Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

many times now, Antony and I have developed our own private theory.”

        “Which is what?

        “The family ring is so easy.” She spreads her hands. “It requires no thought. He can do it

on impulse. Our theory is that when he really wants to commit to someone, he’ll find a ring for

himself. He’ll choose something carefully. Give it some thought. Perhaps even let his bride

choose her own.” She gives me a rueful smile. “So when we learned that he’d used the family

ring yet again, I’m afraid alarm bells rang.”

        “Oh. I see.”

         I twist the ring round my finger. It suddenly feels heavy and lumpish. I thought having a

family ring was special. I thought it meant Magnus was more committed to me. But now I’m

seeing it as Wanda sees it. A thoughtless, easy, no-brainer choice. I cannot believe how

everything I thought has been turned on its head. I cannot believe how I misinterpreted

everything.

         “For what it’s worth,” adds Wanda, a little despondently, “I’m very sorry things have

ended like this. You’re a lovely girl, Poppy. Great fun. I was looking forward to having you as a

daughter-in-law.”

         I wait for my hackles to rise at the phrase great fun, for my internal prickliness to put in

an appearance—but somehow it doesn’t. For the first time since I’ve met Wanda, I’m able to

take her words at face value. By great fun she doesn’t mean low IQ and inferior degree. She

means great fun.

         “I’m sorry too,” I say—and I’m speaking the truth. I do feel sad. Just as I work Wanda

out, it’s all over.

         I thought Magnus was perfect and his parents were my only problem. Now I’m feeling

like it’s the other way round. Wanda’s great; shame about her son.

         “Here.” I wrench the ring off and hand it to her.

         “Poppy!” She looks startled. “Surely—”

         “It’s all over. I don’t want to wear it anymore. It belongs to you. To be honest, it never

really felt like mine.” I grab my bag and stand up. “I think I should go.”

         “But … ” Wanda seems bewildered. “Please don’t rush into anything. Have you spoken

to Magnus?”

         “Not yet.” I breathe out. “But it’s kind of irrelevant. It’s over.”

         That’s pretty much the end of the conversation. Wanda sees me to the door and presses

my hand as I leave, and I feel a sudden rush of affection for her. Maybe we’ll stay in touch.

Maybe I’ll lose Magnus but gain Wanda.

         The massive front door closes, and I push my way through the overgrown

rhododendrons, down the path to the gate. I’m expecting to crumble into tears any moment. My

perfect fiancé isn’t perfect after all. He’s a lying, unfaithful, commitment-phobic flake. I’m

going to have to call off a whole wedding. My brothers won’t get to walk me up the aisle after

all. I should be in bits. But as I walk down the hill, all I can feel is numb.

         I can’t face the tube. Nor can I afford any more taxis. So I head toward an out-of-the-way

bench in a patch of sunshine, sit down, and stare blankly into space for a while. Random

thoughts are floating around my brain, bouncing off one another as though in zero gravity.

         So much for all that… . I wonder if I’ll be able to sell my wedding dress.… I should have

known it was too good to be true… . I must tell the vicar… . I don’t think Toby and Tom ever

liked Magnus, not that they admitted it.… Did Magnus ever love me at all?

         At last I heave a sigh and switch on my phone. I have to get back to real life. The phone

is flashing with messages, about ten of them from Sam, and for a ridiculous instant I think, Oh

my God, he’s psychic, he knows.

         But as I click on them, I immediately realize how stupid I’m being. Of course he’s not

texting about my personal life. This all is strictly business.

         Poppy are you there? It’s incredible. File was on computer. Voicemails were there. This

confirms everything.

         Are you around to talk?

         Give me a call when you can. It’s all kicking off here. Heads rolling. Press conference

this afternoon. Vicks wants to talk to you too.

         Hi Poppy, we need the phone. Can you call me asap?

         I don’t bother scrolling through the rest of the texts; I press call. A moment later the line

is ringing and I feel a spasm of nerves. I have no idea why.

         “Hi, Poppy! At last! It’s Poppy.” Sam’s ebullient voice greets me, and I can hear a

background hubbub of people. “We’re all whooping here. You have no idea what your little

discovery means.”

         “Not my discovery,” I say honestly. “Violet’s.”

         “But if it hadn’t been for you taking Violet’s call and meeting her … Vicks says, high

five! She wants to buy you a drink. We all do.” Sam sounds totally high. “So, did you get my

message? The tech guys here want to look at the phone, in case there’s anything on that.”

         “Oh. Right. Sure. I’ll bring it to your office.”

         “Is that OK?” Sam sounds concerned. “Am I disrupting your day? What are you up to?”

         “Oh … nothing.”

         Just canceling my wedding. Just feeling like a total fool about everything.

         “Because I can send a bike—”

         “No, really.” I force a smile. “It’s fine. I’ll come in straightaway.”

         94 No one needs to know about that blond guy at the freshers’ party.

15

        This time I don’t have any trouble getting in to 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 one another. But the gist is as follows: The voice mails are 100 percent

incriminating. Several members of the staff were pulled in for questioning. Justin lost his cool

and practically admitted everything. Another senior staff member, 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 will occur, but the point is,

Sir Nicholas’s name is cleared. He’s over the moon. Sam’s over the moon.

        ITN is 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 in to 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 the other.

        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 … “

        “It’s not anymore,” 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

afterward, 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. “What are we going to do about that?”

        “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 again. “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, and 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 doing a job interview. “So. Now that 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 Aliens have invaded.

         “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 on a counter at the side of his office, 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. “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. 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 to my feet abruptly. “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 eyes as I pass him. “I’ve got errands to

run. See you in an hour.”

        I don’t run any errands. I don’t have the impetus. My future’s been derailed, and I know

I’m going to have to take some action—but 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 in to 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 paper. “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 the attachments as well. They should all be on your computer too,

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 backward and forward. 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’d never met him, 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 or give away any hint of emotion, so I calmly leaf 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

        You’re nowhere near.

        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!”

        Ted shrugs. “Yeah, well, like I say, 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 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 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 heat rising from my feet, and I take a sip of coffee, playing for time. The

phone’s gone. These printouts 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 … ”

        “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 wasn’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 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, 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 as I imagine her eyes widening, her

nostrils flaring, fire coming from her mouth … 95

        “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 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 neither 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 anymore. 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, standoff 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, er … 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 eyes 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 around. “I just want to say … thanks.”

        His dark eyes meet mine, and 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 iPhone. 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 voice mail.

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 moments in life that the white-chocolate Magnum ice cream was invented for,

and this is one of them.96

         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.97

         Tomorrow: break news to world that wedding is canceled, deal with fallout, watch

Annalise try not to whoop with joy, etcetera, etcetera.

         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,98 so in the end I plump

for cartoons, which turn out to be the biggest tearjerkers of the lot. I watch Toy Story 3,99

Up,100 and by midnight I’m on Finding Nemo. I’m curled up on the sofa in my ancient pajamas

and furry throw, with the white wine within easy reach, my hair all oily with conditioning mask

and the puffiest eyes in the universe. Finding Nemo always makes me cry anyway, but this time

I’m a sniveling wreck before Nemo’s even lost.101 I’m 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 a day 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 hair out of my tearstained 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 loungewear.

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.102

         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 fill my wineglass