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 …”