I've Got Your Number (31 page)

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

“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 scandalized. “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 fiancee.”

“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 fiancee, 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 fiancee, with an extra e.” I find the word and jab at it to prove my point. “See? It’s crystal clear.
Fiancee
, feminine.”

“Agreed.” He nods. “But there
is
no fiancee, 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 fiance 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 fiancee 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 least 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 fiance and I love him.

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

C
hiddingford Hotel is large and impressive, with a beautiful main Georgian house at the end of a long drive and some less lovely glass buildings half hidden behind a big hedge. But I seem to be the only one appreciating it as we arrive. Sam isn’t in the best of moods. There was a problem getting a cab, then we got stuck behind some sheep, and then the taxi driver got lost. Sam has been texting furiously ever since we got into our taxi, and as we arrive, two men in suits, whom I don’t recognize, are waiting for us on the front steps.

Sam thrusts some notes at the driver and opens the taxi door almost before it brakes. “Poppy, excuse me a moment. Hi, guys …”

The three of them huddle on the gravel, and I get out more slowly. The taxi pulls away and I look around at the
manicured gardens. There are croquet lawns and topiary and even a little chapel, which I bet is lovely for weddings. The place seems empty, and there’s a freshness to the air which makes me shiver. Maybe I’m nervous. Maybe it’s delayed shock.

Or maybe it’s standing here in the middle of nowhere, not knowing what the hell I’m doing here, with my personal life about to collapse in ruins around me.

I pull out my phone for companionship. The feel of it sitting in my hand comforts me a little, but not enough. I read the Unknown Number text a few more times, just to torture myself, then compose a text to Magnus. After a few false starts I have it exactly right.