I remember that Clare wore the ring for a long time. She really didn’t want to take it off. Then Natasha started tugging at it, saying, ‘My turn, my turn!’ And I remember warning her, ‘Gently!’
I mean, it’s not like I was irresponsible. I was carefully watching the ring as it was passed round the table.
But then my attention was split, because they started on the raffle and the prizes were fantastic. A week in an Italian villa, and a top-salon haircut, and a Harvey Nichols voucher … The ballroom was buzzing with people pulling out tickets and numbers being called out from the platform and women jumping up and shouting, ‘Me!’
And this is the moment where I went wrong. This is the gut-churning, if-only instant. If I could go back in time, that’s the moment I would march up to myself and say severely, ‘Poppy, priorities.’
But you don’t realize, do you? The moment happens, and you make your crucial mistake, and then it’s gone and the chance to do anything about it is blown away.
So what happened was, Clare won Wimbledon tickets in the raffle. I love Clare to bits, but she’s always been a tad feeble. She didn’t stand up and yell, ‘Me! Woo-hoo!’ at top volume, she just raised her hand a few inches. Even those of us on her table didn’t realize she’d won.
Just as it dawned on me that Clare was holding a raffle ticket in the air, the presenter on the platform said, ‘I think we’ll draw again, if there’s no winner …’
‘Shout!’ I poked Clare and waved my own hand wildly. ‘Here! The winner’s over here!’
‘And the new number is … 4-4-0-3.’
To my disbelief, some dark-haired girl on the other side of the room started whooping and brandishing a ticket.
‘She didn’t win!’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘You won.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Clare was shrinking back.
‘Of course it matters!’ I cried out before I could stop myself, and everyone at the table started laughing.
‘Go, Poppy!’ called out Natasha. ‘Go, White Knightess! Sort it out!’
‘Go, Knightie!’
This is an old joke. Just because there was this one incident at school, where I started a petition to save the hamsters, everyone started calling me the White Knightess. Or Knightie, for short. My so-called catchphrase is apparently ‘Of course it matters!’2
Anyway. Suffice it to say that within two minutes I was up on the stage with the dark-haired girl, arguing with the presenter about how my friend’s ticket was more valid than hers.
I know now that I should never have left the table. I should never have left the ring, even for a second. I can see how stupid that was. But in my defence, I didn’t know the fire alarm was going to go off, did I?
It was so surreal. One minute, everyone was sitting down at a jolly champagne tea. The next minute, a siren was blaring through the air and there was pandemonium with everyone on their feet, heading for the exits. I could see Annalise, Ruby and all the others grabbing their bags and making their way to the back. A man in a suit came on to the stage and started ushering me, the dark-haired girl and the presenter towards a side door, and wouldn’t let us go the other way. ‘Your safety is our priority,’ he kept saying.3
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.
The lobby is still bustling with executive types from the conference. Through the glass doors I can see the doorman back on the steps, busy hailing taxis and pocketing tips. A squat Japanese man in a blue suit is standing near me with some European-looking businessmen, exclaiming in what sounds like loud, furious Japanese and gesticulating at everybody with the conference pass strung round his neck on a red cord. He’s so tiny and the other men look so nervous, I almost want to smile.
The brandy arrives on a salver and I pause briefly to drain it in one, then keep walking, in the same repetitive route.
Potted ficus … newspaper table … litter bin … potted ficus … newspaper table … litter bin …
Now I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m starting to churn with murderous thoughts. Does that Hoodie Guy realize he’s wrecked my life? Does he realize how crucial a phone is? It’s the worst thing you can steal from a person. The worst.
And it wasn’t even that great a phone. It was pretty ancient. So good luck to Hoodie Guy if he wants to type ‘B’ in a text or go on the internet. I hope he tries and fails. Then he’ll be sorry.
Ficus … newspapers … bin … ficus … newspapers … bin …
And he hurt my shoulder. Bastard. Maybe I could sue him for millions. If they ever catch him, which they won’t.
Ficus … newspapers … bin …
Bin.
Wait.
What’s that?
I stop dead in my tracks and stare into the bin, wondering if someone’s playing a trick on me, or I’m hallucinating.
It’s a phone.
Right there in the litter bin. A mobile phone.
You’ll be able to read the complete book
when it is published in February.
1. His specialism is Cultural Symbolism. I speed-read his book, The Philosophy of Symbolism, after our second date and then tried to pretend I’d read it ages ago, coincidentally, for pleasure. (Which, to be fair, he didn’t believe for a minute.) Anyway, the point is, I read it. And what impressed me most was: there were so many footnotes. I’ve totally got into them. Aren’t they handy? You just bung them in whenever you want and instantly look clever.
Magnus says footnotes are for things which aren’t your main concern but nevertheless hold some interest for you. So. This is my footnote about footnotes.
2. Which, actually, I never say. Just like Humphrey Bogart never said, ‘Play it again, Sam.’ It’s an urban myth.
3. Of course, the hotel wasn’t on fire. The system had short-circuited. I found that out afterwards, not that it was any consolation.
4. Did Poirot ever say ‘Oh my God’? I bet he did. Or ‘Sacrebleu!’ which comes to the same thing. And does this not disprove Antony’s theory since Poirot’s grey cells are clearly stronger than anyone else’s? I might point this out to Antony one day. When I’m feeling brave. (Which, if I’ve lost the ring, will be never, obviously.)
5. Weak mind.
6. I’m allowed to give myself at least a chance of getting it back safely and him never having to know, aren’t I?
About the Author
Sophie Kinsella is an international bestselling writer and former financial journalist. She is the author of the number-one bestsellers Can You Keep A Secret?, The Undomestic Goddess, Remember Me? and Twenties Girl as well as the hugely popular Shopaholic novels, the first of which has become the Hollywood movie Confessions of a Shopaholic. She lives in London with her husband and children.
Visit the global Sophie Kinsella website at www.sophiekinsella.co.uk for Sophie’s latest news, videos & competitions, and join her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SophieKinsellaOfficial.
Also by Sophie Kinsella
THE SECRET DREAMWORLD OF A SHOPAHOLIC
(also published as CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC)
SHOPAHOLIC ABROAD
SHOPAHOLIC TIES THE KNOT
SHOPAHOLIC & SISTER
SHOPAHOLIC & BABY
MINI SHOPAHOLIC
CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?
THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS
REMEMBER ME?
TWENTIES GIRL
I’VE GOT YOUR NUMBER
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SIX GEESE A-LAYING
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781448126019
First published in Great Britain
in 2011 by Transworld Digital
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Sophie Kinsella 2011
Sophie Kinsella has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Six Geese a-Laying (Mini Christmas Short Story) Page 3
