“Mrs. Fairfax has been a faithful employee for thirty years and has handled many valuable artifacts belonging to guests.” He sounds slightly offended. “I find it very hard to believe that she would have done such a thing.”
“So, it must be somewhere in the hotel?” I feel a glimmer of hope.
“That is what we are endeavoring to find out. Obviously, as soon as I know anything more, I will be in touch. I can use this number still, can I?”
“Yes!” Instinctively, I grip the phone more tightly. “Use this number. Please call as soon as you hear anything. Thank you.”
As I ring off, I’m breathing hard. I don’t know how to feel. I mean, it’s good news. Kind of. Isn’t it?
Except that I still don’t have the ring safely on my finger. Everyone will still be worried. Magnus’s parents will think I’m flaky and irresponsible and never forgive me for putting them through such stress. So I still have a total nightmare ahead of me.
Unless … Unless I could—
No. I couldn’t possibly. Could I?
I’m standing like a pillar on the pavement, my mind circling furiously. OK. Let’s think this through properly. Logically and ethically. If the ring isn’t actually lost …
I passed a Boots on the high street, about four hundred yards back. Almost without knowing what I’m doing, I retrace my steps. I ignore the shop assistant who tries to tell me they’re closing. My head down, I make my way to the first-aid counter. There’s a glove thing you pull on, and some rolls of adhesive bandage. I’ll get it all.
Ten minutes later I’m striding up the hill again. My hand is swathed in bandages, and you can’t tell whether I’m wearing a ring or not, and I don’t even have to lie. I can say, “It’s difficult to wear a ring with a burned hand.” Which is true.
I’m nearly at the house when my phone bleeps and a text from Sam Roxton pops into my in-box.
Where’s the attachment?
Typical. No “hello,” no explanation. He just expects me to know what he’s on about.
What do you mean?
The email from Ned Murdoch. There was no attachment.
That’s not my fault! I just sent on the email. They must have forgotten to put it on. Why don’t you ask them to send it again, WITH the attachment? Directly to your computer?
I know I sound a bit exasperated, and of course he instantly picks up on it.
This phone-sharing was your idea, if you remember. If you’re tired of it, just return my phone to my office.
Hurriedly I text back:
No, no! It’s OK. If it comes through, I’ll forward it. Don’t worry. I thought you were getting emails transferred to your office???
Techies said they’d sort it asap. But they are liars.
There’s a short pause, then he texts:
Got the ring, btw?
Nearly. Hotel found it, but then lost it again.
Typical.
I know.
By now I’ve stopped walking and am leaning against a wall. I know I’m spinning out time before I have to go into the house, but I can’t help it. It’s quite comforting, having this virtual conversation through the ether with someone who doesn’t know Magnus or me, or anybody. After a few moments I text in a confessional rush:
Am not telling my in-laws have lost ring. Do you think that’s really bad?
There’s silence for a bit—then he replies:
Why should you tell them?
What kind of ridiculous question is that ? I roll my eyes and type:
It’s their ring!
Almost at once, his reply comes beeping in.
Not their ring. Your ring. None of their business. No big deal.
How can he write No big deal ? As I text back, I’m jabbing the keyboard crossly.
Is family bloody HEIRLOOM. Am about to have dinner with them right now. They will expect to see ring on my finger. Is huge deal, thank you.
For a while there’s silence, and I think he’s given up on our conversation. Then, just as I’m about to move on, another text beeps into the phone.
How will you explain missing ring?
I have a moment’s internal debate. Why not get a second opinion? Lining up the screen carefully, I take a photo of my bandaged hand and MMS it to him. Five seconds later he replies:
You cannot be serious.
I feel a twinge of resentment and find myself typing:
What would YOU do, then?
I’m half-hoping he might have some brilliant idea I hadn’t thought of. But his next text just says:
This is why men don’t wear rings.
Great. Well, that’s really helpful. I’m about to type something sarcastic back, when a second text arrives:
It looks phony. Take off one bandage.
I stare at my hand in dismay. Perhaps he’s right.
