I've Got Your Number (45 page)

How is he managing to sound all noble, like he’s the victim here?

“Well, poor old you.” I turn up the volume of
Finding Nemo
, but, to my surprise, Magnus grabs the remote and switches it off. I blink at him in the sudden silence.

“Poppy, you can’t be serious. You can’t want to call everything off for one tiny—”

“It’s not only that.” I feel an old, burning hurt in my chest. “You never told me about all your other fiancees.
You never told me you’d proposed to Lucinda. I thought that ring was
special
. Your mum’s got it, by the way.”

“I have proposed to other girls,” he says slowly. “But now I can’t think why.”

“Because you loved them?”

“No,” he says with a sudden fierceness. “I didn’t. I was nuts. Poppy, you and I—we’re different. We could make it. I know we could. We just have to get through the wedding—”

“Get
through
it?”

“That’s not what I mean.” He breathes out impatiently. “Look, come on, Poppy. The wedding’s all set up. It’s all arranged. It’s not about what happened with Lucinda, it’s about you and me. We can do it. I want to do it. I really want to do this.” He’s speaking with such fervor, I stare at him in surprise.

“Magnus—”

“Will this change your mind?” To my astonishment, he sinks down on one knee beside the sofa and reaches in his pocket. I stare speechlessly as he opens a little jewelry box. Inside is a ring made of twisted golden strands, with a tiny diamond perched at the side.

“Where … where did that come from?” I can hardly find my voice.

“I bought it for you in Bruges.” He clears his throat, as though embarrassed to admit it. “I was walking along the street one day. Saw it in a window, thought of you.”

I can’t believe it. Magnus bought a ring for me. Specially for me. I can hear Wanda’s voice in my head:
When he
really
wants to commit to someone, he’ll find a ring for himself. He’ll choose something carefully. Give it some thought
.

But I can’t relax.

“Why did you choose
this
ring?” I probe. “Why did it make you think of me?”

“The strands of gold.” He gives an abashed smile. “They reminded me of your hair. Not the color, obviously,” he amends quickly. “The shine.”

That was a good answer. Quite romantic. I raise my eyes and he gives me a hopeful, lopsided smile.

Oh God. When Magnus is sweet and puppy-doglike, he’s almost irresistible.

Thoughts are still spinning round my head. So he made a mistake. A big, big mistake. Am I going to throw away everything for that? Am I so perfect myself? Let’s face it, twenty-four hours ago my arms were wrapped around another man in a wood.

I feel a tiny pang in my chest at the thought of Sam and give myself a mental shakedown. Stop. Don’t go there. I got carried away by the situation, that’s all. Maybe Magnus did too.

“What do you think?” Magnus is watching me eagerly.

“I love it,” I whisper. “It’s amazing.”

“I know.” He nods. “It’s exquisite. Like you. And I want you to wear it. So, Poppy …” He puts his warm hand on mine. “Sweetest Poppy … will you?”

“Oh God, Magnus,” I say helplessly. “I don’t know….” My new phone is flashing with messages and I pick it up to buy myself some time. There’s a brand-new email from samro [email protected] white globe consulting. com.

My heart skips a beat. I sent Sam my new number this afternoon, just so he had it. And at the last minute I added,
Sorry about this afternoon
, with a couple of kisses. Simply to clear the air. Now he’s answering me. At midnight. What
does he want to say? With trembling fingers, my thoughts veering onto wild possibilities, I click on the message.

“Poppy?” Magnus sounds a little affronted. “Sweets? Could we focus?”

Sam is delighted to have received your email. He’ll get back to you as soon as he possibly can. Meanwhile, thanks for your interest.

I feel a sting of humiliation as I read the words. The brush-off email. He got his PA to send me the brush-off email.

I suddenly remember him, that time in the restaurant:
You must have a brush-off email. They come in pretty useful for fending off unwanted advances too
. Well, he couldn’t be any clearer than that, could he?

And now there’s more than a tiny pang in my chest—there’s a real wrenching pain. I was so stupid. What did I
think
? At least Magnus didn’t delude himself that he and Lucinda were anything more than a casual fling. In some ways he stayed more faithful than I did. I mean, if Magnus even knew the
half
of what’s been going on these last few days …

“Poppy?” Magnus is peering at me. “Bad news?”

“No.” I toss the phone onto the sofa and somehow find a dazzling smile. “You’re right. We all make stupid mistakes. We all get carried away. We all get distracted by things which aren’t … which aren’t real. But the point is …” I’m running out of steam here.

“Yes?” prompts Magnus gently.

“The point is … you bought me a ring. Yourself.”

As I say the words, my thoughts seem to come together
and consolidate into something firm. All my deluded dreams fall away. This is reality, right here in front of me. I know what I want now. I take the ring out of the box and examine it for a moment, the blood beating hard in my head. “You chose it for me yourself. And I love it. And, Magnus … yes.”

I meet Magnus’s gaze head-on, suddenly not caring about Sam, wanting to take my life forward, away from here, to somewhere new.

“Yes?” He peers at me as though not sure what he’s hearing.

“Yes.” I nod.

In silence, Magnus takes the ring from me. He lifts up my left hand and slides it onto my ring finger.

I can’t quite believe it. I’m getting married.

⁹⁵
Artistic license.

⁹⁶
Even the fact that its name reminds me of the very person I want to forget doesn’t put me off.

⁹⁷
I might as well stick to the regimen.

⁹⁸
Which rules out most of my DVDs, it turns out.

⁹⁹
Weepfest.

¹⁰⁰
Total weepfest.

¹⁰¹
What kind of movie starts with a mother fish and all her little glowy eggs being eaten by a shark, FFS? It’s supposed to be for
children
.

¹⁰²
NB: Shouldn’t it be irrelevant anyway what I look like?

¹⁰³
Because I’ve eaten them all.

M
agnus doesn’t believe in superstitions. He’s just like his father. So even though it’s our wedding day today—even though
everyone
knows it’s bad luck—he stayed at my place last night. When I told him he should go to his parents’ house, he got all sulky and said I couldn’t be so ridiculous and why would he pack up all his stuff for one night? Then he added, “Surely the only people who believe in that kind of stuff are people with—”

At which point he stopped himself. But I know he was going to say “weak minds.” It’s a good thing he didn’t continue, or there would have been a
major
bust-up. As it is, I’m still feeling quite stroppy with him. Which isn’t exactly ideal on your wedding day. I should be feeling all starry-eyed. I shouldn’t be leaning out of the kitchen every five minutes, saying, “And
another
thing you always do …”

I now know exactly why they started the tradition of being apart the night before your wedding. It’s nothing about romance, or sex, or being chaste, or whatever. It’s so you don’t have a row and stomp up the aisle seething at your bridegroom, planning all the home truths you’re going to tell him as soon as you get this wedding bit out of the way.

I was going to make him sleep in the sitting room, but Toby and Tom were in there in sleeping bags.
¹⁰⁴
At least I’ve made him promise to leave the house before I get into my wedding dress. I mean, that would be the limit.

As I pour myself a cup of coffee, I can hear him declaiming in the bathroom, and I feel another flinch of irritation. He’s practicing his speech. Here. In the flat. Isn’t his speech supposed to be a
surprise
? Does he know
anything
about weddings? I approach the bathroom door, ready to give him an earful—then pause. I might as well listen to a snippet.

The door is slightly ajar, and I peer through the gap to see him in his dressing gown, addressing himself in the mirror. To my surprise, he looks quite worked up. His cheeks are red and he’s breathing heavily. Maybe he’s getting into the part. Maybe he’s going to make a really passionate speech about how I’ve completed his life, and everyone will cry.

“Everyone said I’d never get married. Everyone said I’d never do it.” Magnus pauses for so long, I wonder if he’s lost his way. “Well, look. Here I am. OK? Here I am.”

He takes a swig of something, which looks like a gin and tonic, and gazes belligerently at himself.

“Here I am. Married, OK?
Married
.”

I peer at him uncertainly. I don’t know quite what’s wrong about this speech, but something is. There’s some small detail that feels wrong … something amiss … something that jars….

I’ve got it. He doesn’t look happy.

Why doesn’t he look happy? It’s his wedding day.

“I’ve done it.” He lifts his glass at the mirror, glowering. “So all you people who said I couldn’t can fuck off.”

“Magnus!” I can’t help exclaiming in shock. “You can’t say ‘fuck off’ in your wedding speech!” Magnus’s face jolts, and his belligerent air instantly vanishes as he whips round. “Poppy! Sweets! I didn’t know you could hear me.”

“Is that your speech?” I demand.

“No! Not exactly.” He takes a deep swig of his drink. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Well, haven’t you written it yet?” I eye his glass. “Is that a gin and tonic?”

“I think I’m allowed a gin and tonic on my wedding day, don’t you?”

The belligerent air is creeping back. What is
wrong
with him?

If I was in one of those glossy luxury-kitchen American TV dramas, I’d go up to him now and take his arm and say gently, “It’s going to be a great day, honey.” And his face would soften and he’d say, “I know,” and we’d kiss, and I would have diffused the tension with my loving tact and charm.

But I’m not in the mood. If he can be belligerent, so can I.

“Fine.” I scowl. “Get pissed. Great idea.”

“I’m not going to get pissed. Jesus. But I’ve got to have
something
to take the edge off the—” He stops abruptly, and I stare at him in shock. Where exactly was he heading with that sentence?

Off the
ordeal
? Off the
pain
?

I think his mind is working the same way, because he quickly finishes the sentence. “—the
thrill
. I need to take the edge off the thrill, or I’ll be far too hyper to concentrate. Sweets, you look beautiful. Gorgeous hair. You’ll look spectacular.”

His old engaging manner has returned in full force, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

“My hair hasn’t even been done yet,” I say, with a grudging smile. “The hairdresser’s on his way.”

“Well, don’t let him ruin it.” He gathers the ends together and kisses them. “I’ll get out of your way. See you at the church!”

“OK.” I stare after him, feeling a bit unsettled.

And I’m unsettled for the rest of the morning. It’s not exactly that I’m worried. It’s more that I don’t know if I
should
be worried. I mean, let’s look at the facts. One moment Magnus is all over me, begging me to marry him—then he gets stroppy, as though I’m forcing him into it with a shotgun. Is it just jitters? Is this what men are always like on their wedding day? Should I tolerate it as normal male behavior, like when he gets a cold and starts Googling
nose cancer symptoms discharge nostrils
?
¹⁰⁵

If Dad were alive, I could ask him.

But that’s a thought path I
really
can’t let myself go down, not today, or I’ll be a mess. I blink hard and scrub at my nose with a tissue. Come on, Poppy. Brighten up.
Stop inventing problems that don’t exist. I’m getting married!

Toby and Tom emerge from their cocoons just as the hairdresser arrives. They make monster cups of tea in mugs which they brought themselves,
¹⁰⁶
then instantly start bantering with the hairdresser and putting rollers in their hair and making me fall about with laughter. I wish for the zillionth time that I saw more of them. Then they disappear off to have breakfast at a cafe, and Ruby and Annalise arrive two hours early because they couldn’t wait, and the hairdresser announces he’s ready, and my aunt Trudy rings from her mobile, saying they’re nearly here and her tights have laddered, is there anywhere she can buy a new pair?
¹⁰⁷