I've Got Your Number

I've Got Your Number Page 21

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 updates30 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 for twenty 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 the ring. Then we could have faced his parents together. Is it too late? Could I quickly text him on the way?

“ … and I still haven’t got a trumpeter.” Lucinda exhales sharply, two lacquered nails to her forehead. “There’s so much to do. It’s insane. Insane. It would have helped if Clemency had typed out the order of service properly,” she adds, a little savagely.

Poor Clemency flushes beet-red and I shoot her a sympathetic smile. It’s not her fault she’s severely dyslexic and put hymen instead of hymn and the whole thing had to be redone.

“We’ll get there!” I say encouragingly. “Don’t worry!”

“I’m telling you, after this is over I’m going to need a week in a spa. Have you seen my hands ?” Lucinda pushes them toward me. “That’s stress!”

I have no idea what she’s talking about—her hands look perfectly normal to me. But I stare at them obediently.

“You see? Wrecked. All for your wedding, Poppy! Clemency, order me a G&T.”

“Right. Absolutely.” Clemency leaps eagerly to her feet.

I try to ignore a tiny rub of irritation. Lucinda’s always throwing little references like that into the conversation: “All for your wedding.” “Just to make you happy, Poppy!” “The bride’s always right!”

She can sound quite pointed sometimes, which I find disconcerting. I mean, I didn’t ask her to be a wedding planner, did I? And we are paying her quite a lot, aren’t we? But I don’t want to say anything, because she’s Magnus’s old friend and everything.

“Lucinda, I was wondering, have we sorted out the cars yet?” I say tentatively.

There’s an ominous silence. I can tell that a wave of fury is rising inside Lucinda, from the way her nose starts to twitch. At last it erupts, just as poor Clemency arrives back.

“Oh, bloody hell. Oh fucking …  Clemency! ” She turns her wrath on the trembling girl. “ Why didn’t you remind me about the cars? They need cars! We need to hire them!”