I've Got Your Number (44 page)

Yes I am. Coming.

And suddenly there’s a lump in my throat. Enough. Stop. I slap the papers back on the pile and look up with a lighthearted smile.

“Wow!”

Ted shrugs. “Yeah, well, like I say, we didn’t know what to do with them.”

“We’ll sort it,” says Sam. “Thanks, Ted.”

His face is impassive. I have no idea if he felt anything, reading those texts.

“So we can do what we like with the phone, yeah?” says Ted.

“No problem.” Sam nods. “Cheers, Ted.”

As Ted disappears, Sam heads over to the Nespresso again and starts making a new cup.

“Come on, let me make you a coffee. I’ve worked it out now.”

“Really, I’m fine,” I begin, but the frother starts emitting hot milk with such a loud hissing, there’s no point even trying to speak.

“Here you go.” He hands me a cup.

“Thanks.”

“So … you want these?” He gestures at the pile of papers.

I feel a kind of heat rising from my feet, and I take a sip of coffee, playing for time. The phone’s gone. These printouts are the only record of that weird and wonderful time. Of course I want them.

But for some reason I can’t admit that to Sam.

“I’m easy.” I try to sound nonchalant. “You want them?”

Sam says nothing, just shrugs.

“I mean, I don’t
need
them for anything….”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s all pretty inconsequential stuff….” His phone bleeps with a text, and he pulls it out of his pocket. He scans the screen, then scowls. “Oh Jesus. Oh bloody hell. This is
all
I need.”

“What’s wrong?” I say in alarm. “Is it about the voice mails?”

“It’s not that.” He regards me from under lowered brows. “What the hell did you send to Willow?”

“What?” I stare at him, bewildered.

“She’s on the warpath about some email from you. Why the hell were you emailing Willow, anyway?”

“I wasn’t!” I stare at him, perplexed. “I would never email her! I don’t even know her!”

“Well, that’s not what she says—” He breaks off as his phone bleeps again. “OK. Here we are…. Recognize that?” He passes it to me and I start reading.

FFS, Willow the Witch, can’t you LEAVE SAM ALONE AND STOP WRITING IN OBNOXIOUS CAPITALS? And just FYI: You are not Sam’s girlfriend. So who cares what he was doing with some “cutesy” girl last night? Why don’t you get a life?????

A cold feeling is creeping over me.

Maybe I did type something like that this morning, while I was on the tube to Sam’s office. Just out of irritation at yet another rant from Willow. Just to vent a little. But I didn’t
send
it. I mean, of course I didn’t
send
it. I would never, ever have
sent
it.

Oh God …

“I … um …” My mouth is dry as I finally raise my head. “I might possibly have written that as a joke. And accidentally pressed
send
. Totally by mistake. I mean, I didn’t
intend
to,” I add, to make it crystal clear. “I never would have done it on
purpose
.”

I scan the words again and imagine Willow reading them. She must have hit the roof. I almost wish I’d been there to see it. I can’t help a tiny snuffle as I imagine her eyes widening, her nostrils flaring, fire coming from her mouth….
⁹⁵

“You think this is funny?” snaps Sam.

“Well, no,” I say, shocked by his tone. “I mean, I’m really sorry. Obviously. But it
was
a mistake—”

“What does it matter whether it was a mistake or not?” He grabs the phone from me. “It’s a headache, and it’s the last thing I need on my plate—”

“Wait a minute!” I lift a hand. “I don’t understand. Why is it on
your
plate? Why is it
your
problem? It was me who sent the email, not you.”

“Believe me.” He gives me a savage look. “It’ll somehow end up being my problem.”

OK, this makes no sense. Why will it be his problem? And why is he so irate? I know I shouldn’t have sent that email, but neither should Willow have sent him ninety-five million nutty rants. Why is he taking
her
side?

“Look.” I try to sound calm. “I’ll send her an email and apologize. But I think you’re overreacting. She’s not your girlfriend anymore. This isn’t anything to do with you.”

He isn’t even looking at me. He’s typing on his phone. Is he typing to Willow?

“You’re not over her, are you?” I feel a raw hurt as the truth hits me. Why didn’t I realize this before? “You’re not over Willow.”

“Of course I am.” He frowns impatiently.

“You’re not! If you were over her you wouldn’t care about this email. You’d think it served her right. You’d think it was funny. You’d take
my
side.” My voice is trembling, and I have a dreadful feeling that my cheeks are turning pink.

Sam looks baffled. “Poppy, why are you so upset?”

“Because … because—” I break off, breathing hard.

Because of reasons I could never tell him. Reasons I can’t even admit to myself. My stomach is churning with humiliation. Who was I
kidding
?

“Because … you weren’t honest!” The words burst from me at last. “You gave me all this rubbish about ‘It’s over and Willow should understand that.’ How can she understand anything if you react like this? You’re acting as if she’s still a major part of your life and you’re still responsible for her. And that tells me you’re not over her.”

“This is all absolute bullshit.” He looks livid.

“So why not tell her to stop pestering you? Why not finish it once and for all and get closure? Is it because you don’t
want
closure, Sam?” My voice rises in agitation. “Do you
enjoy
your weirdo, standoff relationship?”

Now Sam is breathing hard too. “You have
no
right to comment on something you understand nothing about—”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I give a sarcastic little laugh. “You’re right. I don’t even begin to understand you two. Maybe you’ll get back together, and I hope you’ll be very happy.”

“Poppy, for Christ’s sake—”

“What?” I put my cup down with a small bang, spilling coffee over the pile of our back-and-forth texts. “Oh, I’ve ruined them now. Sorry. But I guess they don’t have anything important in them, so it doesn’t matter.”

“What?”
Sam looks as though he’s having trouble keeping up. “Poppy, can we sit down calmly and just … regroup?”

I don’t think I’m capable of calm. I feel erratic and out of control. All sorts of deep dark feelings are coming to the surface. I hadn’t fully admitted my hopes to myself. I hadn’t realized quite how much I’d assumed …

Anyway. I’ve been a deluded fool and I need to get out of here as quickly as possible.

“Sorry.” I take a deep breath and somehow muster a smile. “Sorry. I’m just a bit stressed. With the wedding and everything. It’s fine. Look, thanks for lending me the phone. It was nice knowing you, and I hope you’ll be very happy. With Willow or without.” I grab my bag, my hands still shaky. “So, er … hope everything goes well with Sir Nicholas, and I’ll look out for the news stories…. Don’t worry,
I’ll see myself out….” I can barely meet his eyes as I head to the door.

Sam looks utterly baffled. “Poppy, don’t go like that. Please.”

“I’m not going like anything!” I say brightly. “Really. I’ve got things to do. I’ve got a wedding to cancel, people to give minor heart attacks to—”

“Wait. Poppy.” Sam’s voice stops me, and I turn around. “I just want to say … thanks.”

His dark eyes meet mine, and for a moment my prickly, defensive shell is pierced.

“Same.” I nod, a lump in my throat. “Thanks.”

I lift a hand in final farewell and walk away down the corridor. Head high. Keep going. Don’t look back.

By the time I reach the street, my face is lightly spattered with tears and I’m fizzing with furious, agitated thoughts—although who I’m most furious at I’m not sure. Maybe myself.

But there’s one way I can make myself feel better. Within half an hour I’ve visited a phone shop, signed up for the most expensive, full-on contract going, and am in possession of a slick, state-of-the-art smart phone. Ted said “any budget”—well, I’ve taken him at his word.

And now I’ve got to christen it. I head out of the shop to an open, paved area away from the traffic. I dial Magnus’s number and give a satisfied nod when it goes straight to voice mail. That’s what I wanted.

“OK, you little
shit
.” I imbue the word with as much venom as I can manage. “I’ve spoken to Lucinda. I know it all. I know you slept with her, I know you proposed to her, I know this ring has been round the houses, I know
you’re a lying scumbag, and, just so you know—the wedding’s off. Did you hear that?
Off
. So I hope you can find another good use for your waistcoat. And your life. See you, Magnus. Not.”

There are moments in life that the white-chocolate Magnum ice cream was invented for, and this is one of them.
⁹⁶

I can’t face the phone calls yet. I can’t face telling the vicar, or my brothers, or any of my friends. I’m too battered. I need to restore my energies first. And so, by the time I’ve reached home, I have a plan.

Tonight: Watch comfort DVDs, eat Magnums, cry a lot. Hair mask.
⁹⁷

Tomorrow: Break news to world that wedding is canceled, deal with fallout, watch Annalise try not to whoop with joy, etcetera, etcetera.

I’ve been texting my new mobile number to everyone I know, and a few friendly texts have already come back—but I haven’t mentioned the wedding to anyone. It can all wait till tomorrow.

I don’t want to watch anything with weddings in it, obviously,
⁹⁸
so in the end I plump for cartoons, which turn out to be the biggest tearjerkers of the lot. I watch
Toy Story 3
,
⁹⁹
Up
,
¹⁰⁰
and by midnight I’m on
Finding Nemo
.
I’m curled up on the sofa in my ancient pajamas and furry throw, with the white wine within easy reach, my hair all oily with conditioning mask and the puffiest eyes in the universe.
Finding Nemo
always makes me cry anyway, but this time I’m a sniveling wreck before Nemo’s even
lost
.
¹⁰¹
I’m wondering if I should find something else to watch which is less savage and brutal, when the buzzer sounds.

Which is weird. I’m not expecting anyone. Unless … are Toby and Tom a day early? It would be just like them to arrive at midnight, straight off some cheapie coach. The Entryphone is conveniently within reach from the sofa, so I pull the receiver down, pause
Finding Nemo
, and tentatively say, “Hi.”

“It’s Magnus.”

Magnus?

I sit up straight on the sofa as though I’ve had an electric shock. Magnus. Here. On my doorstep. Has he heard the message?

“Hi.” I swallow, trying to pull myself together. “I thought you were in Bruges.”

“I’m back.”

“Right. So why didn’t you use your key?”

“I thought you might have changed the locks.”

“Oh.” I brush a lock of hair out of my tearstained eyes. So he
has
heard the message. “Well … I haven’t.”

“Can I come up, then?”

“I suppose.”

I put the receiver down and look around. Shit. It’s a pigsty in here. For one panicked instant I feel an urge to
jump up, dispose of the Magnum wrappers, wash off my hair mask, plump up the cushions, shove on some eyeliner, and find some attractive matching loungewear. That’s what Annalise would do.

And maybe that’s what stops me. Who cares if I’ve got puffy eyes and a hair mask? I’m not marrying this man, so it’s irrelevant what I look like.
¹⁰²

I hear his key in the lock and defiantly put
Finding Nemo
back on. I’m not pausing my life for him. I’ve done enough of that already. I turn the volume up slightly and fill my wineglass higher. I’m not offering him any, so he needn’t expect it.
Or
a Magnum.
¹⁰³

The door makes a familiar squeaking sound and I know he’s in the room, but I keep my gaze resolutely fixed on the screen.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” I shrug, as though to say “Whatever.”

In my peripheral vision I can see Magnus exhale. He looks a teeny bit nervous.

“So.”

“So.” I can play this game too.

“Poppy.”

“Poppy. I mean, Magnus.” I scowl. He caught me out. By mistake I lift my eyes to his, and he immediately rushes over and grabs my hands, just like he did that first time we met.

“Stop it!” I practically snarl at him, pulling them away. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I’m sorry!” He lifts his hands as though I’ve scalded him.

“I don’t know who you are.” I gaze miserably at Nemo and Dory. “You lied about everything. I can’t marry someone who’s a lying cheat. So you might as well go. I don’t even know what you’re doing here.”

Magnus heaves another huge sigh.

“Poppy … OK. I made a mistake. Hands up. I’ll admit it.”

“A ‘mistake’?” I echo sarcastically.

“Yes, a mistake! I’m not perfect, OK?” He thrusts his fingers through his hair in a frustrated gesture. “Is that what you expect out of a man? Perfection? You want a flawless man? Because, believe me, that man doesn’t exist. And if that’s why you’re calling off this wedding, because I made one simple error …” He holds his hands out, his eyes reflecting the colored light of the TV. “I’m
human
, Poppy. I’m a flawed, imperfect human being.”

“I don’t want a flawless man,” I snap. “I want a man who doesn’t sleep with my wedding planner.”

“We don’t choose our flaws, unfortunately. And I’ve regretted my weakness over and over again.”