Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

As we swing around into a little side road, I’m aware of Tom and Toby exchanging glances.

“What?” I say at last.

“Nothing,” Toby says soothingly. “Just sit back and relax. Shall I tell you some jokes, take your mind off it?”

“ No. Thanks.”

I stare out the window, watching the streets go by. And suddenly, before I feel quite ready, we’ve arrived. The church bells are pealing with a single, rhythmic tone as we get out of the car. A couple of late guests I don’t recognize are running up the steps, the woman clutching her hat. They smile at me, and I give a self-conscious nod.

It’s for real. I’m actually doing this. This is the happiest day of my life. I should remember every moment. Especially how happy I am.

Tom surveys me and grimaces. “Pops, you look awful. I’ll tell the vicar you’re ill.” He barges straight past me into the church.

“No, don’t! I’m not ill!” I exclaim furiously, but it’s too late. He’s on a mission. Sure enough, a few moments later Reverend Fox is hurrying out of the church, an anxious look on his face.

“Oh my goodness, your brother’s right,” he says as soon as he sees me. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine!”

“Why don’t you take a few minutes to compose yourself alone before we begin the service?” He’s ushering me into a small side room. “Sit down a moment, have a glass of water, perhaps eat a biscuit? There are some in the church hall. We need to wait for the bridesmaids anyway. I gather they’ve been held up in traffic.”

“I’ll look out for them on the street,” says Tom. “They won’t be long.”

“I’ll get the biscuits,” chimes in Toby. “Will you be all right, sis?”

“Fine.”

They all head out and I’m left alone in the silent room. A tiny mirror is perched on a shelf, and as I look into it I wince. I do look sick. What’s wrong with me?

My iPhone dings and I peer at it in surprise. I’ve got a text from Mrs. Randall.

6–4, 6–2. Thank you, Poppy!

She did it! She got back on the tennis court! This is the best thing I’ve heard all day. And all of a sudden I wish I were at work, away from here, absorbed in the process of treating someone, doing something useful—

No. Stop. Don’t be stupid, Poppy. How can you wish you were at work on your wedding day? I must be some sort of freak. No other brides wish they were at the office. None of the bridal magazines carry articles on “How to Look Radiant Rather than Like You Want to Vomit”.

Another text has dinged into my phone, but this one is from Annalise.

Finally!!!! We’re on the move! Are you there already?

OK. Let’s focus on the here and now. The simple act of texting a reply makes me feel more relaxed.

Just arrived.

An instant later she replies:

Argh! Going as quick as we can. Anyway, you’re supposed to be late. It’s good luck. Have you still got your blue garter on?

Annalise was so obsessed by me wearing a blue garter that she brought along three different choices this morning. I’m sorry, what are garters all about? To be frank, I could really do without a length of tight elastic cutting off my leg circulation right now—but I promised her faithfully I’d keep it on.

Of course! Even though my leg will probably fall off. Nice surprise for Magnus on the wedding night.

I smile as I send the text. It’s cheering me up, having this stupid conversation. I put my iPhone down, have a drink of water, and take a deep breath. OK. I’m feeling better. The iPhone dings with a new text, and I pick it up to see what Annalise has replied—

But it’s from Sam Mobile.

For a few instants I can’t move. My stomach is moiling around as though I’m a teenager. Oh God. This is pathetic. It’s mortifying. I see the word Sam and I go to pieces.

Half of me wants to ignore it. What do I care what he’s got to say? Why should I give one iota of head space or time to him, when it’s my wedding day and I have other things to focus on?

But I know I’ll never get through the wedding with an unopened text burning a hole in my iPhone. I open it as calmly as I can, bearing in mind that my fingers can hardly function—and it’s a one-word Sam special.

Hi.

Hi ? What’s that supposed to mean, for God’s sake?

Well, I’m not going to be rude. I’ll text back a similarly effusive response.

Hi.

A moment later there’s another ding:

This a good time?

What?

Is he for real? Or is he being sarcastic? Or—

Then I realize. Of course. He thinks I canceled the wedding. He doesn’t know. He has no idea.

And suddenly I see his text in a new light. He’s not making a point. He’s just saying hi.

I swallow hard, trying to work out what to put. Somehow I can’t bear to tell him what I’m doing. Not straight out.

Not really.

I’ll be brief, then. You were right and I was wrong.

I stare at his words, perplexed. Right about what? Slowly, I type:

What do you mean?

Almost immediately, his reply dings into the iPhone.

About Willow. You were right and I was wrong. I’m sorry I reacted badly. I didn’t want you to be right, but you were. I spoke to her.

What did you say?

Told her it was over, finito. Stop the emails or I’ll take out a stalking injunction.

He didn’t. I can’t believe it.

How did she react?

She was pretty shocked.

I bet.

There’s silence for a while. A fresh text from Annalise has arrived on my iPhone, but I don’t open it. I can’t bear to break the thread between Sam and me. I’m gripping my iPhone tightly, peering at the screen, waiting to see if he’ll text again. He has to text again …

And then there’s a beep.

Can’t be an easy day for you. Today was supposed to be the wedding day, right?

My insides seem to plunge. What do I answer? What?

Yes.

Well, here’s something to cheer you up.

Cheer me up? I’m peering at the screen, puzzled, when a photo text suddenly arrives, which makes me laugh in surprise. It’s a picture of Sam sitting in a dentist’s chair. He’s smiling widely and wearing a cartoon sticker on his lapel that says, I was a good dental patient!!

He did that for me, flashes through my head before I can stop it. He went to the dentist for me.

No. Don’t be stupid. He went for his teeth. I hesitate, then type:

You’re right, that did cheer me up. Well done. About time!

An instant later he replies:

Are you free for a cup of coffee?

And to my horror, with no warning, tears start pressing at my eyes. How can he call now and ask me for a cup of coffee? How can he not realize that things have moved on? What did he think I would do? As I type, my thumbs are jerky and agitated.

You brushed me off.

What?

You sent me the brush off email.

I never send emails, you know that. Must have been my PA. She’s too efficient.

He didn’t send it?

OK, now I can’t cope. I’m going to cry, or laugh hysterically, or something. I had it all sorted in my mind. I knew where everything was and where everything stood. Now my head’s a maelstrom again.

The iPhone beeps with a follow-up text from Sam:

You’re not offended, are you?

I close my eyes. I have to explain. But what do I—How do I—

At last, without even opening my eyes, I text:

You don’t understand.

What don’t I understand?

I can’t bear to type the words. Somehow I just can’t do it. Instead, I stretch out my arm as far as it will go, take a photo of myself, then examine the result.