I've Got Your Number

  “I started off life as an analyst.” He looks a bit abashed. “This is my kind of thing.”

  “What’s your kind of thing?” I say, puzzled.

  Sam produces a piece of paper and I clap a hand over my mouth. I don’t believe it. He’s drawn a chart. Times and dates. Calls. Texts. Emails. Has he been doing this while I’ve been asleep?

  “I analyzed your messages. You’ll see what’s going on.”

  He analyzed my messages. How do you analyze messages?

  He hands me the paper and I blink at it.

  “What …”

  “You see the correlation?”

  Correlation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It sounds like something from math exams.

  “Um …”

  “Take this date.” He points at the paper. “They both email at around six p.m. asking how you’re doing, being chatty. Then at eight p.m. Magnus tells you he’s working late at the London Library, and a few minutes later Lucinda tells you she’s working on garters for the bridesmaids at a fashion warehouse in Shoreditch. At eight at night? Please.”

  I’m silent for a few moments. I remember that email about the garters now. It seemed a bit odd, even at the time. But you can’t jump to conclusions from one weird email, surely?

  “Who asked you to analyze my messages, anyway?” I know I sound all prickly, but I can’t help it. “Who said it was any of your business?”

  “No one. You were asleep.” He spreads his hands. “I’m sorry. I just started looking idly and then a pattern built up.”

  “Two emails aren’t a pattern.”

  “It’s not only two.” He gestures at the paper. “Next day, Magnus has a special evening seminar which he ‘forgot’ to mention. Five minutes later, Lucinda tells you about a lace workshop in Nottinghamshire. But she was in Fulham two hours earlier. Fulham to Nottinghamshire? In the rush hour? That’s not real. My guess is it’s an alibi.”

  The word alibi makes me feel a bit cold.

  “Two days later, Magnus texts you, canceling your lunch date. A moment later, Lucinda emails you, telling you she’s frantically busy till two p.m. She doesn’t give you any other reason for emailing. Why would she need to let you know that she’s frantically busy over some random lunchtime?”

  He looks up, waiting for a reply. Like I’ll have one.

  “I … I don’t know,” I say at last. “I don’t know.”

  As Sam continues, I knead my eyes briefly with my fists. I get why Vicks does this now. It’s to block the world out, for just a second. Why didn’t I see this? Why didn’t I see any of this?

  Magnus and Lucinda. It’s like a bad joke. One of them’s supposed to be organizing my wedding. The other’s supposed to be in my wedding. To me.

  But wait. My head jerks with a thought. Who sent me the anonymous text? Sam’s theory can’t be right, because someone must have sent that. It wouldn’t have been any of Magnus’s friends, and I don’t know any of Lucinda’s friends, so who on earth …

  “Remember when Magnus told you he had to counsel some PhD student? And Lucinda pulled out of your drinks meeting? She sent Clemency along instead? If you look at the timings …”

  Sam’s still talking, but I can barely hear him. My heart has constricted. Of course. Clemency.

  Clemency.

  Clemency is dyslexic. She would have spelled fiance wrong. She would have been too terrified of Lucinda to give her name. But she would have wanted me to know. If there was something to know.

  My fingers are shaking as I grab my phone and find the text again. Now that I read it over, I can hear the words in Clemency’s sweet, anxious voice. It feels like her. It sounds like her.

  Clemency wouldn’t invent something like that. She must believe it’s true. She must have seen something … heard something …

  I sag back against the car seat. My limbs are aching. I feel parched and worn out and a little like I want to cry.

  “Anyway.” Sam seems to realize I’ve stopped listening. “I mean, it’s a theory, that’s all.” He folds the paper up and I take it.

  “Thanks. Thanks for doing that.”

  “I …” He shrugs, a bit awkward. “Like I said. It’s my thing.”

  For a while we’re both silent, although it feels like we’re still communicating. I feel as though our thoughts are circling above our heads, interweaving, looping, meeting for a moment, then diverging again. Him on his path, me on mine.

  “So.” I exhale at last. “I should let you go. It’s late. Thanks for—”

  “No,” he interrupts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Thank you.”

  I nod simply. I think both of us are probably too drained to get into long speeches.

  “It’s been …”

  “Yes.”

  I look up and make the mistake of catching his eye, silvered in the light from the streetlamp. And just for a moment I’m transported—

  No. Don’t, Poppy. It never happened. Don’t think about it. Blank it.

  “So. Um.” I reach for the door handle, trying to force myself into reality, into rationality. “I still need to give you this phone back—”

  “You know what? Have it, Poppy. It’s yours.” He clasps my fingers over it and holds them tight for a moment. “You earned it. And please don’t bother to forward anything else. As of tomorrow all my emails will go to my new PA. Your work here is done.”

  “Well, thanks!” I open the door—then on impulse turn around. “Sam … I hope you’re OK.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He flashes his wonder-smile, and I suddenly feel like hugging him tight. He’s about to lose his job and he can still smile like that. “I hope you’re OK,” he adds. “I’m sorry about … it all.”

  “Oh, I’ll be OK!” I give a brittle laugh, even though I have no idea what I mean by this. My husband-to-be is possibly shagging my wedding planner. In what sense will I be OK?

  The driver clears his throat, and I start. It’s the middle of the night. I’m sitting in a car on the street. Come on, Poppy. Get with it. Move. The conversation has to end.

  So, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, I force myself to get out, bang the door shut, and call, “Good night!” I head to my front door and open it, because I know instinctively that Sam won’t drive away till he’s seen I’m safely in. Then I stand on the doorstep, watching his car drive away.

  As it rounds the corner, I check my phone, half-hoping, half-expecting …

  But it’s dark and silent. It remains dark and silent. And for the first time in a long while, I feel utterly alone.

  81 OK, he won’t get. I know.

  82 Not such a huge range, then.

  83 Magnus is doing it with Professor Wilson? No. Surely not. She has a beard.

  84 And, by the way, in what sense have I appeared in her life?

  85 And we’re not exactly starting from a high bar.

  86 I think it can. It’s all in the timing.

  87 Another one for Antony. Not.

  It’s in every single paper the next morning. Front-page news. I headed out to the newsagents as soon as I was up and bought every newspaper they had.

  There are pictures of Sir Nicholas, pictures of the prime minister, pictures of Sam, pictures of Ed Exton, even a picture of Vicks in the Mail. The headlines are full of corruption and smear attempt and integrity. The memo is printed in full, everywhere, and there’s an official quote from Number 10 about Sir Nicholas considering his position on the government committee. There are even two different cartoons of Sir Nicholas holding bags labeled Happiness and stuffed full of money.

  But Sam was right: There’s an air of confusion about it. Some journalists obviously think Sir Nicholas did write the memo. Others obviously think he didn’t. One paper has run an editorial about how Sir Nicholas is an arrogant big-head and of course he’s been taking bribes all along; another has written that Sir Nicholas is known for his quiet integrity and it couldn’t possibly be him. If Sam wanted to throw up a que
stion mark over everything, he’s definitely succeeded.

  I texted him this morning:

  You OK?

  But I got no reply. I guess he’s busy. To say the least.

  Meanwhile, I feel like a wreck. It took me hours to get to sleep last night, I was so wired—but then I woke at six and sat bolt upright, already grabbing for my phone, my heart racing. Magnus had texted four words:

  Having a great time. M xxx

  Having a great time. What does that tell me? Nothing.

  He could be having a great time congratulating himself on how I have no idea about his secret mistress. There again, he could be having a great time innocently looking forward to a life of faithful monogamy, with no idea that Clemency somehow got the wrong end of the stick about him and Lucinda.88 Or possibly he could be having a great time deciding that he’s never going to be unfaithful again and regrets it hugely and will confess everything to me as soon as he gets back.89

  I can’t cope. I need Magnus to be here, in this country, in this room. I need to ask him, “Have you been unfaithful with Lucinda?” and see what he says, and then maybe we can move forward and I can work out what I’m going to do. Until then, I feel like I’m in limbo.

  As I go to make another cup of tea, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, and I wince. My hair is a mess. My hands are covered with newsprint from reading all the papers. My stomach is full of acid, and my skin looks drawn. So much for my bridal beauty regimen. According to my plan, last night I was supposed to apply a hydration mask. I didn’t even take my makeup off.

  I’d originally set today aside to do wedding preparation—but every time I even think about it, my insides clench and I feel like crying or shouting at someone. (Well, Magnus.) There’s no point just sitting here all day, though. I have to go out. I have to do something. After a few sips of tea, I decide to go in to work. I don’t have any appointments, but I’ve got some admin I can catch up with. And at least it’ll force me to have a shower and get myself together.

  I’m the first to arrive, and I sit in the quiet calm, sorting through patient files, letting the monotony of the job soothe me. Which lasts about five minutes before Angela slouches through the door and clatters around, starting her computer and making coffee and turning on the wall-mounted telly.

  “Do we have to?” I feel as if I’ve got a hangover, even though I hardly drank anything last night, and I could do without this blaring in my ears. But Angela stares at me as though I’ve violated some basic human right.

  “I always watch Daybreak.”

  It’s not worth arguing. I could always heft all the files into my appointment room, but I don’t have the energy for that either, so I just hunch my shoulders and try to block the world out.

  “Parcel!” Angela dumps a Jiffy bag in front of me. “StarBlu. Is that your swimwear for the honeymoon?”

  I stare at it blankly. I was a different person when I ordered that. I can remember myself now, going online one lunchtime, picking out bikinis and wraps. Never in a million years did I think that three days before the wedding I’d be sitting here, wondering if the whole thing should go ahead at all.

  “… and in today’s front-page story, we’re talking possible corruption at government level.” The presenter’s voice attracts my attention. “Here in the studio, a man who has known Sir Nicholas Murray for thirty years: Alan Smith-Reeves. Alan, this is a confusing business. What’s your take?”

  “I know that guy,” Angela says self-importantly, as Alan Smith-Reeves starts talking. “He used to work in the same building as my last job.”

  “Oh, right.” I nod politely, as a picture of Sam appears on the screen.

  I can’t look. Just the sight of him sends shooting pains through my chest, but I don’t even know why. Is it because he’s in trouble? Is it because he’s the only other person who knows about Magnus? Is it because last night I was standing in a wood with his arms around me and now I’ll probably never see him again?

  “He’s quite good-looking,” says Angela, squinting at Sam critically. “Is he Sir Nicholas Whatsit?”

  “No!” I say, more vehemently than I meant to. “Don’t be stupid!”

  “All right!” She scowls at me. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

  I can’t answer. I have to escape from all this. I get to my feet. “Want a coffee?”

  “I’m making one. Duh.” Angela shoots me an odd look. “Are you OK? What are you doing here, anyway? Thought you had the day off.”

  “I wanted to get ahead with stuff.” I grab my denim jacket. “But maybe it was a bad idea.”

  “Here she is!” The door bursts open and Ruby and Annalise bustle in. “We were just talking about you!” says Ruby, looking surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d do some admin. But I’m going.”

  “No, don’t go! Wait a sec.” Ruby grabs my shoulder, then turns to Annalise. “Now, Annalise. Why don’t you say to Poppy what we were talking about? Then you won’t have to write a letter.”

  Uh-oh. She’s wearing her headmistressy look. And Annalise’s looking shamefaced. What’s going on?

  “I don’t want to say it.” Annalise bites her lip like a six-year-old. “I’ll write a letter.”

  “Say it. Then it’s done.” Ruby is eyeing Annalise with the kind of stern gaze that’s impossible to ignore.

  “OK!” Annalise takes a breath, looking a little pink around the cheeks. “Poppy, I’m sorry I behaved badly with Magnus the other day. It was wrong of me and I was just doing it to get back at you.”

  “And?” prompts Ruby.

  “I’m sorry I’ve given you a hard time. Magnus is yours, not mine. He belongs with you, not me. And I’m never going to mention the fact we switched appointments again,” she finishes in a rush. “Promise.”

  She looks so discomfited, I feel quite touched. I can’t believe Ruby did that. They should put her in charge at White Globe Consulting. She’d sort out Justin Cole in no time.

  “Well … thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

  “I truly am sorry, you know, Poppy.” Annalise twists her fingers, looking abject. “I don’t want to spoil your wedding.”

  “Annalise, take it from me. You won’t spoil my wedding.” I smile, but to my horror I can feel tears welling up in my eyes.

  If anything spoils my wedding it’ll be the fact that it was called off. It’ll be the fact that Magnus didn’t really love me after all. It’ll be the fact that I was a completely stupid, deluded fool….

  Oh God. I am going to cry.

  “Missus?” Ruby gives me a close look. “You OK?”

  “Fine!” I exclaim, blinking furiously.

  “Wedding stress,” says Annalise. “Oh my God, Poppy, are you turning into a bridezilla at last? Go on! I’ll help. I’ll be a bridesmaidzilla. Let’s go and throw a hissy fit somewhere. That’ll cheer you up.”

  I raise a half smile and wipe my eyes. I don’t know how to respond. Do I tell them about Magnus? They’re my friends, after all, and I’m longing for someone to talk to.

  But then, what if it is all a mix-up? I haven’t heard anything further from Unknown Number.90 The whole thing’s guesswork. I can’t start telling the world that Magnus has been unfaithful, based on one anonymous text. And then have Annalise putting it on Facebook and calling him a love rat and booing as we walk down the aisle.91

  “I’m just tired,” I say at last.

  “Slap-up breakfast!” exclaims Ruby. “That’s what you need.”

  “No!” I say in horror. “I won’t fit into my dress!”

  Assuming I’m still going to get married. I feel the rush of tears again. Preparing for a wedding is stressful enough. Preparing for a wedding or possible last-minute breakup/cancellation is going to turn my hair gray.

  “You will,” Ruby contradicts me. “Everyone knows brides lose two dress sizes before their wedding. You’ve got a massive margin to play with there, girl. Use it! Pig out! You’ll never be in this
position again!”

  “Have you dropped two dress sizes?” asks Annalise, eyeing me a little resentfully. “You can’t have.”

  “No,” I say gloomily. “Maybe half of one.”

  “Well, that qualifies you for a latte and a doughnut, at any rate,” says Ruby, heading for the door. “Come on. Comfort food’s what you need. We’ve got half an hour. Let’s cram it in.”

  When Ruby gets an idea, she goes for it. She’s already striding along the pavement and into the Costa two doors away. As Annalise and I push our way in, she’s heading up to the till.

  “Hello there!” she begins cheerfully. “I’d like three lattes, three doughnuts, three plain croissants, three almond croissants—”

  “Ruby, stop!” I start giggling.

  “Three pains au chocolat—we’ll give them to the patients if we can’t finish them—three apple muffins—”

  “Three tins of breath mints,” chimes in Annalise.

  “Breath mints?” Ruby turns to regard her scornfully. “Breath mints?”

  “And some cinnamon swirls,” Annalise adds hurriedly.

  “That’s more like it. Three cinnamon swirls …”

  My phone rings in my pocket, and my stomach lurches. Oh God, who’s this? What if it’s Magnus?

  What if it’s Sam?

  I haul it out, taking a step away from Ruby and Annalise, who are arguing about what kind of cookies they should buy. As I see the screen, I feel a dreadful squeezing sensation inside. It’s Unknown Number. Whoever-it-is has finally phoned me back.

  This is it. This is where I find out the truth. For good or for bad. I’m so petrified, my hand is actually shaking as I press accept, and at first I can’t catch my breath to speak.

  “Hello?” a girl’s voice is saying down the line. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  Is that Clemency? I can’t tell.

  “Hi,” I manage to utter at last. “Hello. This is Poppy speaking. Is this Clemency?”

  “No.” The girl sounds surprised.

  “Oh.” I swallow. “Right.”

  It’s not Clemency? Who is it, then? My mind is scampering around frantically. Who else could have sent me that text? Does this mean Lucinda’s not involved after all? I can see Annalise and Ruby eyeing me curiously from the register and I swing away.