Sophie Kinsella: I've Got Your Number

“Magnus!” I can’t help exclaiming in shock. “You can’t say ‘fuck off’ in your wedding speech!” Magnus’s face jolts, and his belligerent air instantly vanishes as he whips round. “Poppy! Sweets! I didn’t know you could hear me.”

“Is that your speech?” I demand.

“No! Not exactly.” He takes a deep swig of his drink. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Well, haven’t you written it yet?” I eye his glass. “Is that a gin and tonic?”

“I think I’m allowed a gin and tonic on my wedding day, don’t you?”

The belligerent air is creeping back. What is wrong with him?

If I was in one of those glossy luxury-kitchen American TV dramas, I’d go up to him now and take his arm and say gently, “It’s going to be a great day, honey.” And his face would soften and he’d say, “I know,” and we’d kiss, and I would have diffused the tension with my loving tact and charm.

But I’m not in the mood. If he can be belligerent, so can I.

“Fine.” I scowl. “Get pissed. Great idea.”

“I’m not going to get pissed. Jesus. But I’ve got have something to take the edge off the—” He stops abruptly, and I stare at him in shock. Where exactly was he heading with that sentence?

Off the ordeal ? Off the pain ?

I think his mind is working the same way, because he quickly finishes the sentence. “—the thrill. I need to take the edge off the thrill, or I’ll be far too hyper to concentrate. Sweets, you look beautiful. Gorgeous hair. You’ll look spectacular.”

His old engaging manner has returned in full force, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

“My hair hasn’t even been done yet,” I say, with a grudging smile. “The hairdresser’s on his way.”

“Well, don’t let him ruin it.” He gathers the ends together and kisses them. “I’ll get out of your way. See you at the church!”

“OK.” I stare after him, feeling a bit unsettled.

And I’m unsettled for the rest of the morning. It’s not exactly that I’m worried. It’s more that I don’t know if I should be worried. I mean, let’s look at the facts. One moment Magnus is all over me, begging me to marry him—then he gets stroppy, as though I’m forcing him into it with a shotgun. Is it just jitters? Is this what men are always like on their wedding day? Should I tolerate it as normal male behavior, like when he gets a cold and starts Googling nose cancer symptoms discharge nostrils ? 105

If Dad were alive, I could ask him.

But that’s a thought path I really can’t let myself go down, not today, or I’ll be a mess. I blink hard and scrub at my nose with a tissue. Come on, Poppy. Brighten up. Stop inventing problems that don’t exist. I’m getting married!

Toby and Tom emerge from their cocoons just as the hairdresser arrives. They make monster cups of tea in mugs which they brought themselves, 106then instantly start bantering with the hairdresser and putting rollers in their hair and making me fall about with laughter. I wish for the zillionth time that I saw more of them. Then they disappear off to have breakfast at a café, and Ruby and Annalise arrive two hours early because they couldn’t wait, and the hairdresser announces he’s ready, and my aunt Trudy rings from her mobile, saying they’re nearly here and her tights have laddered, is there anywhere she can buy a new pair? 107

And then we’re into a blur of hair dryers blasting, nails being painted, makeup being done, hair being put up, flowers arriving, dresses being put on, dresses being taken off to go to the loo, sandwiches being delivered, and a near spray-tan disaster (it was actually just a blotch of coffee on Annalise’s knee). Somehow, it’s two o’clock before I realize it, and the cars are here and I’m standing in front of the mirror in my dress and veil. Tom and Toby are standing on either side of me, so handsome in their morning coats that I have to blink away the tears again. Annalise and Ruby have already left for the church. This is it. My last few moments as a single girl.

“Mum and Dad would have been so proud of you,” says Toby gruffly. “Amazing dress.”

“Thanks.” I try to shrug nonchalantly.

I suppose I look OK, as brides go. My dress is really long and slim, with a low back and tiny bits of lace on the sleeves. My hair’s in a chignon. 108My veil is gossamer light, and I’ve got a beaded headdress and a gorgeous posy of lilies. But somehow, just like Magnus this morning, something seems amiss …

It’s my expression, I suddenly realize with dismay. It isn’t right. My eyes are tense and my mouth keeps twitching downward and I’m not radiant. I try baring my teeth at myself in a broad smile—but now I look freaky, like some kind of scary clown-bride.

“You OK?” Tom is watching me curiously.

“Fine!” I pull at my veil, trying to bunch it round my face more. The point is, it doesn’t matter what my expression is like. Everyone will be looking at my train.

“Hey, sis.” Toby glances at Tom as though for approval. “So you know, if you did change your mind, we’d be totally cool. We’d help you do a getaway. We’ve discussed it, haven’t we, Tom?”

“Four-thirty from St. Pancras.” Tom nods. “Gets you to Paris in time for dinner.”

“Do a getaway?” I stare at him in dismay. “What do you mean? Why would you plan a getaway? Don’t you like Magnus?”

“No! Waoh! Never said that.” Toby lifts his hands defensively. “Just … putting it out there. Giving you the option. We see it as our job.”

“Well, don’t see it as your job.” I speak more sharply than I meant to. “We’ve got to get to the church.”

“I got the papers when I was out, by the way,” adds Tom, proffering a stack of newspapers. “You want to have a read in the car?”

“No!” I recoil in horror. “Of course not! I’ll get newsprint on my dress!”

Only my little brother could suggest reading the newspaper on the way to my own wedding. As if, it’ll be so boring we’d better have some entertainment.

Having said that, I can’t help flicking through the Guardian quickly as Toby goes for a quick final bathroom break. There’s a picture of Sam on page 5, under the headline SCANDAL ROCKS BUSINESS WORLD, and as soon as I see it, my stomach clenches tightly.

But less tightly than before. I’m sure of it.

The car is a black Rolls Royce limousine, which looks pretty amazing in my nondescript Balham street, and a small crowd of neighbors has gathered to watch as I come out. I do a little twirl and everyone claps as I get into the car. We set off, and I feel like a proper, glowing, radiant bride.

Except I can’t look that radiant and glowing, because as we’re driving along Buckingham Palace Road, Tom leans forward and says, “Poppy? Are you carsick or something?”

“What?”

“You look ill.”

“No, I don’t.” I scowl at him.

“You do,” says Toby, peering at me dubiously. “Kind of … green.”

“Yeah, green.” Tom’s face lights up. “That’s what I meant. Like you’re about to hurl. Are you about to hurl?”

That is so typical of brothers. Why couldn’t I have had sisters, who would tell me I looked beautiful and lend me their blusher?

“No, I’m not about to hurl! And it doesn’t matter what I look like.” I turn my face away. “No one will be able to see through my veil.” My iPhone beeps, and I haul it out of my little bridal bag. It’s a text from Annalise:

Don’t go up Park Lane! Accident! We’re stuck!

“Hey.” I lean forward to the driver. “There’s an accident on Park Lane.”

“Right you are.” he nods. “We’ll avoid that route, then.”