I've Got Your Number (20 page)

“… admit it, Magnus … complete mistake …”

“… cancel. Not too late. Better now than a messy divorce …”

I swallow hard. My hands are trembling around the tray. What am I hearing? What was that word,
divorce
?

I’m probably misinterpreting, I tell myself. It’s only a few stray words, they could mean anything.

“Well, we’re getting married, whatever you say! So you might as well bloody like it!”
Magnus’s voice soars out, clear as a bell.

A chill settles on me. It’s quite hard to find an alternative interpretation of that.

There’s some rumbling reply from Antony, then Magnus yells again, “… will
not
end in bloody disaster!”

I feel a swell of love for Magnus. He sounds so furious. A moment later there’s a rattling at the door, and in a flash I backtrack about ten steps. As he emerges, I walk forward again, trying to look relaxed.

“Hi! Cup of tea?” Somehow I manage a natural tone. “Everything all right? I wondered where you’d got to!”

“Fine.” He smiles affectionately and snakes an arm around my waist.

He’s giving no hint that he was just yelling at his parents. I never realized he was such a good actor. He should go into politics.

“I’ll take those in to my parents, actually.” He quickly removes the tray from my grasp. “They’re … er … looking at the art.”

“Great!” I manage a smile, but my chin is wobbling. They’re not looking at the art. They’re telling
each other what a terrible choice their son has made for a wife. They’re making bets that we’ll be divorced within a year.

As Magnus emerges from the antechapel again, I take a deep breath, feeling sick with nerves.

“So … what do your parents make of all this?” I say as lightly as I can manage. “I mean, your father’s not really into church, is he? Or … or … marriage, even.”

I’ve given him the perfect cue to tell me. It’s all set up. But Magnus shrugs sulkily.

“They’re OK.”

I sip my tea a few times, staring miserably at the ancient stone floor, willing myself to pursue it. I should contradict him. I should say, “I heard you arguing.” I should have it out with him.

But … I can’t do it. I’m not brave enough. I don’t want to hear the truth—that his parents think I’m crap.

“Just got to check an email.” Is it my imagination or is Magnus avoiding my gaze?

“Me too.” I peel away from him miserably and go to sit by myself on a side pew. For a few moments I hunch my shoulders, trying to resist the urge to cry. At last I reach for my phone and switch it on. I might as well catch up with some stuff. I haven’t looked at it for hours. As I switch it on, I almost recoil at the number of buzzes and flashes and bleeps which greet me.
How
many messages have I missed? I quickly text the concierge at the Berrow Hotel, telling him he can call off the search for the ring, and thanking him for his time. Then I turn my attention to the messages.

Top of the pile is a text from Sam, which arrived about twenty minutes ago:

On way to Germany over weekend. Heading to mountainous region. Will be off radar for a bit.

Seeing his name fills me with a longing to talk to someone, and I text back:

Hi there. Sounds cool. Why Germany?

There’s no reply, but I don’t care; it’s cathartic just to type.

So much for fake ring. Did not work. Was found out and now M’s parents think I’m a weirdo.

For a moment I wonder whether to tell him that Lucinda had the ring and ask him what he thinks. But … no. It’s too complicated. He won’t want to get into it. I send the text—then realize he might think I’m having a go at him. Quickly I type a follow-up:

Thx for help, anyway. Appreciate it.

Maybe I should have a look at his in-box. I’ve been neglecting it. There are so many emails with the same subject heading, I find myself squinting at the screen in puzzlement—till it dawns on me. Of course. Everyone’s responded to my invitation to send in ideas! These are all the replies!

For the first time this afternoon, I feel a small glow of pride in myself. If one of these people has come up with a groundbreaking idea and revolutionizes Sam’s company, then it will all be down to me.

I click on the first one, full of anticipation.

Dear Sam,

I think we should have yoga at lunchtimes, funded by the company, and several others agree with me.

Best,
Sally Brewer

I frown uncertainly. It’s not exactly what I was expecting, but I suppose yoga
is
a good idea.

OK, next one.

Dear Sam,

Thanks for your email. You asked for honesty. The rumor among our department is that this so-called ideas exercise is a weeding-out process. Why not just be honest yourself and
tell
us if we’re going to be fired?

Kind regards,
Tony

I blink in astonishment. What?

OK, that’s just a ridiculous reaction. He’s got to be a nutter. I quickly scroll down to the next one.

Dear Sam,

Is there a budget for this “new ideas” program you’ve launched? A few team leaders are asking.

Thanks,
Chris Davies

That’s another ridiculous reaction. A
budget
? Who needs a budget for ideas?

Sam,

What the fuck is going on? Next time you feel like announcing a new staff initiative, would you mind consulting the other directors?

Malcolm

The next is even more to the point:

Sam,

What’s this all about? Thanks for the heads-up. Not.

Vicks

I feel a twinge of guilt. It never occurred to me that I might get Sam into trouble with his colleagues. But surely everyone will see the beneficial side as soon as the ideas start flooding in.

Dear Sam,

The word is that you’re appointing a new “ideas czar.” You may recall that this was
my
idea, which I raised in a departmental meeting three years ago. I find it a little rich that my initiative has been appropriated and very much hope that when the appointment is made, I will be at the top of the short list.

Otherwise, I fear I will have to make a complaint to a more senior level.

Best,
Martin

What?

Dear Sam,

Will we be having a special presentation of all our ideas? Could you please let me know the time limit on a PowerPoint presentation? May we work as teams?

Best wishes,
Mandy

There. You see? A brilliant, positive reaction. Teamwork! Presentations! This is fantastic!

Dear Sam,

Sorry to bother you again.

If we
don’t
want to work in a team after all, will we be penalized? I have fallen out with my team, but now they know all my ideas, which is totally unfair.

Just so you know,
I
had the idea about restructuring the marketing department first. Not Carol.

Best,
Mandy

OK. Well, obviously you have to expect a few glitches. It doesn’t matter. It’s still a positive result….

Dear Sam,

I’m sorry to do this, but I wish to make a formal complaint about the behavior of Carol Hanratty.

She has behaved totally unprofessionally in the new-ideas exercise, and I am forced to take the rest of the day off, due to my great distress. Judy is also too distressed to work for the rest of the day, and we are thinking of contacting our union.

Best,
Mandy

What?
What?

Dear Sam,

Forgive the long email. You ask for ideas.

Where to start?

I have worked at this company for fifteen years, during which time a long process of disillusionment has silted up my very veins, until my mental processes …

This guy’s email is about fifteen pages long. I drop my phone into my lap, my jaw slack.

I can’t believe all these replies. I never
ever
meant to cause all this kerfuffle. Why are people so
stupid
? Why do they have to fight? What on earth have I stirred up?

I’ve read only the first few emails. There are about thirty more to go. If I forward all these to Sam, and he steps off the plane in Germany and gets them in one fell swoop … I suddenly hear his voice again:
Round-robin emails are the work of the devil
.

And I sent one out in his name. To the whole company. Without consulting him.

Oh God. I’m really wishing I could go back in time. It
seemed like such a great idea. What was I
thinking
? All I know is, I can’t land this on him out of the blue. I need to explain it all to him first. Tell him what I was trying to achieve.

My mind is ticking over now. I mean, he’s in a plane. He’s off-radar. And it’s Friday night, after all. There’s no
point
forwarding anything to him. Maybe everyone will have calmed down by Monday. Yes.

The phone suddenly bleeps with a text and I jump, startled.

Taking off. Anything I need to know about? Sam

I stare at the phone, my heart beating with slight paranoia. Does he need to know about this right at this very moment? Does he
need
to?

No. He does not.

Not right now. Have a good trip! Poppy

⁶¹
In fact, probably pressing a glass up to it.

⁶²
His waistcoat cost nearly the same amount as my dress.

⁶³
I think
cymbals
in the work of Coldplay would make more sense, but what do I know?

⁶⁴
Wanda made beef stroganoff for us the first time I met her. How could I tell her the truth, which is that it makes me gag?

⁶⁵
He was on
Newsnight
and everything. According to Magnus, Antony
loved
all the attention, although he pretended he didn’t. He’s been saying even more controversial things ever since, but none has ever taken off like the Philistines thing.

I
don’t know what to do about Antony and Wanda and Antechapelgate, as I’ve named it in my head. So I’ve done nothing. I’ve said nothing.

I know I’m avoiding it. I know it’s weak. I know I should face the situation. But I can barely even take it in, let alone talk about it. Especially to Magnus.

I didn’t realize how good at acting I was. All weekend, I’ve given nothing away. I’ve had dinner with the Tavish family. I’ve been out for a drink with Ruby and Annalise. I’ve laughed and talked and exclaimed and joked and had sex. And all the time there’s been this little gnawing pain in my chest. I’m almost getting used to it.

If they’d
say
something to me, I’d almost feel better. We could have a stand-up row, and I could convince them that I love Magnus and I’m going to support his career and I do
have a brain really. But they’ve said nothing. They’ve been outwardly charming and pleasant, politely inquiring about our house-hunting plans and offering me glasses of wine.

Which only makes it worse. It confirms that I’m an outsider. I’m not even allowed into the family powwow about how unsuitable this new girlfriend of Magnus’s is.

It would even be OK if Magnus hated his parents and didn’t respect their views and we could just write them off as loonies. But he does respect them. He likes them. They get on really well. They agree on most things, and when they don’t agree it’s with good nature and banter. On every subject.

Every subject except me.

I can’t think about it for too long, because I get all upset and panicky, so I allow myself only a tiny snippet of worry at a time. I’ve had my quota for this evening. I sat in a Starbucks after work, nursing a hot chocolate, and got quite morose.