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Authors: Sophie Kinsella
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fireplace.”
Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Favisham was, they just don’t want to admit it in front of Poirot. I’m amazed he gets anywhere.
“I’ve got to go.” I turn away before Annalise can taunt me with any more expensive rings.
“To tell Magnus?”
“Wedding meeting with Lucinda first. Then Magnus and his family.”
“Let us know what happens. Text us!” Annalise frowns. “Hey, that reminds me, Poppy: How come you changed your number?”
“Oh, that. Well, I went out of the hotel to get a better signal and I was holding out my phone—”
I break off. On second thought, I can’t be bothered to get into the whole story of the mugging and the phone in the bin and Sam Roxton. It’s all too way-out, and I haven’t got the energy.
Instead, I shrug. “You know. Lost my phone. Got another one. See you tomorrow.”
“Good luck, missus.” Ruby pulls me in for a quick hug.
“Text!” I hear Annalise calling after me as I head out the door. “We want hourly updates!”
She would have been great at public executions, Annalise. She would have been the one at the front, jostling for agood view of the ax, already sketching the gory bits to put up on the village notice board, in case anyone missed it.
Or, you know, whatever they did before Facebook.
I don’t know why I bothered rushing, because Lucinda’s late, as always.
In fact, I don’t know why I bothered to have a wedding planner. But I only ever think that thought very quietly to myself, because Lucinda is an old family friend of the Tavishes. Every time I mention her, Magnus says, “Are you two getting along?” in raised, hopeful tones, like we’re two endangered pandas who have to make a baby.
It’s not that I don’t like Lucinda. It’s just that she stresses me out. She sends me all these bulletins by text the whole time, of what she’s doing and where, and keeps telling me what an effort she’s making on my behalf, like the sourcing of the napkins, which was the hugest saga and took her forever and three trips to a fabric warehouse in Walthamstow.
Also, her priorities seem a little screwy. She hired an “IT wedding specialist” at great expense, who set up whizzy things like a text alert system to give all the guests updates 30 and a webpage where guests can register what outfit they’re wearing and avoid “unfortunate clashes.” 31 But while she was doing all that, she didn’t get back to the caterers we wanted, and we nearly lost them.
We’re meeting in the lobby of Claridge’s—Lucinda loves hotel lobbies; don’t ask me why. I sit there patiently fortwenty minutes, drinking weak black tea, wishing I’d canceled, and feeling sicker and sicker at the thought of seeing Magnus’s parents. I’m wondering if I might actually have to go to the ladies’ and be ill—when she suddenly appears, all flying raven hair and Calvin Klein perfume and six mood boards under her arm. Her suede spiky kitten heels are tapping on the marble floor, and her pink cashmere coat is billowing out behind her like a pair of wings.
Trailing in her wake is Clemency, her “assistant.” (If an unpaid eighteen-year-old can be called an assistant. I’d call her slave labor.) Clemency is very posh and very sweet and terrified of Lucinda. She answered Lucinda’s ad in The Lady for an intern and keeps telling me how great it is to learn the ropes firsthand from an experienced professional. 32
“So, I’ve been talking to the vicar. Those arrangements aren’t going to work. The wretched pulpit has to stay where it is.” Lucinda descends into a chair in a leggy, Joseph-trousered sprawl, and the mood boards slide out of her grasp and all over the floor. “I just don’t know why people can’t be more helpful . I mean, what are we going to do now? And I haven’t heard back from the caterer….”
I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. I’m suddenly wishing I’d arranged to meet Magnus first, on my own, to tell him about
Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Favisham was, they just don’t want to admit it in front of Poirot. I’m amazed he gets anywhere.
“I’ve got to go.” I turn away before Annalise can taunt me with any more expensive rings.
“To tell Magnus?”
“Wedding meeting with Lucinda first. Then Magnus and his family.”
“Let us know what happens. Text us!” Annalise frowns. “Hey, that reminds me, Poppy: How come you changed your number?”
“Oh, that. Well, I went out of the hotel to get a better signal and I was holding out my phone—”
I break off. On second thought, I can’t be bothered to get into the whole story of the mugging and the phone in the bin and Sam Roxton. It’s all too way-out, and I haven’t got the energy.
Instead, I shrug. “You know. Lost my phone. Got another one. See you tomorrow.”
“Good luck, missus.” Ruby pulls me in for a quick hug.
“Text!” I hear Annalise calling after me as I head out the door. “We want hourly updates!”
She would have been great at public executions, Annalise. She would have been the one at the front, jostling for agood view of the ax, already sketching the gory bits to put up on the village notice board, in case anyone missed it.
Or, you know, whatever they did before Facebook.
I don’t know why I bothered rushing, because Lucinda’s late, as always.
In fact, I don’t know why I bothered to have a wedding planner. But I only ever think that thought very quietly to myself, because Lucinda is an old family friend of the Tavishes. Every time I mention her, Magnus says, “Are you two getting along?” in raised, hopeful tones, like we’re two endangered pandas who have to make a baby.
It’s not that I don’t like Lucinda. It’s just that she stresses me out. She sends me all these bulletins by text the whole time, of what she’s doing and where, and keeps telling me what an effort she’s making on my behalf, like the sourcing of the napkins, which was the hugest saga and took her forever and three trips to a fabric warehouse in Walthamstow.
Also, her priorities seem a little screwy. She hired an “IT wedding specialist” at great expense, who set up whizzy things like a text alert system to give all the guests updates 30 and a webpage where guests can register what outfit they’re wearing and avoid “unfortunate clashes.” 31 But while she was doing all that, she didn’t get back to the caterers we wanted, and we nearly lost them.
We’re meeting in the lobby of Claridge’s—Lucinda loves hotel lobbies; don’t ask me why. I sit there patiently fortwenty minutes, drinking weak black tea, wishing I’d canceled, and feeling sicker and sicker at the thought of seeing Magnus’s parents. I’m wondering if I might actually have to go to the ladies’ and be ill—when she suddenly appears, all flying raven hair and Calvin Klein perfume and six mood boards under her arm. Her suede spiky kitten heels are tapping on the marble floor, and her pink cashmere coat is billowing out behind her like a pair of wings.
Trailing in her wake is Clemency, her “assistant.” (If an unpaid eighteen-year-old can be called an assistant. I’d call her slave labor.) Clemency is very posh and very sweet and terrified of Lucinda. She answered Lucinda’s ad in The Lady for an intern and keeps telling me how great it is to learn the ropes firsthand from an experienced professional. 32
“So, I’ve been talking to the vicar. Those arrangements aren’t going to work. The wretched pulpit has to stay where it is.” Lucinda descends into a chair in a leggy, Joseph-trousered sprawl, and the mood boards slide out of her grasp and all over the floor. “I just don’t know why people can’t be more helpful . I mean, what are we going to do now? And I haven’t heard back from the caterer….”
I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. I’m suddenly wishing I’d arranged to meet Magnus first, on my own, to tell him about
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