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.
Sam’s friend’s shop is called Mark Spencer Designs and thankfully doesn’t have any yellow spiders. Instead, it has lots of diamonds set in platinum bands and a sign saying Free champagne for engaged couples. Make your ring-choosing experience a special one. There’s nothing about replicas or fakes, and I start to feel nervous. What if Sam misunderstood? What if I end up buying a real emerald ring out of embarrassment and have to spend the rest of my life paying it off?
And where is Sam, anyway? He promised to pop along and introduce me to his friend. Apparently he works just round the corner—though he didn’t reveal exactly where. I turn and survey the street. It’s kind of weird that we’ve never met properly, face-to-face.
There’s a man with dark hair walking briskly on the other side of the road, and for a brief moment I think perhaps that’s him, but then a deep voice says, “Poppy?”
I turn—and, of course, that’s him: the guy with the dark rumpled hair striding toward me. He’s taller than I remember from my glimpse of him in the hotel lobby but has the same distinctive thick eyebrows and deep-set eyes. He’s wearing a dark suit and immaculate white shirt and a charcoal tie. He flashes me a brief smile, and I notice that his teeth are very white and even.
Well. They won’t be for much longer if he doesn’t go to the dentist.
“Hi. Poppy.” As he approaches he hesitates, then extends a hand. “Good to meet you properly.”
“Hi.” I smile awkwardly back and we shake hands. He has a nice handshake. Warm and positive.
“So, Vivien’s definitely staying with us.” He tilts his head. “Thanks again for your insight.”
“No problem!” I shrug. “It was nothing.”
“Seriously. I appreciate it.”
This is odd, talking face-to-face. I’m distracted by seeing the contours of his brow and his hair rippling in the breeze. It was easier by text. I wonder if he feels the same way.
“So.” He gestures at the jewelry shop. “Shall we?”
This shop is seriously cool and expensive. I wonder if he and Willow came and chose their ring here. They must have. I’m almost tempted to ask him—but somehow I can’t quite bring myself to mention her. It’s too embarrassing. I know far too much about them.
Most couples, you meet at the pub or at their house. You talk about anodyne stuff—Holidays, hobbies, Jamie Oliver recipes. Only gradually do you venture on to personal stuff. But with these two, I feel as if I’ve been pitched straight into some fly-on-the-wall documentary and they don’t even know it. I found an old email last night from Willow which just said, Do you know how much PAIN you have caused me, Sam? Quite apart from all the fucking BRAZILIANS??
Which is something I really wish I hadn’t read. If I ever meet her, that’s the only thing I’m going to be able to think about. Brazilians.
Sam has pressed the buzzer and is ushering me into the smart, dimly lit shop. At once a girl in a dove-gray suit comes up.
“Hello, may I help?” She has a soft, honeylike voice, which completely suits the muted décor of the shop.
“We’re here to see Mark,” Sam says. “It’s Sam Roxton.”
“That’s right.” Another girl in dove-gray nods. “He’s waiting for you. Take them through, Martha.”
“May I get you a glass of champagne?” says Martha, giving me a knowing smile as we walk along. “Sir? Champagne?”
“No, thanks,” says Sam.
“Me neither,” I chime in.
“Are you sure?” She twinkles at me. “It’s a big moment for the two of you. Just a little glass to take off the nerves?”
Oh my God! She thinks we’re an engaged couple. I glance at Sam for help—but he’s typing something on his phone. And there’s no way I’m launching into the story of losing my priceless heirloom ring in front of a bunch of strangers and hearing all the gasps of horror.
“I’m fine, honestly.” I smile awkwardly. “It’s not—I mean, we’re not—”
“That’s a wonderful watch, sir!” Martha’s attention has been distracted. “Is that vintage Cartier? I haven’t seen one quite like it.”