I've Got Your Number

11

This is totally surreal. And thrilling. And a bit of a pain. All at the same time.

It’s not that I’m regretting my noble gesture, exactly. I still mean what I said in the office. How could I possibly walk away? How could I not at least try to help Sam out? But, on the other hand, I thought it would take about half an hour. Not a train journey down to Hampshire, just for starters.

I’m supposed to be at the hairdresser’s right now. I’m supposed to be talking about updos and trying on my tiara. Instead, I’m on Waterloo station concourse, buying a cup of tea and clutching the phone, which, needless to say, I grabbed from the desk as we left. Sam could hardly complain. I’ve texted Sue to tell her that I’m really sorry, I’ll have to miss the appointment with Louis, but of course I’ll pay the whole fee and please give Louis my love.

I looked at it after I’d finished typing it, and I deleted half the kisses. Then I put them back in again. Then I took them out again. Maybe five is enough.

Now I’m waiting for Magnus to pick up. He’s leaving for his stag trip to Bruges this afternoon, so it’s not like I was going to see him, but still. I feel like if I don’t at least ring him, it’ll be wrong.

“Oh, hi, Magnus!”

“Pops!” The line is terrible, and I can hear the public-address system in the background. “We’re about to board. You OK?”

“Yes! I just wanted to … ” I trail off, not sure where I’m going with this.

Just wanted to tell you that I’m off to Hampshire with a man you know nothing about, embroiled in a situation you know nothing about.

“I’ll … be out tonight,” I say lamely. “In case you call.”

There. That’s honest. Kind of.

“OK!” He laughs. “Well, you have fun. Sweets, I’ve got to go.”

“OK! Bye! Have a good time!” The phone goes dead and I look up to see Sam watching me. I tug my shirt self-consciously, wishing again that I’d popped to the shops. It turns out that Sam does keep a spare shirt in his office, and my T-shirt was so frightful that I borrowed it. But it makes the situation even stranger, wearing his stripy Turnbull & Asser.

“Saying goodbye to Magnus,” I explain needlessly, as he’s been standing there the whole time and must have heard every word.

“That’ll be two pounds.” The woman at the sandwich shop hands me my cup.

“Thanks! Right … shall we go?”

As Sam and I walk down the concourse and get into the carriage, I feel unreal. I’m stiff with awkwardness. We must look like a couple to anyone watching. What if Willow sees us?

No. Don’t be paranoid. Willow was on the second coach to the conference. She sent an email to Sam, telling him. And, anyway, it’s not like Sam and I are doing anything illicit. We’re just … friends.

No, friends doesn’t feel right. Not colleagues either. Not really acquaintances …

OK. Let’s face it. It’s weird.

I glance over at Sam to see if he’s thinking the same, but he’s staring blankly out the train window. The train jolts and moves off down the tracks, and he comes to. As he catches me gazing at him, I quickly look away.

I’m trying to appear relaxed, but secretly I’m feeling more and more freaked out. What have I agreed to? Everything rests on my memory. It’s up to me, Poppy Wyatt, to identify some voice I heard down a phone days ago, for about twenty seconds. What if I fail?

I take a sip of tea to calm myself, and I wince. First the soup was too cold. Now this is too hot. The train starts rushing along the tracks and a spot of tea jumps out of the lid, scalding my hand.

“OK?” Sam’s noticed me.

“Fine.” I smile.

“Can I be honest?” he says bluntly. “You don’t look fine.”

“I’m good!” I protest. “I’m just … you know. There’s a lot going on at the moment.”

Sam nods.

“I’m sorry we never got to go through those confrontation techniques I promised.”

“Oh! That.” I brush it off with a hand. “This is more important.”

“Don’t say, ‘Oh! That.’ ” Sam shakes his head, looking exasperated. “That’s what I’m talking about. You automatically put yourself second.”

“I don’t! I mean … you know.” I shrug awkwardly. “Whatever.”

The train pulls up at Clapham Junction, and a group of people files into the carriage. For a while Sam is engrossed in texting. His phone has been constantly flashing, and I can only imagine how many messages are flying around. Eventually though, he puts the phone back in his pocket and leans forward, resting his elbow on the little table between us.

“Everything OK?” I ask timidly, immediately realizing what an inane question this is. To his credit, Sam ignores it.

“I have a question for you,” he says calmly. “What is it about these Tavishes that makes you feel as though they’re superior? Is it the titles? The doctorates? The brains?”

Not this again.

“Everything! It’s obvious! They’re just … I mean, you respect Sir Nicholas, don’t you?” I throw back at him defensively. “Look at all this effort you’re making for him. It’s because you respect him.”

“Yes, I respect him. Of course I do. But I don’t feel as though I’m inherently inferior to him. He doesn’t make me feel like a second-class citizen.”

“I don’t feel like a second-class citizen! You don’t know anything about it. So … stop!”

“OK.” Sam lifts his hands up high. “If I’m wrong, I apologize. It’s only an impression I’ve got. I only wanted to help, as a … ” I can sense him reaching for the word friend, then rejecting it, like I did. “I just wanted to help,” he ends finally. “But it’s your life. I’ll butt out.”

There’s silence for a while. He’s stopped. He’s given up. I’ve won.

Why don’t I feel like I’ve won?

“Excuse me.” Sam puts his phone to his ear. “Vicks. What’s up?”

He heads out of the carriage and, without meaning to, I exhale in a massive sigh. The gnawing pain is back, nestling beneath my ribs. But right now I can’t tell if it’s because the Tavishes don’t want me to marry Magnus, or because I’m trying to deny it, or because I’m nervous about this whole escapade, or because my tea’s too strong.

For a while I sit there, gazing down at my steaming tea, wishing that I’d never heard the Tavishes arguing in the church. That I knew nothing. That I could blot that gray cloud out of my life and go back to lucky, lucky me, isn’t everything perfect?

Sam takes his seat again, and there’s silence for a few moments. The train has come to a halt in the middle of nowhere, and it’s oddly quiet without the sound of the engine.

“OK.” I stare down at the little Formica table. “OK.”

“OK what?”

“OK, you’re not wrong.”

Sam says nothing, just waits. The train jolts and lurches, like a horse deciding whether to behave, then slowly begins moving off again down the tracks.

“But I’m not making this up in my head or whatever you think.” I hunch my shoulders miserably. “I overheard the Tavishes, OK? They don’t want Magnus to marry me. I’ve done everything I can. I’ve played Scrabble and I’ve tried making conversation and I’ve even read Antony’s book.78 But I’ll never be like them. Never.”

“Why should you?” Sam looks perplexed. “Why would you want to?”

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “Why would anyone want to be a really brainy celebrity who goes on TV?”

“Antony Tavish has a big brain,” says Sam steadily. “Having a big brain is like having a big liver or a big nose. Why do you feel insecure? What if he had a huge lower intestine? Would you feel insecure then?”

I can’t help giggling.

“He’s a freak, strictly speaking.” Sam presses on. “You’re marrying into a family of freaks. To be in the outermost centile of anything is freakish. Next time you’re intimidated by them, imagine a big neon sign over their heads, reading, FREAKS!”

“That’s not what you really think.” I’m smiling but shaking my head.

“It is absolutely what I think.” He looks deadly serious now. “These academic guys have to feel important. They give papers and present TV shows to show they’re useful and valuable. But you do useful, valuable work every day. You don’t need to prove anything. How many people have you treated? Hundreds. You’ve reduced their pain. You’ve made hundreds of people happier. Has Antony Tavish made anyone happier?”

I’m sure there’s something wrong with what he’s saying, but right now I can’t work out what it is. All I can do is feel a little glow. That had never occurred to me before. I’ve made hundreds of people happier.

“What about you? Have you?” I can’t help saying, and Sam shoots me a wry smile.

“I’m working on it.”

The train slows as it passes though Woking, and we both instinctively look out the window. Then Sam turns back. “The point is, it’s not about them. It’s about you. You and him. Magnus.”

“I know,” I say at last. “I know it is.”

It sounds strange, hearing Magnus’s name on his lips. It feels all wrong.

Magnus and Sam are so very different. It’s like they’re made out of different stuff. Magnus is so shiny, so mercurial, so impressive, so sexy. But a teeny-weeny bit self-obsessed.79 Whereas Sam is so … straight and strong. And generous. And kind. You just know he’d always be there for you, whatever.

Sam looks at me now and smiles, as though he can read my thoughts, and my heart experiences that tiny fillip it always does when he smiles.

Lucky Willow.

I give an inward gasp at my own thought and take a gulp of tea to cover my embarrassment.

That popped into my head with no warning. And I didn’t mean it. Or, rather, yes, I did mean it but simply in the sense that I wish them both well, as a disinterested friend—no, not friend …

I’m blushing.

I’m blushing at my own stupid, nonsensical, meaningless thought process, which, by the way, nobody knows about except me. So I can relax. I can stop this now and drop the ridiculous idea that Sam can read my mind and knows I fancy him—

No. Stop. Stop. That’s ridiculous.

This is just—

Erase the word fancy. I do not. I do not.

“Are you OK?” Sam gives me a curious look. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No!” I say quickly. “You haven’t! I appreciate it. Really.”

“Good. Because—” He breaks off to answer his phone. “Vicks. Any news?”

As Sam heads outside for another call, I gulp my tea, staring fixedly out the window, willing my blood to cool and my brain to go blank. I need to backtrack. I need to reboot. Do not save changes.

To establish a more businesslike atmosphere, I reach in my pocket for the phone, check it for messages, then put it on the table. There’s nothing on general email about the memo crisis—clearly it’s all going on between a select number of high-level colleagues.

“You do know you have to buy another phone at some point,” says Sam, raising an eyebrow as he returns. “Or are you planning to purloin all your phones from bins from now on?”

“It’s the only place.” I shrug. “Bins and skips.”

The phone buzzes with an email and I automatically reach for it, but Sam gets there first. His hand brushes against mine, and our eyes lock.

“Might be for me.”

“True.” I nod. “Go ahead.”

He checks it, then shakes his head. “Wedding-trumpeter bill. All yours.”

With a little grin of triumph, I take the phone from him. I send a quick reply to Lucinda, then put it back on the table. As it buzzes again a few moments later, we both make a grab and I just beat him.

“Shirt sale.” I pass it to him. “Not really my thing.” Sam deletes the email, then replaces the phone on the table.

“In the middle!” I shift it an inch. “Cheat.”

“Put your hands on your lap,” he retorts. “Cheat.”

There’s silence. We’re both sitting poised, waiting for the phone to buzz. Sam looks so deadly intent I feel a laugh rising. Someone else’s phone rings across the carriage, and Sam makes a half grab for ours before realizing.

“Tragic,” I murmur. “Doesn’t even know the ring tone.”

Ours bleeps with a text, and Sam’s momentary hesitation is just enough for me to scoop the phone up out of his grasp.

“Ha-ha! And I bet it’s for me… .”

I click on the text and peer at it. It’s from an unknown number and only half the message has come in, but I can work out the gist—

I read it again. And again. I look up at Sam and lick my suddenly dry lips. Never in a million years was I expecting this.

“Is it for you?” says Sam.

“No.” I swallow. “For you.”

“Vicks?” His hand is already outstretched. “She shouldn’t be using that number—”

“No, not Vicks. Not work. It’s … it’s … personal.”

Yet again I read it over, not wanting to relinquish the phone until I’m absolutely sure of what I’m seeing.

I’m not sure if this is the right number. But I had to let you know. Your fiancée has been unfaithful. It’s with someone you know. (Incoming text)

I knew it. I knew she was a bitch, and this proves she’s even worse than I thought.

“What is it?” Sam bangs his hand impatiently on the table. “Give. Is it to do with the conference?”

“No!” I knit my hands around the phone. “Sam, I’m really sorry. And I wish I hadn’t seen this first. But it says … ” I hesitate, agonized. “It says Willow’s being unfaithful to you. I’m sorry.”

Sam looks absolutely shocked. As I hand the phone over, I feel a wrenching sympathy for him. Who the hell sends that kind of news in a text?

I bet she’s shagging Justin Cole. Those two would totally suit each other.

I’m scanning Sam’s face for distress, but after that initial flash of shock, he seems extraordinarily calm. He frowns, flicks to the end of the text, then puts the phone back down on the table.

“Are you OK?” I can’t help venturing.

He shrugs. “Makes no sense.”

“I know!” I’m so stirred up on his behalf, I can’t help throwing in my views. “Why would she do that? And she gives you such a hard time! She’s such a hypocrite! She’s horrible!” I break off, wondering if I’ve gone too far. Sam is looking at me oddly.

“No, you don’t understand. It makes no sense because I’m not engaged. I don’t have a fiancée.”

“But you’re engaged to Willow,” I say stupidly.

“No, I’m not.”

“But … ” I stare at him blankly. How can he not be engaged? Of course he’s engaged.

“Never have been.” He shrugs. “What gave you that idea?”

“You told me! I know you told me!” My face is screwed up, trying to remember. “At least … yes! It was in an email. Violet sent it. It said, Sam’s engaged. I know it did.”

“Oh, that.” His brow clears. “Occasionally I’ve used that as an excuse to get rid of persistent people.” He adds, as though to make it clear, “Women.”

“An excuse?” I echo incredulously. “So, who’s Willow, then?”

“Willow is my ex-girlfriend,” he says after a pause. “We split up two months ago.”

Ex-girlfriend?

For a moment, I can’t speak. My brain feels like a fruit machine, whirling round, trying to find the right combination. I can’t cope with this. He’s engaged. He’s supposed to be engaged.

“But you—you should have said!” My agitation bursts out at last. “All this time, you let me think you were engaged!”

“No, I didn’t. I never mentioned it.” He looks perplexed. “Why are you angry?”

“I … I don’t know! It’s all wrong.”

I’m breathing hard, trying to order my thoughts. How can he not be with Willow? Everything’s different now. And it’s all his fault.80

“We talked so much about everything.” I try to speak more calmly. “I mentioned Willow several times and you never specified who she was. How could you be so secretive?”

“I’m not secretive!” He gives a short laugh. “I would have explained who she was if the subject had come up. It’s over. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!”

“Why?”

I want to scream with frustration. How can he ask why? Isn’t it obvious?

“Because … because … she behaves as though you’re together.” And suddenly I realize this is what’s upsetting me the most. “She behaves as though she has every right to rant at you. That’s why I never doubted you were engaged. What’s that all about?”

Sam flinches as though with irritation but says nothing.

“She cc’s your PA! She blurts everything out in public emails! It’s bizarre!”

“Willow’s always been … an exhibitionist. She likes an audience.” He sounds reluctant to get into this. “She doesn’t have the same boundaries as other people—”

“Too right she doesn’t! Do you know how possessive she is? I overheard her talking at the office.” A loudspeaker starts broadcasting announcements about upcoming stations, but I raise my voice over the noise. “You know she bitches about you to all the girls at the office? She told them you’re just going through a bad patch and you need to wake up or you’re going to realize what you’re about to lose—i.e., her.”

“We’re not going through a bad patch.” I hear a flash of real anger in his voice. “We’re over.”

“Does she know that?”

“She knows.”

“Are you sure? Are you totally positive that she realizes?”

“Of course.” He sounds impatient.

“It’s not ‘Of course’! How exactly did you break up? Did you sit down and have a proper talk with her?”

There’s silence. Sam’s not meeting my eye. He so did not sit down and have a proper talk with her. I know it. He probably sent her a brief text, saying, Over. Sam.

“Well, you need to tell her to stop all this ridiculous emailing. Don’t you?” I try to get his attention. “Sam?”

He’s checking his phone again. Typical. He doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t want to engage—

A thought strikes me. Oh my God, of course.

“Sam, do you ever actually reply to Willow’s emails?”

He doesn’t, does he? Suddenly it’s all clear. That’s why she starts a fresh one each time. It’s like she’s pinning messages to a blank wall.

“So if you never reply, how does she know what you really think?” I raise my voice still further over the speaker. “Oh, wait, she doesn’t! That’s why she’s so deluded about everything! That’s why she thinks you still somehow belong to her!”

Sam isn’t even meeting my eye.

“God, you are a stubborn fuck!” I yell in exasperation, just as the announcement stops.

OK. Obviously I wouldn’t have spoken so loudly if I’d realized that was about to happen. Obviously I wouldn’t have used the f-word. So that mother with her children sitting three rows away can stop shooting me evil looks as though I’m personally corrupting them.

“You really are!” I continue in a furious undertone. “You can’t just blank Willow out and think she’ll go away. You can’t press ignore forever. She won’t go away, Sam. Take it from me. You need to talk to her and explain exactly what the situation is, and what is wrong with all this, and—”

“Look, leave it.” Sam sounds irate. “If she wants to send pointless emails, she can send pointless emails. It doesn’t bother me.”

“But it’s toxic! It’s bad! It shouldn’t happen!”

“You don’t know anything about it,” he snaps. I think I’ve pressed a nerve.

And by the way, that’s a joke. I don’t know anything about it?

“I know all about it!” I contradict him. “I’ve been dealing with your in-box, remember? Mr. Blank, No Reply, Ignore Everything and Everyone.”

Sam glares at me. “Just because I don’t reply to every email with sixty-five bloody smiley faces… .”

He is not turning this against me. What’s better, smiley faces or denial?

“Well, you don’t reply to anyone,” I retort scathingly. “Not even your own dad!”

“What?” He sounds scandalised. “What the hell are you going on about now?”

“I read his email,” I say defiantly. “About how he wants to talk to you and he wishes you’d come and visit him in Hampshire and he’s got something to tell you. He said you and he hadn’t talked for ages and he missed the old days. And you didn’t even answer him. You’re heartless.”

Sam throws his head back in a roar of laughter. “Oh, Poppy. You really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do.”

“I think you don’t.”

“I think you’ll find I have a little more insight into your own life than you do.”

I glare at him mutinously. Now I hope Sam’s dad did get my email. Wait till Sam arrives at the Chiddingford Hotel and finds his father there, all dressed up and hopeful with a rose in his buttonhole. Then maybe he won’t be so flippant.

Sam has picked up our phone and is reading the text again.

“I’m not engaged,” he says, his brows knitted. “I don’t have a fiancée.”

“Yes, I got that, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “You just have a psychotic ex who thinks she still owns you even though you broke up two months ago—”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “You’re not following. The two of us are effectively sharing this phone right now, yes?”

“Yes.” Where’s he going with this?

“So this message could have been meant for either of us. I don’t have a fiancée, Poppy.” He raises his head, looking a little grim. “But you do.”

I stare at him uncomprehendingly for a moment—then it’s as though something icy trickles down my spine.

“No. You mean—No. No. Don’t be stupid.” I grab the phone from him. “It says fiancée, with an extra e.” I find the word and jab at it to prove my point. “See? It’s crystal clear. Fiancée, feminine.”

“Agreed.” He nods. “But there is no fiancée, feminine. She doesn’t exist. So … ”

I stare back at him, feeling a little sick, rerunning the text in my mind with a different spelling. Your fiancé has been unfaithful.

No. It couldn’t be …

Magnus would never—

There’s a bleeping sound, and we both start. It’s the rest of the text coming in. I snatch up the phone, read the entire thing through silently, then let it drop down on the table, my head spinning.

This can’t be happening. It can’t.

I’m not sure if this is the right number. But I had to let you know. Your fiancée has been unfaithful. It’s someone you know. I’m sorry to do this to you so soon before your wedding, Poppy. But you should know the truth. Your friend.

I’m dimly aware of Sam picking up the phone and reading the text.

“Some friend,” he says at last, sounding grave. “Whoever it is, they’re probably just stirring. Probably no truth in it at all.”

“Exactly.” I nod several times. “Exactly. I’m sure it’s made up. Someone trying to freak me out for no good reason.”

I’m trying to seem confident, but my trembling voice gives me away.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Saturday.”

Saturday. Four days away and I get a text like that.

“There isn’t anybody … ” Sam hesitates. “There’s no one you’d … suspect?”

Annalise.

It’s in my head before I even know I’m going to think it. Annalise and Magnus.

“No. I mean … I don’t know.” I turn away, pressing my cheek to the train window.

I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. Annalise is my friend. I know she thought Magnus should have been hers, but surely …

Annalise in her uniform, batting her eyelashes at Magnus. Her hands lingering on his shoulders.

No. Stop it. Stop it, Poppy.

I bring my hands up to my face, screwing my fists into my eye sockets, wanting to rip my own thoughts out. Why did whoever-it-is have to send that text? Why did I have to read it?

It can’t be true. It can’t. It’s just scurrilous, hurtful, damaging, horrible …

A tear has escaped from beneath my fists and snaked down my cheek to my chin. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to tackle this. Do I call Magnus in Bruges? Do I interrupt his stag do? But what if he’s innocent and he gets angry and the trust between us is ruined?

“We’re going to be there in a few minutes.” Sam’s voice is low and wary. “Poppy, if you’re not up for this I’ll totally understand—”

“No. I am up for it.” I lower my fists, reach for a paper napkin, and blow my nose. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“No. I’m not. But … what can I do?”

“Text the bastard back. Write Give me a name.”

I stare at him in slight admiration. That would never even have occurred to me.

“OK.” I swallow hard, gathering my courage. “OK. I’ll do it.” As I reach for the phone, I feel better already. At least I’m doing something. At last I’m not sitting here, wondering in pointless agony. I finish the text, press send with a tiny surge of adrenaline, and slurp the last of my tea. Come on, Unknown Number. Bring it on. Tell me what you’ve got.

“Sent?” Sam has been watching me.

“Yup. Now I’ll just have to wait and see what they say.”

The train is pulling into Basingstoke, and passengers are heading for the doors. I dump my cup in the litter bin, grab my bag, and stand up too.

“That’s enough about my stupid problems.” I force myself to smile at Sam. “Come on. Let’s go and sort yours.”

78 I’ve read four chapters, to be truthful.

79 I can say that because he’s my fiancé and I love him.

80 I don’t quite know how. But I feel instinctively that it is.