I've Got Your Number (38 page)

I don’t know how long we’re there. Five minutes, maybe. Ten minutes.

But the moment can’t last forever, and it doesn’t. The bubble doesn’t so much burst as evaporate, leaving us back in the real world. Realizing our arms are round each other; awkwardly stepping apart; feeling the chill night air rush
between us. I look away, clearing my throat, rubbing his touch off my skin.

“So, shall we—”

“Yes.”

As we pad through the woods, neither of us speaks. I can’t believe what just happened. Already it seems like a dream. Something impossible.

It was in the forest. No one saw it or heard it. So did it actually happen?
⁸⁷

Sam’s phone is buzzing and this time he takes it to his ear.

“Hi, Vicks.”

And just like that, it’s over. At the edge of the wood I can see a posse of people striding over the grass toward us. And the aftermath begins. I must be a little dazed from our encounter, because I can’t engage with any of this. I’m aware of Vicks and Robbie and Mark all raising their voices, and Sam staying calm, and Vicks getting near to tears, which seems a bit unlikely for her, and talk of trains and cars and emergency press briefings and then Mark saying, “It’s Sir Nicholas for you, Sam,” and everyone moving back a step, almost respectfully, as Sam takes the call.

And then suddenly the cars are here to take everyone back to London, and we’re heading out to the drive and Vicks is bossing everyone around and everyone’s going to regroup at 7:00 a.m. at the office.

I’ve been allotted to a car with Sam. As I get in, Vicks leans in and says, “Thanks, Poppy.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

“It’s OK,” I say, just in case she’s not. “And … I’m sorry. About—”

“Yup,” she says tightly.

And then the car moves off. Sam is texting intently, a deep frown on his face. I don’t dare make a sound. I check my phone for a message from Magnus, but there’s nothing. So I drop it down on the seat and stare out the window, letting the streetlamps blur into a stream of light, wondering where the hell I’m going.

I didn’t even know I’d fallen asleep.

But somehow my head is on Sam’s chest and he’s saying, “Poppy? Poppy?” Suddenly I wake up properly, and my neck is cricked and I’m looking out of a car window at a funny angle.

“Oh.” I scramble to a sitting position, wincing as my head spins. “Sorry. God. You should have—”

“No problem. Is this your address?”

I peer blearily out the window. We’re in Balham. We’re outside my block of flats. I glance at my watch. It’s gone midnight.

“Yes,” I say in disbelief. “This is me. How did you—”

Sam nods at my phone, still on the car seat. “Your address was in there.”

“Oh. Right.” I can hardly complain about him invading my privacy.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“No. Of course. That’s fine.” I nod. “Thanks.”

Sam picks up the phone and seems about to hand it to me—then he hesitates.

“I read your messages, Poppy. All of them.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat, unsure how to react. “Wow. Well. That’s … that’s a bit much, don’t you think? I mean, I know I read your emails, but you didn’t need to—”

“It’s Lucinda.”

“What?” I stare at him dumbly.

“For my money, Lucinda’s your girl.”

Lucinda?

“But what—Why?”

“She’s been lying to you. Consistently. She couldn’t have been in all the places she says she has at the times she’s said. It’s not physically possible.”

“Actually … I noticed that too,” I admit. “I thought she was trying to bill me for more hours or something.”

“Does she bill by the hour?”

I rub my nose, feeling stupid. In fact, she doesn’t. It’s an all-inclusive fee.

“Have you ever noticed that Magnus and Lucinda inevitably text you within ten minutes of each other?”

Slowly, I shake my head. Why would I notice that? I get zillions of texts every day, from all kinds of people. And, anyway, how did
he
notice?

“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.

I
t’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 question 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.