My life ends tomorrow.

OK, that might be overstating it a tad, but right now that’s how it feels.

I can see how that might keep you up. Why does it end?

If he really wants to know, I’ll tell him. Sipping my tea, I fill five texts with the story of how the ring was found but then lost again. And how Paul the dermatologist wants to look at my hand. And how the Tavishes are being snippy enough about the ring already, and they don’t even know it’s lost. And how it’s all closing in on me. And how I feel like a gambler who needs just one more spin on the roulette wheel and everything might come good, but I’m out of chips.

I’ve been typing so furiously, my shoulders are aching. I rotate them a few times, take a few gulps of tea, and am wondering about cracking open the biscuits, when a new text arrives.

I owe you one.

I read the words and shrug. OK. He owes me. So what? A moment later a second text arrives.

I could get you a chip.

I stare at the screen, baffled. He does know the chip thing is a metaphor, doesn’t he? He’s not talking about a real poker chip?

Or a french fry?

The usual daytime traffic hum is absent, making the room abnormally silent, save for an occasional judder from the fridge. I blink at the screen in the artificial light, then rub my tired eyes, wondering if I should turn off the phone and go to bed.

What do you mean?

His reply comes back almost immediately, as though he realized his last text sounded odd.

Have jeweler friend. Makes replicas for TV. Very realistic. Would buy you time.

A fake ring?

I think I must be really, really thick. Because that had never even occurred to me.

43 Haven’t both Antony and Wanda ever invigilated exams as part of their jobs? Just saying.

44 The first time Magnus told me his specialism was symbols, I thought he meant cymbals. The ones you clash. Not that I’ve ever admitted that to him.

45 Not that I’ve been prying or anything. But you can’t help glancing at things as you forward them and noticing references to the PM and Number 10.

46 OK. Busted. I didn’t tell the absolute full truth in my disciplinary hearing.

Here’s the thing: I know I was totally unprofessional. I know I should be struck off. The physiotherapy ethics booklet practically starts, Don’t have sex with your patient on the couch, whatever you do.

But what I say is: If you do something wrong yet it doesn’t actually hurt anybody and nobody knows, should you be punished and lose your whole career? Isn’t there a bigger picture?

Plus, we did it only once. And it was really quick. (Not in a bad way. Just in a quick way.)

And Ruby once used the offices for a party and propped all the fire doors back, which is totally against health and safety. So. Nobody’s perfect.

47 This is part of my prewedding regimem, which consists of daily exfoliation, daily lotion, weekly face mask, hair mask, eye mask, a hundred sit-ups every day, and meditation to keep calm. I’ve got as far as the body lotion. And tonight I’m rather hampered by my bandaged hand.

48 What, for your boyfriend to find?

49 I don’t give my number out to all my patients. Just long-term patients, emergencies, and the ones who look like they need support. This guy is one of those types who says he’s absolutely fine and then you see he’s white with pain. I had to insist he should call me whenever he wanted and repeat it to his wife, otherwise he would have nobly struggled on.

6

OK. A fake ring is a bad idea. There are a million reasons why. Such as:

1. It’s dishonest.

2. It probably won’t look convincing.

3. It’s unethical.50

Nevertheless, here I am at Hatton Garden at ten the following morning, sauntering along, trying to hide the fact that my eyes are on stalks. I’ve never been to Hatton Garden before; I didn’t even know it existed. A whole street of jewelers?

There are more diamonds here than I’ve seen in my lifetime. Signs everywhere are boasting best prices, highest carats, superb value, and bespoke design. Obviously this is engagement ring city. Couples are wandering along and girls are pointing through the windows and the men are smiling but all look slightly sick whenever their girlfriends turn away.

I’ve never even been into a jewelry shop. Not a grown-up, proper one like these. The only jewelry I’ve ever had has come from markets and Topshop, places like that. My parents gave me a pair of pearl studs for my thirteenth birthday, but I didn’t go into the shop with them. Jewelry shops have been places I’ve walked past, thinking they’re for other people. But now, since I’m here, I can’t help having a good old look.

Who would buy a brooch made out of yellow diamonds in the shape of a spider for £12,500? It’s a mystery to me, like who buys those revolting sofas with swirly arms they advertise on the telly.