Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

Why don’t I feel like I’ve won?

“Excuse me.” Sam puts his phone to his ear. “Vicks. What’s up?”

He heads out of the carriage and, without meaning to, I exhale in a massive sigh. The gnawing pain is back, nestling beneath my ribs. But right now I can’t tell if it’s because the Tavishes don’t want me to marry Magnus, or because I’m trying to deny it, or because I’m nervous about this whole escapade, or because my tea’s too strong.

For a while I sit there, gazing down at my steaming tea, wishing that I’d never heard the Tavishes arguing in the church. That I knew nothing. That I could blot that gray cloud out of my life and go back to lucky, lucky me, isn’t everything perfect?

Sam takes his seat again, and there’s silence for a few moments. The train has come to a halt in the middle of nowhere, and it’s oddly quiet without the sound of the engine.

“OK.” I stare down at the little Formica table. “OK.”

“OK what?”

“OK, you’re not wrong.”

Sam says nothing, just waits. The train jolts and lurches, like a horse deciding whether to behave, then slowly begins moving off again down the tracks.

“But I’m not making this up in my head or whatever you think.” I hunch my shoulders miserably. “I overheard the Tavishes, OK? They don’t want Magnus to marry me. I’ve done everything I can. I’ve played Scrabble and I’ve tried making conversation and I’ve even read Antony’s book. 78But I’ll never be like them. Never.”

“Why should you?” Sam looks perplexed. “Why would you want to?”

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “Why would anyone want to be a really brainy celebrity who goes on TV?”

“Antony Tavish has a big brain,” says Sam steadily. “Having a big brain is like having a big liver or a big nose. Why do you feel insecure? What if he had a huge lower intestine? Would you feel insecure then?”

I can’t help giggling.

“He’s a freak, strictly speaking.” Sam presses on. “You’re marrying into a family of freaks. To be in the outermost centile of anything is freakish. Next time you’re intimidated by them, imagine a big neon sign over their heads, reading, FREAKS!”

“That’s not what you really think.” I’m smiling but shaking my head.

“It is absolutely what I think.” He looks deadly serious now. “These academic guys have to feel important. They give papers and present TV shows to show they’re useful and valuable. But you do useful, valuable work every day. You don’t need to prove anything. How many people have you treated? Hundreds. You’ve reduced their pain. You’ve made hundreds of people happier. Has Antony Tavish made anyone happier?”

I’m sure there’s something wrong with what he’s saying, but right now I can’t work out what it is. All I can do is feel a little glow. That had never occurred to me before. I’ve made hundreds of people happier.

“What about you? Have you?” I can’t help saying, and Sam shoots me a wry smile.

“I’m working on it.”

The train slows as it passes though Woking, and we both instinctively look out the window. Then Sam turns back. “The point is, it’s not about them. It’s about you. You and him. Magnus.”

“I know,” I say at last. “I know it is.”

It sounds strange, hearing Magnus’s name on his lips. It feels all wrong.

Magnus and Sam are so very different. It’s like they’re made out of different stuff. Magnus is so shiny, so mercurial, so impressive, so sexy. But a teeny-weeny bit self-obsessed. 79Whereas Sam is so … straight and strong. And generous. And kind. You just know he’d always be there for you, whatever.

Sam looks at me now and smiles, as though he can read my thoughts, and my heart experiences that tiny fillip it always does when he smiles.

Lucky Willow.

I give an inward gasp at my own thought and take a gulp of tea to cover my embarrassment.

That popped into my head with no warning. And I didn’t mean it. Or, rather, yes, I did mean it but simply in the sense that I wish them both well, as a disinterested friend—no, not friend …

I’m blushing.

I’m blushing at my own stupid, nonsensical, meaningless thought process, which, by the way, nobody knows about except me. So I can relax. I can stop this now and drop the ridiculous idea that Sam can read my mind and knows I fancy him—

No. Stop. Stop. That’s ridiculous.

This is just—

Erase the word fancy. I do not. I do not.

“Are you OK?” Sam gives me a curious look. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No!” I say quickly. “You haven’t! I appreciate it. Really.”

“Good. Because—” He breaks off to answer his phone. “Vicks. Any news?”

As Sam heads outside for another call, I gulp my tea, staring fixedly out the window, willing my blood to cool and my brain to go blank. I need to backtrack. I need to reboot. Do not save changes.

To establish a more businesslike atmosphere, I reach in my pocket for the phone, check it for messages, then put it on the table. There’s nothing on general email about the memo crisis—clearly it’s all going on between a select number of high-level colleagues.

“You do know you have to buy another phone at some point,” says Sam, raising an eyebrow as he returns. “Or are you planning to purloin all your phones from bins from now on?”

“It’s the only place.” I shrug. “Bins and skips.”

The phone buzzes with an email and I automatically reach for it, but Sam gets there first. His hand brushes against mine, and our eyes lock.

“Might be for me.”

“True.” I nod. “Go ahead.”

He checks it, then shakes his head. “Wedding-trumpeter bill. All yours.”

With a little grin of triumph, I take the phone from him. I send a quick reply to Lucinda, then put it back on the table. As it buzzes again a few moments later, we both make a grab and I just beat him.

“Shirt sale.” I pass it to him. “Not really my thing.” Sam deletes the email, then replaces the phone on the table.

“In the middle!” I shift it an inch. “Cheat.”

“Put your hands on your lap,” he retorts. “Cheat.”

There’s silence. We’re both sitting poised, waiting for the phone to buzz. Sam looks so deadly intent I feel a laugh rising. Someone else’s phone rings across the carriage, and Sam makes a half grab for ours before realizing.

“Tragic,” I murmur. “Doesn’t even know the ring tone.”

Ours bleeps with a text, and Sam’s momentary hesitation is just enough for me to scoop the phone up out of his grasp.

“Ha-ha! And I bet it’s for me… .”

I click on the text and peer at it. It’s from an unknown number and only half the message has come in, but I can work out the gist—

I read it again. And again. I look up at Sam and lick my suddenly dry lips. Never in a million years was I expecting this.

“Is it for you?” says Sam.

“No.” I swallow. “For you.”

“Vicks?” His hand is already outstretched. “She shouldn’t be using that number—”

“No, not Vicks. Not work. It’s … it’s … personal.”

Yet again I read it over, not wanting to relinquish the phone until I’m absolutely sure of what I’m seeing.

I’m not sure if this is the right number. But I had to let you know. Your fiancée has been unfaithful. It’s with someone you know. (Incoming text)

I knew it. I knew she was a bitch, and this proves she’s even worse than I thought.

“What is it?” Sam bangs his hand impatiently on the table. “Give. Is it to do with the conference?”