Magnus and Lucinda. It’s like a bad joke. One of them’s supposed be organizing my wedding. The other’s supposed to be in my wedding. To me.
But wait. My head jerks with a thought. Who sent me the anonymous text? Sam’s theory can’t be right, because someone must have sent that. It wouldn’t have been any of Magnus’s friends, and I don’t know any of Lucinda’s friends, so who on earth …
“Remember when Magnus told you he had to counsel some PhD student? And Lucinda pulled out of your drinks meeting? She sent Clemency along instead? If you look at the timings … ”
Sam’s still talking, but I can barely hear him. My heart has constricted. Of course. Clemency.
Clemency.
Clemency is dyslexic. She would have spelled fiancé wrong. She would have been too terrified of Lucinda to give her name. But she would have wanted me to know. If there was something to know.
My fingers are shaking as I grab my phone and find the text again. Now that I read it over, I can hear the words in Clemency’s sweet, anxious voice. It feels like her. It sounds like her.
Clemency wouldn’t invent something like that. She must believe it’s true. She must have seen something … heard something …
I sag back against the car seat. My limbs are aching. I feel parched and worn out and a little like I want to cry.
“Anyway.” Sam seems to realize I’ve stopped listening. “I mean, it’s a theory, that’s all.” He folds the paper up and I take it.
“Thanks. Thanks for doing that.”
“I … ” He shrugs, a bit awkward. “Like I said. It’s my thing.”
For a while we’re both silent, although it feels like we’re still communicating. I feel as though our thoughts are circling above our heads, interweaving, looping, meeting for a moment, then diverging again. Him on his path, me on mine.
“So.” I exhale at last. “I should let you go. It’s late. Thanks for—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Thank you. ”
I nod simply. I think both of us are probably too drained to get into long speeches.
“It’s been … ”
“Yes.”
I look up and make the mistake of catching his eye, silvered in the light from the streetlamp. And just for a moment I’m transported—
No. Don’t, Poppy. It never happened. Don’t think about it. Blank it.
“So. Um.” I reach for the door handle, trying to force myself into reality, into rationality. “I still need to give you this phone back—”
“You know what? Have it, Poppy. It’s yours.” He clasps my fingers over it and holds them tight for a moment. “You earned it. And please don’t bother to forward anything else. As from tomorrow all my emails will go to my new PA. Your work here is done.”
“Well, thanks!” I open the door—then on impulse turn around. “Sam … I hope you’re OK.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He flashes his wonder smile, and I suddenly feel like hugging him tight. He’s about to lose his job and he can still smile like that. “I hope you’re OK,” he adds. “I’m sorry about … it all.”
“Oh, I’ll be OK!” I give a brittle laugh, even though I have no idea what I mean by this. My husband-to-be is possibly shagging my wedding planner. In what sense will I be OK?
The driver clears his throat, and I start. It’s the middle of the night. I’m sitting in a car on the street. Come on, Poppy. Get with it. Move. The conversation has to end.
So, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, I force myself to get out, bang the door shut, and call, “Good night!” I head to my front door and open it, because I know instinctively that Sam won’t drive away till he’s seen I’m safely in. Then I stand on the doorstep, watching his car drive away.
As it rounds the corner, I check my phone, half-hoping, half-expecting …
But it’s dark and silent. It remains dark and silent. And for the first time in a long while, I feel utterly alone.
81 OK, he won’t get. I know.
82 Not such a huge range, then.
83 Magnus is doing it with Professor Wilson? No. Surely not. She has a beard.
84 And, by the way, in what sense have I appeared in her life?
85 And we’re not exactly starting from a high bar.
86 I think it can. It’s all in the timing.
87 Another one for Antony. Not.
13
It’s in every single paper the next morning. Front-page news. I headed out to the newsagents as soon as I was up and bought every newspaper they had.
There are pictures of Sir Nicholas, pictures of the prime minister, pictures of Sam, pictures of Ed Exton, even a picture of Vicks in the Mail. The headlines are full of corruption and smear attempt and integrity. The memo is printed in full, everywhere, and there’s an official quote from Number 10 about Sir Nicholas considering his position on the government committee. There are even two different cartoons of Sir Nicholas holding bags labeled Happiness and stuffed full of money.
But Sam was right: There’s an air of confusion about it. Some journalists obviously think Sir Nicholas did write the memo. Others obviously think he didn’t. One paper has run an editorial about how Sir Nicholas is an arrogant bighead and of course he’s been taking bribes all along; another has written that Sir Nicholas is known for his quiet integrity and it couldn’t possibly be him. If Sam wanted to throw up a question mark over everything, he’s definitely succeeded.