broken crockery.

        “Did I have an email from Ned Murdoch this morning?” he launches in without so much

as a “Hi.”

        “No. I’ve sent all your emails over. Good morning to you too,” I add brightly. “I’m really

well, how about you?”

        “I thought you might have missed one.” He completely ignores my little dig. “It’s

extremely important.”

        “Well, I’m extremely thorough,” I retort pointedly. “Believe me, everything that’s

coming in to this phone, you’re getting. And there wasn’t anything from Ned Murdoch. Someone

called Willow just emailed, by the way,” I add casually. “I’ll forward it on. There’s an

attachment, which sounded quite important. But obviously I didn’t look at it at all. Or read it or

anything.”

        “Hrrrmm.” He gives a kind of noncommittal growl. “So, have you found your ring?”

        “Not yet,” I admit reluctantly. “But I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

        “You should inform your insurers anyway, you know. They sometimes have a time limit

for claiming. Colleague of mine got caught out that way.”

        Insurers? Time limits?

        I suddenly feel clammy with guilt. I’ve given this no thought at all. I haven’t checked up

on my insurance or the Tavishes’ insurance or anything. Instead, I’ve been standing at a

pedestrian crossing, missing my chance to walk, reading other people’s emails and laughing at

them. Priorities, Poppy.

        “Right,” I manage at last. “Yes, I knew that. I’m on it.”

        I ring off and stand motionless for a moment, the traffic whizzing in front of me. It’s like

he’s pricked my bubble. I have to come clean. It’s the Tavishes’ ring. They should know it’s lost.

I’ll have to tell them.

        Hi there! It’s me, the girl you don’t want to marry your son, and, guess what? I’ve lost

your priceless family ring!

        I’ll give myself twelve more hours, I abruptly decide, pressing the pedestrian button

again. Just in case. Just in case.

        And then I’ll tell them.

        I always thought I might be a dentist. Several of my family are dentists, and it always

seemed like a pretty decent career. But then, when I was fifteen, my school sent me on a

weeklong work experience placement at the physio unit at our local hospital. All the therapists

were so enthusiastic about what they did that focusing only on teeth suddenly felt a bit narrow

for me. And I’ve never regretted my decision for a moment. It just suits me, being a physio.

        First Fit Physio Studio is exactly eighteen minutes’ walk from my flat in Balham, past

Costa, and next to Greggs, the baker. It’s not the grandest practice in the world—I’d probably

earn more if I went to some smart sports center or a big hospital. But I’ve been working there

ever since I qualified and can’t imagine working anywhere else. Plus, I work with friends. You

wouldn’t give that up in a hurry, would you?

        I arrive at nine o’clock, expecting to have the usual staff meeting. We have one every

Thursday morning, where we discuss patients and targets, new therapies, the latest research, stuff

like that.24 There’s one particular patient I want to talk about, actually: Mrs. Randall, my sweet

sixty-five-year-old with the ligament problem. She’s pretty much recovered—but last week she

came in twice, and this week she’s booked three appointments. I’ve told her she just needs to

exercise at home with her Dyna-Bands, but she insists she needs my help. I think she’s become

totally dependent on us—which might be good for the cash register but is not good for her.

        So I’m quite looking forward to the meeting. But, to my surprise, the meeting room is set

up differently from usual. The table has been pulled to one end of the room, with two chairs

behind it—and there’s a sole chair facing it in the middle of the room. It looks like an interview

setup.

        The reception door pings to signal that someone’s entered, and I turn to see Annalise

coming in with a Costa coffee tray. She’s got some complicated braided arrangement in her long

blond hair, and she looks like a Greek goddess.

        “Hi, Annalise! What’s up?”

        “You’d better talk to Ruby.” She gives me a sidelong look, without smiling.

        “What?”

        “I don’t think I should say.” She takes a sip of cappuccino, eyeing me secretively over the

top.

        What’s up now? Annalise’s quite prickly—in fact, she’s a bit of a child. She goes all

quiet and sulky, and then it comes out that yesterday you asked her for that file too impatiently

and hurt her feelings.

        Ruby is the opposite. She’s got smooth latte-colored skin, a huge, motherly bust, and is

packed so full of common sense it’s practically wafting out of her ears. The minute you’re in her

company, you feel saner, calmer, jollier, and stronger. No wonder this physio practice has been a

success. I mean, Annalise and I are OK at what we do, but Ruby is the star turn. Everyone loves

her. Men, women, grannies, kids. She also put up the money for the business,25 so she’s

officially my boss.

        “Morning, babe.” Ruby comes breezing out from her treatment room, beaming her usual

wide smile. Her hair has been back-combed and pinned in a bun, with intricate twisted sections

on either side. Both Annalise and Ruby are totally into their hairdos—it’s almost a competition

between them. “Now, look, it’s a real pain, but I have to give you a disciplinary hearing.”

        “What?” I gape at her.

        “Not my fault!” She lifts her hands. “I want to get accreditation from this new body, the

PFFA. I’ve just been reading the material, and it says if your staff chat up the patients you have

to discipline them. We should have done it anyway, you know that, but now I need to have the

notes ready for the inspector. We’ll get it done really quickly.”

         “I didn’t chat him up,” I say defensively. “He chatted me up!”

         “I think the panel will decide that, don’t you?” chimes in Annalise forbiddingly. She

looks so grave, I feel a tickle of worry. “I told you you’d been unethical,” she adds. “You should

be prosecuted.”

         “Prosecuted?” I appeal to Ruby. I can’t believe this is happening. Back when Magnus

proposed, Ruby said it was such a romantic story she wanted to cry, and that, OK, strictly it was

against the rules, but in her opinion love conquered all, and please could she be a bridesmaid?

         “Annalise, you don’t mean ‘prosecuted.’ ” Ruby rolls her eyes. “Come on. Let’s convene

the panel.”

         “Who’s on the panel?”

         “Us,” says Ruby blithely. “Annalise and me. I know we should have an external person,

but I didn’t know who to get. I’ll tell the inspector I had someone lined up and they were ill.”

She glances at her watch. “OK, we’ve got twenty minutes. Morning, Angela!” she adds cheerily

as our receptionist pushes the front door open. “Don’t let any calls through, OK?”

         Angela just nods and sniffs and dumps her rucksack on the floor. She has a boyfriend in a

band, so she’s never very communicative in the mornings.

         “Oh, Poppy,” Ruby says over her shoulder as she leads the way into the meeting room. “I

was supposed to give you two weeks’ notice to prepare. You don’t need that, do you? Can we

say you had it? Because there’s only a week and a bit till the wedding, so it would mean

dragging you away from your honeymoon or leaving it till you’re back, and I really want to get