Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

“Oh. Right.” I can hardly complain about him invading my privacy.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“No. Of course. That’s fine.” I nod. “Thanks.”

Sam picks up the phone and seems about to hand it to me—then he hesitates.

“I read your messages, Poppy. All of them.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat, unsure how to react. “Wow. Well. That’s … that’s a bit much, don’t you think? I mean, I know I read your emails, but you didn’t need to—”

“It’s Lucinda.”

“What?” I stare at him dumbly.

“For my money. Lucinda’s your girl.”

Lucinda?

“But what—Why?”

“She’s been lying to you. Consistently. She couldn’t have been in all the places she says she has at the times she’s said. It’s not physically possible.”

“Actually … I noticed that too,” I admit. “I thought she was trying to bill me for more hours or something.”

“Does she bill by the hour?”

I rub my nose, feeling stupid. In fact, she doesn’t. It’s an all–inclusive fee.

“Have you ever noticed that Magnus and Lucinda inevitably texts you within ten minute of each other?”

Slowly, I shake my head. Why would I notice that? I get zillions of texts every day, from all kinds of people. And, anyway, how did he notice?

“I started off life as an analyst.” He looks a bit abashed. “This is my kind of thing.”

“What’s your kind of thing?” I say, puzzled.

Sam produces a piece of paper and I clap a hand over my mouth. I don’t believe it. He’s drawn a chart. Times and dates. Calls. Texts. Emails. Has he been doing this while I’ve been asleep?

“I analyzed your messages. You’ll see what’s going on.”

He analyzed my messages. How do you analyze messages?

He hands me the paper and I blink at it.

“What … ”

“You see the correlation?”

Correlation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It sounds like something from math exams.

“Um … ”

“Take this date.” He points at the paper. “They both email at around six p.m. asking how you’re doing, being chatty. Then at eight p.m. Magnus tells you he’s working late at the London Library, and a few minutes later Lucinda tells you she’s working on garters for the bridesmaids at a fashion warehouse in Shoreditch. At eight at night? Please.”

I’m silent for a few moments. I remember that email about the garters now. It seemed a bit odd, even at the time. But you can’t jump to conclusions from one weird email, surely?

“Who asked you to analyze my messages, anyway?” I know I sound all prickly, but I can’t help it. “Who said it was any of your business?”

“No one. You were asleep.” He spreads his hands. “I’m sorry. I just started looking idly and then a pattern built up.”

“Two emails aren’t a pattern.”

“It’s not only two.” He gestures at the paper. “Next day, Magnus has a special evening seminar which he “forgot” to mention. Five minutes later, Lucinda tells you about a lace workshop in Nottinghamshire. But she was in Fulham two hours earlier. Fulham to Nottinghamshire? In the rush hour? That’s not real. My guess is it’s an alibi.”

The word alibi makes me feel a bit cold.

“Two days later, Magnus texts you, canceling your lunch date. A moment later, Lucinda emails you, telling you she’s frantically busy till two p.m. She doesn’t give you any other reason for emailing. Why would she need to let you know that she’s frantically busy over some random lunchtime?”

He looks up, waiting for a reply. Like I’ll have one.

“I … I don’t know,” I say at last. “I don’t know.”

As Sam continues, I knead my eyes briefly with my fists. I get why Vicks does this now. It’s to block the world out, for just a second. Why didn’t I see this? Why didn’t I see any of this?

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.