to go to Hampstead, please.”
I know Wanda’s in today, because she said she was preparing for some radio show she’s doing tonight. And, sure enough, as I draw up to the house, music is blasting out of the windows. I have no idea if Antony is there too, but I don’t care. They can both hear this. As I approach the house, I’m trembling, like I was the other night—but in a different way. In a positive way. In a bring-it-on way.