I've Got Your Number (46 page)

And then we’re into a blur of hair dryers blasting, nails being painted, makeup being done, hair being put up, flowers arriving, dresses being put on, dresses being taken off to go to the loo, sandwiches being delivered, and a near spray-tan disaster (it was actually just a blotch of coffee on Annalise’s knee). Somehow, it’s two o’clock before I realize it, and the cars are here and I’m standing in front of the mirror in my dress and veil. Tom and Toby are standing on either side of me, so handsome in their morning coats that I have to blink away the tears again. Annalise and Ruby have already left for the church. This is it. My last few moments as a single girl.

“Mum and Dad would have been so proud of you,” says Toby gruffly. “Amazing dress.”

“Thanks.” I try to shrug nonchalantly.

I suppose I look OK, as brides go. My dress is really long and slim, with a low back and tiny bits of lace on the sleeves. My hair’s in a chignon.
¹⁰⁸
My veil is gossamer light, and I’ve got a beaded headdress and a gorgeous posy of lilies. But somehow, just like Magnus this morning, something seems amiss….

It’s my expression, I suddenly realize with dismay. It isn’t right. My eyes are tense and my mouth keeps twitching downward and I’m not radiant. I try baring my teeth at myself in a broad smile—but now I look freaky, like some kind of scary clown-bride.

“You OK?” Tom is watching me curiously.

“Fine!” I pull at my veil, trying to bunch it round my face more. The point is, it doesn’t matter what my expression is like. Everyone will be looking at my train.

“Hey, sis.” Toby glances at Tom as though for approval. “So you know, if you
did
change your mind, we’d be totally cool. We’d help you do a getaway. We’ve discussed it, haven’t we, Tom?”

“Four-thirty from St. Pancras.” Tom nods. “Gets you to Paris in time for dinner.”

“Do a getaway?” I stare at him in dismay. “What do you mean? Why would you plan a getaway? Don’t you like Magnus?”

“No! Whoa! Never said that.” Toby lifts his hands defensively. “Just … putting it out there. Giving you the option. We see it as our job.”

“Well,
don’t
see it as your job.” I speak more sharply than I meant to. “We’ve got to get to the church.”

“I got the papers when I was out, by the way,” adds
Tom, proffering a stack of newspapers. “You want to have a read in the car?”

“No!” I recoil in horror. “Of course not! I’ll get newsprint on my dress!”

Only my little brother could suggest reading the newspaper on the way to my own wedding. As if it’ll be so boring we’d better have some entertainment.

Having said that, I can’t help flicking through the
Guardian
quickly as Toby goes for a quick final bathroom break. There’s a picture of Sam on page 5, under the headline
SCANDAL ROCKS BUSINESS WORLD
, and as soon as I see it, my stomach clenches tightly.

But less tightly than before. I’m sure of it.

The car is a black Rolls Royce limousine, which looks pretty amazing in my nondescript Balham street, and a small crowd of neighbors has gathered to watch as I come out. I do a little twirl and everyone claps as I get into the car. We set off, and I feel like a proper, glowing, radiant bride.

Except I can’t look
that
radiant and glowing, because as we’re driving along Buckingham Palace Road, Tom leans forward and says, “Poppy? Are you carsick or something?”

“What?”

“You look ill.”

“No, I don’t.” I scowl at him.

“You do,” says Toby, peering at me dubiously. “Kind of … green.”

“Yeah, green.” Tom’s face lights up. “That’s what I meant. Like you’re about to hurl.
Are
you about to hurl?”

That is so typical of brothers. Why couldn’t I have had
sisters, who would tell me I looked beautiful and lend me their blusher?

“No, I’m not about to hurl! And it doesn’t matter what I look like.” I turn my face away. “No one will be able to see through my veil.” My phone beeps, and I haul it out of my little bridal bag. It’s a text from Annalise:

Don’t go up Park Lane! Accident! We’re stuck!

“Hey.” I lean forward to the driver. “There’s an accident on Park Lane.”

“Right you are.” He nods. “We’ll avoid that route, then.”

As we swing around into a little side road, I’m aware of Tom and Toby exchanging glances.

“What?” I say at last.

“Nothing,” Toby says soothingly. “Just sit back and relax. Shall I tell you some jokes, take your mind off it?”

“
No
. Thanks.”

I stare out the window, watching the streets go by. And suddenly, before I feel quite ready, we’ve arrived. The church bells are pealing with a single, rhythmic tone as we get out of the car. A couple of late guests I don’t recognize are running up the steps, the woman clutching her hat. They smile at me, and I give a self-conscious nod.

It’s for real. I’m actually doing this. This is the happiest day of my life. I should remember every moment. Especially how happy I am.

Tom surveys me and grimaces. “Pops, you look awful. I’ll tell the vicar you’re ill.” He barges straight past me into the church.

“No, don’t! I’m not ill!” I exclaim furiously, but it’s too
late. He’s on a mission. Sure enough, a few moments later Reverend Fox is hurrying out of the church, an anxious look on his face.

“Oh my goodness, your brother’s right,” he says as soon as he sees me. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine!”

“Why don’t you take a few minutes to compose yourself alone before we begin the service?” He’s ushering me into a small side room. “Sit down a moment, have a glass of water, perhaps eat a biscuit? There are some in the church hall. We need to wait for the bridesmaids anyway. I gather they’ve been held up in traffic.”

“I’ll look out for them on the street,” says Tom. “They won’t be long.”

“I’ll get the biscuits,” chimes in Toby. “Will you be all right, sis?”

“Fine.”

They all head out and I’m left alone in the silent room. A tiny mirror is perched on a shelf, and as I look into it I wince. I do look sick. What’s
wrong
with me?

My phone dings and I peer at it in surprise. I’ve got a text from Mrs. Randall.

6-4, 6-2. Thank you, Poppy!

She did it! She got back on the tennis court! This is the best thing I’ve heard all day. And all of a sudden I wish I were at work, away from here, absorbed in the process of treating someone, doing something useful—

No. Stop. Don’t be
stupid
, Poppy. How can you wish you were at work on your wedding day? I must be some sort of freak. No other brides wish they were at the office.
None of the bridal magazines carry articles on “How to Look Radiant Rather Than Like You Want to Vomit.”

Another text has dinged into my phone, but this one is from Annalise.

Finally!!!! We’re on the move! Are you there already?

OK. Let’s focus on the here and now. The simple act of texting a reply makes me feel more relaxed.

Just arrived.

An instant later she replies:

Argh! Going as quick as we can. Anyway, you’re supposed to be late. It’s good luck. Have you still got your blue garter on?

Annalise was so obsessed by me wearing a blue garter that she brought along three different choices this morning. I’m sorry,
what
are garters all about? To be frank, I could really do without a length of tight elastic cutting off my leg circulation right now—but I promised her faithfully I’d keep it on.

Of course! Even though my leg will probably fall off. Nice surprise for Magnus on the wedding night.

I smile as I send the text. It’s cheering me up, having this stupid conversation. I put my phone down, have a drink of water, and take a deep breath. OK. I’m feeling better. The phone dings with a new text, and I pick it up to see what Annalise has replied—

But it’s from
Sam Mobile
.

For a few instants I can’t move. My stomach is moiling around as though I’m a teenager. Oh God. This is
pathetic
. It’s mortifying. I see the word
Sam
and I go to pieces.

Half of me wants to ignore it. What do I care what he’s got to say? Why should I give one iota of head space or time to him, when it’s my wedding day and I have other things to focus on?

But I know I’ll never get through the wedding with an unopened text burning a hole in my phone. I open it as calmly as I can, bearing in mind that my fingers can hardly function—and it’s a one-word Sam special.

Hi.

Hi? What’s that supposed to mean, for God’s sake?

Well, I’m not going to be rude. I’ll text back a similarly effusive response.

Hi.

A moment later there’s another ding:

This a good time?

What?

Is he for real? Or is he being sarcastic? Or—

Then I realize. Of course. He thinks I canceled the wedding. He doesn’t know. He has no idea.

And suddenly I see his text in a new light. He’s not making a point. He’s just saying hi.

I swallow hard, trying to work out what to put. Somehow
I can’t bear to tell him what I’m doing. Not straight out.

Not really.

I’ll be brief, then. You were right and I was wrong.

I stare at his words, perplexed. Right about what? Slowly, I type:

What do you mean?

Almost immediately, his reply dings into the phone.

About Willow. You were right and I was wrong. I’m sorry I reacted badly. I didn’t want you to be right, but you were. I spoke to her.

What did you say?

Told her it was over, finito. Stop the emails or I’ll take out a stalking injunction.

He
didn’t
. I can’t believe it.

How did she react?

She was pretty shocked.

I bet.

There’s silence for a while. A fresh text from Annalise has arrived on my phone, but I don’t open it. I can’t bear to break the thread between Sam and me. I’m gripping my
phone tightly, peering at the screen, waiting to see if he’ll text again. He
has
to text again….

And then there’s a beep.

Can’t be an easy day for you. Today was supposed to be the wedding day, right?

My insides seem to plunge. What do I answer? What?

Yes.

Well, here’s something to cheer you up.

Cheer me up? I’m peering at the screen, puzzled, when a photo text suddenly arrives, which makes me laugh in surprise. It’s a picture of Sam sitting in a dentist’s chair. He’s smiling widely and wearing a cartoon sticker on his lapel that says,
I was a good dental patient!!

He did that for me
, flashes through my head before I can stop it.
He went to the dentist for me
.

No. Don’t be stupid. He went for his teeth. I hesitate, then type:

You’re right, that did cheer me up. Well done. About time!

An instant later he replies:

Are you free for a cup of coffee?

And to my horror, with no warning, tears start pressing at my eyes. How can he call
now
and ask me for a cup of
coffee? How can he not realize that things have moved on? What did he
think
I would do? As I type, my thumbs are jerky and agitated.

You brushed me off.

What?

You sent me the brush-off email.

I never send emails, you know that. Must have been my PA. She’s too efficient.

He
didn’t
send it?

OK, now I can’t cope. I’m going to cry, or laugh hysterically, or
something
. I had it all sorted in my mind. I knew where everything was and where everything stood. Now my head’s a maelstrom again.

The phone beeps with a follow-up text from Sam:

You’re not offended, are you?

I close my eyes. I have to explain. But what do I—How do I—

At last, without even opening my eyes, I text:

You don’t understand.

What don’t I understand?

I can’t bear to type the words. Somehow I just can’t do it. Instead, I stretch out my arm as far as it will go, take a photo of myself, then examine the result.

Yes. It’s all there in the shot: my veil, my headdress, a glimpse of my wedding dress, the corner of my lily bouquet. There’s absolutely no doubt as to what’s going on.

I press
Sam Mobile
and then
send
. There. It’s gone through the ether. Now he knows. I’ll probably never hear from him again after this. That’s it. It was a strange little encounter between two people, and this is the end. With a sigh, I sink down into the chair. The bells above have stopped pealing, and there’s a strange, still quietness in the room.

Until suddenly the beeps start. Frantic and continuous, like an emergency siren. I pick up my phone in shock, and they’re stacking up in my in-box: text after text after text, all from Sam.

No.

No no no no no.