with news about the ring. One’s from the police, and my heart leaps with hope—but it’s only to

confirm that I’ve filed a report and asking if I want a visit from a victim support officer.

         The rest are all text messages and emails for Violet. As I scroll down them, I notice that

Sam features in the subject heading of quite a few of the emails. Feeling like Poirot again, I

check back on the numbers called function and, sure enough, the last number that called this

phone was Sam Mobile. So that’s him. Violet’s boss. Dark-rumpled-hair guy. And to prove it,

her email address is samroxtonpa@whiteglobeconsulting.com.

         Just out of the mildest curiosity, I click on one of the emails. It’s from

jennasmith@grantlyassetmanagement.com, and the subject is Re: Dinner?

Thanks, Violet. I’d appreciate you not mentioning any of this to Sam. I feel a little embarrassed

now! Ooh. What’s she embarrassed about? Before I can stop myself, I’ve scrolled down to read

the previous email, which was sent yesterday.

Actually, Jenna, you should know something: Sam’s engaged.Best, Violet He’s engaged.

Interesting. As I read the words over again, I feel a strange little reaction inside which I can’t

quite place—surprise?

         Although why should I be surprised? I don’t even know the guy.

         OK, now I have to know the whole story. Why is Jenna embarrassed? What happened? I

scroll down still farther past a couple more exchanges, and at last find a long introductory email

from Jenna, who clearly met this Sam Roxton at a business function, got the hots for him, and

invited him to dinner two weeks ago, but he hasn’t returned her calls.

 … tried again yesterday … maybe using the wrong number … someone told me he is notorious

and that his PA is always the best route to contact him … very sorry to bother you … possibly

just let me know either way …Poor woman. I feel quite indignant on her behalf. Why

didn’t he reply? How hard is it to send a quick email saying, no, thanks? And then it turns out

he’s engaged, for God’s sake.

         Anyway. Whatever. I suddenly realize I’m snooping in someone else’s in-box when I

have a lot of other, more important things to be thinking about. Priorities, Poppy. I need to buy

some wine for Magnus’s parents. And a welcome-home card—And, if I don’t track down the

ring in the next twenty minutes—some gloves.

         Disaster. Disaster. It turns out they don’t sell gloves in April. The only ones I could find

were from the back room in Accessorize. Old Christmas stock, available only in a small.

         I cannot believe I’m seriously planning to greet my prospective in-laws in too-tight red

woolly reindeer gloves. With tassels.

         But I have no choice. It’s that or walk in bare-handed.

         As I start the long climb up the hill to Magnus’s parents’ house, I’m starting to feel really

sick. It’s not just the ring. It’s the whole scary prospective in-laws thing. I turn the corner—and

all the windows of the house are alight. They’re home.

         I’ve never known a house which suits a family as much as the Tavishes’ does. It’s older

and grander than any of the others in the street and looks down on them from its superior

position. There are yew trees and a monkey puzzle in the garden. The bricks are covered in ivy,

and the windows still have their original 1835 wooden frames. Inside, there’s William Morris

wallpaper dating from the 1960s, and the floorboards are covered with Turkish carpets.

         Except you can’t actually see the carpets, because they’re mostly covered in old

documents and manuscripts which no one ever bothers to clear up. No one’s big on tidying in the

Tavish family. I once found a fossilized boiled egg in a spare-room bed, still in its egg cup, with

a desiccated toast soldier. It must have been about a year old.

         And everywhere, all over the house, are books. Stacked up three deep on shelves, piled

on the floor, and on the side of every lime-stained bath. Antony writes books, Wanda writes

books, Magnus writes books, and his elder brother, Conrad, writes books. Even Conrad’s wife,

Margot, writes books.12

         Which is great. I mean, it’s a wonderful thing, all these genius intellectuals in one family.

But it does make you feel just the teensiest, weensiest bit inadequate.

         Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m pretty intelligent. You know, for a normal person who

went to school and college and got a job and everything. But these aren’t normal people; they’re

in a different league. They have superbrains. They’re the academic version of The Incredibles.13

I’ve met his parents only a few times, when they flew back to London for a week for Antony to

give some big important lecture, but it was enough to show me. While Antony was lecturing

about political theory, Wanda was presenting a paper on feminist Judaism to a think tank, and

then they both appeared on The Culture Show, taking opposing views on a documentary about

the influence of the Renaissance.14 So that was the backdrop to our meeting. No pressure or

anything.

         I’ve been introduced to quite a few different boyfriends’ parents over the years, but hands

down this was the worst experience, ever. We’d just shaken hands and made a bit of small talk

and I was telling Wanda quite proudly where I’d been to college, when Antony looked up over

his half-moon glasses, with those bright, cold eyes of his, and said, “A degree in physiotherapy.

How amusing.” I felt instantly crushed. I didn’t know what to say. In fact, I was so flustered I

left the room to go to the loo.15

         After that, of course, I froze. Those three days were sheer misery. The more intellectual

the conversation became, the more tongue-tied and awkward I was. My second-worst moment:

pronouncing Proust wrong and everyone exchanging looks.16 My very worst moment: watching

University Challenge all together in the drawing room, when a section on bones came on. My

subject! I studied this! I know all the Latin names and everything! But as I was drawing breath to

answer the first question, Antony had already given the correct answer. I was quicker next

time—but he still beat me. The whole thing was like a race, and he won. Then, at the end, he

looked over at me and inquired, “Do they not teach anatomy at physiotherapy school, Poppy?”

and I was mortified.

         Magnus says he loves me, not my brain, and that I’ve got to ignore his parents. And

Natasha said, think of the rock and the Hampstead house and the villa in Tuscany. Which is

Natasha for you. Whereas my own approach has been as follows: Just don’t think about them.

It’s been fine. They’ve been safely in Chicago, thousands of miles away.

         But now they’re back.

         Oh God. And I’m still a bit shaky on Proust. (Proost? Prost?) And I didn’t revise the

Latin names for bones. And I’m wearing red woolly reindeer gloves in April. With tassels.

         My legs are shaking as I ring the bell. Actually shaking. I feel like the scarecrow in The

Wizard of Oz. Any minute I’ll collapse on the path and Wanda will torch me for losing the ring.

         Stop, Poppy. It’s fine. No one will suspect anything, My story is, I burned my hand.

That’s my story.

         “Hi, Poppy!”

         “Felix! Hi!”

         I’m so relieved it’s Felix at the door, my greeting comes out in a shaky gasp.

         Felix is the baby of the family—only seventeen and still at school. In fact, Magnus has