FIFTEEN
THIS TIME I don’t have any trouble getting into the building – there’s practically a reception committee waiting for me. Sam, Vicks, Robbie, Mark and a couple more people I don’t recognize are standing by the glass doors, ready with a badge and handshakes and lots of explanations which last all the way up in the lift and which I only half-follow as they keep interrupting each other. But the gist is as follows: the voice-mails are 100 per cent incriminating. Several members of staff were pulled in for questioning. Justin lost his cool and practically admitted everything. Another senior member of staff, Phil Stanbridge, is also involved, which everyone’s gobsmacked by. Ed Exton has disappeared off the radar. Lawyers are having meetings. No one’s sure yet whether criminal proceedings are likely, but the point is, Sir Nicholas’s name is cleared. He’s over the moon. Sam’s over the moon.
ITN are slightly less over the moon as the story has turned from ‘Government Adviser is Corrupt’ into ‘Internal Company Problem is Sorted’ but they’re still running a follow-up piece and claiming they were the ones who discovered everything.
‘The whole company’s going to be shaken up by this,’ Sam is saying enthusiastically as we stride along the corridor. ‘The lines are going to be redrawn.’
‘So you’ve won,’ I venture, and he comes to a halt, smiling as widely as I’ve ever seen him smile.
‘Yup. We’ve won.’ He resumes walking, and ushers me into his office. ‘Here she is! The girl herself. Poppy Wyatt.’
Two guys in jeans get up from the sofa, shake my hand and introduce themselves as Ted and Marco.
‘So, you’ve got the famous phone,’ says Marco. ‘Might I take a look?’
‘Of course.’ I reach into my pocket, produce the phone and hand it over. For a few moments the guys examine it, pressing buttons, squinting at it, passing it from one to another.
There aren’t any more incriminating voice-mails on there, I feel like saying. Believe me, I would have mentioned them.
‘You mind if we keep this?’ Marco says at last, looking up.
‘Keep it?’ The dismay in my voice is so obvious, he double-takes.
‘Sorry. It’s a company phone, so I assumed . . .’ he hesitates.
‘It’s not any more,’ says Sam, frowning. ‘I gave it to Poppy. It’s hers.’
‘Oh.’ Marco sucks air through his teeth. He seems a bit flummoxed. ‘Thing is, we’d like to do a thorough examination of it. Could take a while. I could say we’ll let you have it back afterwards, but who knows how long that’ll be . . .’ He glances at Sam for guidance. ‘I mean, I’m sure we can get you a replacement, top of the range, whatever you want . . .’
‘Absolutely.’ Sam nods. ‘Any budget.’ He grins at me. ‘You can get the highest-tech phone available.’
I don’t want the highest-tech phone available. I want that phone. Our phone. I want to keep it safe, not give it up to be hacked about by technicians. But . . . what can I say?
‘Sure.’ I smile, even though there’s a little wrenching in my stomach. ‘Have it. It’s just a phone.’
‘As for your messages, contacts, all the rest of it . . .’ Marco exchanges doubtful looks with Ted.
‘I need my messages.’ I’m alarmed at how shaky my voice is. I feel almost violated. But there’s nothing I can do. It would be unreasonable and unhelpful to refuse.
‘We could print them out.’ Ted brightens. ‘How’s that? We print everything out for you, then you’ve got a record.’
‘Some of them are my messages,’ points out Sam.
‘Yes, some are his.’ I nod.
‘What?’ Marco looks from me to Sam. ‘Sorry, I’m confused. Whose phone is this?’
‘It’s his phone really, but I’ve been using it—’
‘We’ve both been using it,’ explains Sam. ‘Jointly. Sharing.’
‘Sharing?’ Marco and Ted both seem so appalled, I almost want to giggle.
‘I’ve never come across anyone sharing a phone before,’ says Marco flatly. ‘That’s sick.’
‘Me neither.’ Ted shudders. ‘I wouldn’t even share a phone with my girlfriend.’
‘So . . . how did that work out for you?’ says Marco, looking curiously from Sam to me.
‘It had its moments,’ says Sam, raising his eyebrows.
‘There were definitely some moments.’ I nod. ‘But actually, I recommend it.’
‘Me too. Everyone should try it at least once.’ Sam grins at me, and I can’t helping smiling back.
‘O . . . kay.’ Marco sounds as though he’s realized he’s dealing with a pair of nutters. ‘Well, we’ll get to it. Come on, Ted.’
‘How long will you be?’ asks Sam.
Ted wrinkles his face. ‘Could be a while. An hour?’
They disappear out of Sam’s office, and he closes the door. For a minute we just look at each other, and I notice a tiny nick on his cheek. He didn’t have that last night.
Last night. In an instant I’m transported back to the forest. I’m standing in the dark, with the smell of the peaty ground in my nostrils, with woodland sounds in my ears, with his arms wrapped around me, with his mouth—
No. Stop it, Poppy. Don’t go there. Don’t remember, or wonder, or . . .
‘What a day,’ I say at last, groping for some nice bland words.
‘You said it.’ Sam ushers me to the sofa and I sit down awkwardly, feeling like someone who’s having a job interview. ‘So. Now we’re alone . . . How are you doing? What about the other stuff?’
‘Nothing much to report.’ I give a deliberately careless shrug. ‘Oh, except I’m calling my wedding off.’
As I say the words aloud I feel slightly sick. How many times am I going to have to utter those words? How many times am I going to have to explain myself? How am I going to cope over the next few days?
Sam nods, wincing. ‘OK. That’s pretty grim.’
‘Not brilliant.’
‘You speak to him?’
‘Wanda. I went to see her at her house. I said, “Wanda, do you really think I’m inferior or is this just in my mind?”’
‘You didn’t!’ exclaims Sam, looking delighted.
‘Word for word.’ I can’t help laughing at his expression, even though I half-want to cry, too. ‘You would have been proud of me.’
‘Go, Poppy!’ He lifts a hand to high-five me. ‘I know that took guts. And what was the answer?’
‘It was all in my head,’ I admit. ‘She’s actually quite a sweetie. Shame about her son.’
There’s silence for a while. I feel so surreal. The wedding’s off. I’ve said it aloud, so it must be true. But it feels about as real as saying, ‘Aliens have invaded.’
‘So, what are your plans now?’ Sam meets my gaze and I think I can see another question in his eyes. A question about him and me.
‘Dunno,’ I say after a pause.
I’m trying to answer his question, silently – but I don’t know if my eyes are doing their job. I don’t know if Sam can understand. After a moment I can’t bear looking at him any longer, and quickly lower my head. ‘Take things slowly, I guess. There’ll be a lot of crap to deal with.’
‘I’m sure.’ He hesitates. ‘Coffee?’
I’ve had so much coffee today I’m like a jumping bean . . . but on the other hand, I can’t stand this heightened atmosphere. I can’t gauge anything. I can’t read Sam. I don’t know what I expect or want. We’re two people who were briefly thrown together by chance and are now conducting a business transaction. That’s all.
So why does my stomach lurch every time he opens his mouth to speak? What on earth am I expecting him to say?
‘Coffee would be great, thanks. Do you have decaf?’ I watch as Sam fiddles with the Nespresso machine, trying to get the milk frother to work. I think it’s a welcome distraction for both of us.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say at last, as he jiggles the frother, looking frustrated. ‘I can have it black.’
‘You hate black coffee.’
‘How do you know that?’ I laugh in surprise.
‘You told Lucinda once in an email.’ He turns, his mouth twisting a little. ‘You think you were the only one who did a little spying?’
‘You have a good memory.’ I shrug. ‘What else do you remember?’
There’s silence. As his gaze meets mine, my heart starts a little drumbeat inside. His eyes are so rich and dark and serious. The more I stare at them, the more I want to stare at them. If he’s thinking what I’m thinking, then . . .
No. Stop it, Poppy. Of course he’s not. And I don’t even know what I’m thinking, not exactly . . .
‘Actually, don’t worry about the coffee.’ I get abruptly to my feet. ‘I’ll head out for a bit.’
‘You sure?’ Sam sounds taken aback.
‘Yes, I don’t want to get in your way.’ I avoid his eye as I pass him. ‘I’ve got errands to run. See you in an hour.’
I don’t run any errands. I just don’t have the impetus. My future’s been derailed and I know I’m going to have to take some action – but just at the moment I can’t face dealing with it. From Sam’s office I wander as far as St Paul’s Cathedral. I sit on the steps in a shaft of sunshine, watching the tourists, pretending I’m on holiday from my own life. Then, at last, I make my way back. Sam is on a call as I’m shown into his office, and he nods at me, gesturing apologetically at the phone.
‘Knock, knock!’ Ted’s head appears around the door, and I start. ‘All done. We had three operatives on it.’ He comes into the room, holding a massive sheaf of A4 papers. ‘Only trouble is, we’ve had to print each text on a separate piece of paper. It’s like ruddy War and Peace.’
‘Wow.’ I can’t believe how many pieces of paper he’s holding. I surely can’t have sent that many texts and emails? I mean, I’ve only had the phone for a matter of days.
‘So.’ Ted puts the sheets down on the table with a businesslike air, and separates them into three bundles. ‘One of the lads has been sorting them as we’ve gone along. These are all Sam’s. Business emails, so forth. In-box, out-box, drafts, everything. Sam, here you go.’ He holds them out as Sam gets up from his desk.
‘Great, thanks,’ says Sam, flipping through them.
‘We’ve printed out all the attachments too. They should all be on your computer as well, Sam, but just in case . . . And these are yours, Poppy.’ He pats a second bundle. ‘Everything should be there.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ I leaf through the papers.
‘Then there’s this third pile.’ Ted wrinkles his brow as though in puzzlement. ‘We weren’t sure what to do about this. It’s . . . it’s both of yours.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sam looks up.
‘It’s your correspondence to each other. All the texts and emails and whatnot that you sent backwards and forwards. In chronological order.’ Ted shrugs. ‘I don’t know which of you wants it, or whether we should chuck them . . . are they important at all?’
He puts the pile of papers down and I stare at the top sheet in disbelief. It’s a grainy photograph of me in a mirror, holding the phone and making the Brownie sign. I’d forgotten I ever did that. I turn to the next page to find a single printed text from Sam:
I could send this to the police and have you arrested.
Then, on the following page is my answer:
I really, really appreciate it. Thx
That feels like a million years ago now. When Sam was just a stranger at the other end of a phone line. When I hadn’t met him properly, had no idea what he was like . . . I sense a movement at my shoulder. Sam has come over to look, too.
‘Strange, seeing it all printed out,’ he says.
‘I know.’ I nod.
I come to a picture of manky teeth and we simultaneously snort with laughter.
‘Quite a few pictures of teeth, aren’t there?’ says Ted, eyeing us curiously. ‘We wondered what that was all about. In dental care, are you, Poppy?’
‘Not exactly.’ I leaf through the pages, mesmerized. It’s everything we said to each other. Page after page of messages, back and forth, like a book of the last few days.
WHAIZLED. Use the D from OUTSTEPPED. Triple word score, plus 50 point bonus.
Have u booked dentist yet? U will get manky teeth!!!
What are you doing up so late?
My life ends tomorrow.
I can see how that might keep you up. Why does it end?
Your tie’s crooked.
I didn’t know your name was on my invitation.
Just stopped by to collect your goody bag for you. All part of the service. No need to thank me.
How did Vicks react?
As I reach the texts from last night, I catch my breath. Seeing those words, it’s as though I’m back there.
I don’t dare look at Sam, nor give away any hint of emotion, so I calmly flick through as though I’m really not bothered, catching just the odd text here and there.
Anyone know you’re texting me?
Don’t think so. Yet.
My new rule for life: don’t go into spooky dark woods on your own.
You’re not on your own.
I’m glad it was your phone I picked up.
So am I.
Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
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!’
‘Yeah well, like I say,’ Ted shrugs, ‘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 machine 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 suddenly 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 hotness rising from my feet and take a sip of coffee, playing for time. The phone’s gone. These print-outs 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 . . .’ I hesitate.
‘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 didn’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.
OK. 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 a little 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, just 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 of mirth as I imagine her eyes widening, her nostrils flaring, fire coming from her mouth . . .
‘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 just 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 nor 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 any more. 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, stand-off 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, err . . . 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 eye 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 round. ‘I just want to say . . . thanks.’
His dark eyes meet mine and just 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 an Orange 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 voicemail. 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 some moments in life that the white chocolate Magnum ice-cream was invented for and this is one of them.
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.
Tomorrow: break news to world that wedding is cancelled, deal with fall-out, watch Annalise try not to whoop with joy, etc., etc.
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, so in the end I plump for cartoons, which turn out to be the biggest tear-jerkers of the lot. I watch Toy Story 3, Up – and by midnight I’m on Finding Nemo. I’m curled up on the sofa in my ancient pyjamas and furry throw, with the white wine within easy reach, my hair all oily with the conditioning mask, and the puffiest eyes in the universe. Finding Nemo always makes me cry anyway, but this time I’m a snivelling wreck before Nemo’s even lost. I’m just 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 two days 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 oily hair out of my tear-stained 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 lounge wear. 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.
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 refill my wine glass. I’m not offering him any, so he needn’t expect it. Or a Magnum.
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 gesture of frustration. ‘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 coloured 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.’
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 again, 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 fiancées. 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 me . . . 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 fervour, 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 jewellery 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 just walking along the street earlier today. 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 still 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 colour, 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-dog like, 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, just to buy myself some time. There’s a brand-new email from [email protected]
My heart skips a beat. I sent Sam my new number earlier, just so that he had it. And at the last minute I added, ‘Sorry about this afternoon’, with a couple of kisses. Just to clear the air. Now he’s answering me. At midnight. What does he want to say? With trembling fingers, my thoughts veering on to 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 ever 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 on to 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 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 stares 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 on to my ring finger.
I can’t quite believe it. I’m getting married.
. Artistic licence.
. Even the fact that its name reminds me of the very person I want to forget doesn’t put me off.
. I might as well stick to the regime.
. Which rules out most of my DVDs, it turns out.
. Weepfest.
. Total weepfest.
. 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.
. NB: shouldn’t it be irrelevant anyway, what I look like?
. Because I’ve eaten them all.