I've Got Your Number

“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 scandalised. “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.