“Dunno.” Natasha shrugged. “Didn’t Annalise have it?”
So then I plunged 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 are 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 in, 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. N 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 gray-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, 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 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 some signal, with no success. At last I head down onto 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 pedaling swiftly toward the end of the road. I only have time to register an old gray 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 ladies’ room 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 hoody guy has already chucked my SIM card into the river?
Oh God.5 I need to talk to the concierge. I’ll give 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 unraveling.
To make matters even worse, as I run back in to 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?