“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.
Chiddingford 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.
Hi. How are you doing? P
No kisses.
As I press send, my eyes start to sting. It’s a simple message, but I feel as though every word is freighted with double, triple, even quadruple meaning, with a heartbreaking subtext which he may or may not get.81
Hi means, Hi, have you been unfaithful? Have you? Please, PLEASE don’t let this be true.
How means, I really wish you’d ring me. I know you’re on your stag do, but it would reassure me so much just to hear your voice and know that you love me and you couldn’t do such a thing.
Are means, Oh God, I can’t bear it. What if it’s true? What will I do? What will I say? But, then, what if it’s NOT true and I’ve suspected you for no good reason—
“Poppy.” Sam is turning toward me, and I jump.
“Yes! Here.” I nod, thrusting my phone away. I have to concentrate now. I have to put Magnus from my mind. I have to be useful.
“These are Mark and Robbie. They work for Vicks.”
“She’s on her way down.” Mark consults his phone as we all head up the steps. “Sir Nicholas is staying put for now. We think Berkshire’s the best place for him to be if there’s any chance of being doorstepped.”
“Nick shouldn’t hide.” Sam’s frowning.
“Not hiding. Staying calm. We don’t want him rushing to London, looking like there’s a crisis. He’s speaking at a dinner tonight; we’ll regroup tomorrow, see how things have played out. As for the conference, we keep going for now. Obviously Sir Nicholas was due to arrive here in the morning, but we’ll have to see”—he hesitates, wincing slightly—”what happens.”
“What about the injunction?” says Sam. “I was talking to Julian; he’s pulling out all the stops.”
Robbie sighs. “Sam, we already know that won’t work. I mean, we’re not not going to apply for one, but—”
He stops midstream as we arrive in a big lobby. Wow. This conference is a lot more high-tech than our annual physiotherapists’ one. There are massive WHITE GLOBE CONSULTING logos everywhere and big screens mounted all round the lobby. Someone is clearly using some kind of TV camera inside the hall, because images of an audience sitting in rows are being beamed out. There are two sets of closed double doors straight ahead of us, and the sound of an audience laughing suddenly emanates from them, followed, ten seconds later, by laughter from the screens.
The whole lobby is empty except for a table bearing a few lonely name badges, behind which a bored-looking girl is lolling. She stands up straighter as she sees us and smiles uncertainly at me.
“They’re having a good time,” says Sam, glancing at the TV screen.
“Malcolm’s speaking,” says Mark. “He’s doing a great job. We’re in here.” He ushers us into a side room and shuts the door firmly behind us.
“So, Poppy.” Robbie turns to me politely. “Sam’s filled us in on your … theory.”
“It’s not my theory,” I say in horror. “I don’t know anything about it! I just got these messages, and I wondered if they could be relevant, and Sam worked it out.”
“I think she has something.” Sam faces up to Mark and Robbie as though daring them to disagree. “The memo was planted. We all agree on that.”
“The memo is … uncharacteristic,” amends Robbie.
“Uncharacteristic?” Sam looks like he wants to explode. “He didn’t bloody write it! Someone else wrote it and inserted it into the system. We’re going to find out who. Poppy heard the voice. Poppy will recognize it.”
“OK.” Robbie exchanges wary glances with Mark. “All I will say, Sam, is that we have to be very, very careful. We’re still working on breaking this news to the company. If you go crashing in with accusations—”
“I won’t crash in with anything.” Sam glowers at him. “Have a little trust. Jesus.”
“So what are you planning to do?” Mark looks genuinely interested.
“Walk around. Listen. Find the needle in the haystack.” Sam turns to me. “You up for that, Poppy?”
“Totally.” I nod, trying to hide how panicked I feel. I’m half-wishing I never took those messages down now.
“And then …” Robbie still looks dissatisfied.
“Let’s cross that bridge.”
There’s silence in the room.
“OK,” says Robbie at last. “Do it. Go on. I guess it can’t do any harm. And how will you explain away Poppy?”
“New PA?” suggests Mark.
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve appointed a new PA, and half the floor has met her already. Let’s keep it simple. Poppy’s thinking of joining the company. I’m showing her round. OK with that, Poppy?”
“Yes! Fine.”
“Got that personnel list?”
“Here.” Robbie hands it to him. “But be discreet, Sam.”
Mark has opened the door a crack and is looking into the lobby.
“They’re coming out,” he says. “All yours.”
We head out of the room, into the lobby. Both sets of double doors are open and people are streaming out of them, all wearing badges and chatting, some laughing. They look pretty fresh, given it’s 6:30 p.m. and they’ve been listening to speeches all afternoon.
“There are so many.” I stare at the groups of people, feeling totally daunted.
“It’s fine,” says Sam firmly. “You know it’s a male voice. That already cuts it down. We’ll just go round the room and rule them out, one by one. I have my suspicions, but … I won’t bias you.”
Slowly, I follow him into the melee. People are grabbing drinks from waiters and greeting one another and shouting jokes across other people’s heads. It’s cacophony. My ears feel as though they’re radar sensors, straining this way and that to catch the sound of voices.
“Heard our guy yet?” Sam says, as he hands me a glass of orange juice. I can tell he’s half joking, half hopeful.
I shake my head. I’m feeling overwhelmed. The sound in the room is like a melded roar in my head. I can barely distinguish any individual strands, let alone pick out the exact tones of a voice I heard for twenty seconds, days ago, down a mobile-phone line.
“OK, let’s be methodical.” Sam is talking almost to himself. “We’ll go round the room in concentric circles. Does that sound like a plan?”
I flash him a smile, but I’ve never felt so pressured in my life. No one else can do this. No one else heard that voice. It’s down to me. Now I know how sniffer dogs must feel at airports.
We head to a group of women, who are standing together with two middle-aged men.
“Hi there!” Sam greets them all pleasantly. “Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Jeremy … and Peter…. Jeremy, how many years have you been with us now? And Peter? Is it three years?”
OK. Now that I’m listening properly, close up, this is easier. One man has a low growly voice and the other is Scandinavian. After about ten seconds I shake my head at Sam, and he moves us swiftly off to another group, discreetly ticking his list as we go.
“Hi there! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, you’ve already met Nihal. Now, Colin, what are you up to these days?”
It’s amazing how different voices are, once you start to pay attention. Not only the pitch but the accents, the timbres, the little speech impediments and slurs and quirks.
“What about you?” I join in, smiling at a bearded guy who hasn’t uttered a syllable.
“Well, it’s been a tricky year …,” he begins ponderously.
No. Uh-uh. Nothing like. I glance at Sam, shaking my head, and he abruptly takes hold of my arm.
“Sorry, Dudley, we must dash.” He heads to the next group along and charges straight in, interrupting an anecdote. “Poppy, this is Simon…. Stephanie you’ve met, I think … Simon, Poppy was just admiring your jacket. Where’s it from?”
I can’t believe how blatant Sam’s being. He’s practically ignoring all the women and being totally unsubtle about getting the men to talk. But I guess it’s the only way.
The more voices I listen to, the more confident I feel. This is easier than I thought it would be, because they’re all so different from the one on the phone. Except that we’ve already been to four groups and eliminated them. I scan the room anxiously. What if I get all the way round the room and I still haven’t heard the guy from the phone?
“Hi there, gang! Having a good time?” Sam is still in full flow as we approach the next group. “Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Tony. Tony, why don’t you tell Poppy about your department? And here’s Daniel, and this is … ah. Willow.”
She was turned away as we approached, so her face was averted, but now she faces us full on.
Yowzer.
“Sam!” she says, after such a long pause I start to feel embarrassed for everybody. “Who’s … this?”
OK. If my text to Magnus was laden with meaning, that little two-word sentence of Willow’s was collapsing under its weight. You don’t have to be an expert in the Language of Willow to know that what she actually meant was, “Who the FUCK is this girl and WHAT is she doing here with YOU? Jesus, Sam, are you DELIBERATELY SCREWING AROUND WITH ME? Because, believe me, you are going to regret that BADLY.”
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