Sophie Kinsella: I've Got Your Number

“I do mean them,” says Magnus, but he sounds so lame and unconvincing, even Reverend Fox winces.

“Really?” I turn to him. “Forsaking all others? In sickness and in health? Till death us do part? You’re absolutely sure about that, are you? Or did you just want to prove to everyone that you can go through with a wedding?”

And although I wasn’t planning to say that, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, they feel true.

That’s what this is. Everything falls into place. His belligerent speech this morning. His sweaty forehead. Even his proposal. No wonder he waited only a month. This was never about him and me, it was about proving a point. Maybe this is all about his father calling him a quitter. Or his zillion previous proposals. God knows. But the whole thing has been wrong from the start. It’s been back to front. And I believed in it because I wanted to.

I can suddenly feel the pressing of tears behind my eyes. But I refuse to crumble.

“Magnus,” I say more gently. “Listen. There’s no point doing this. Don’t marry me just to prove you’re not a quitter. Because you will quit, sooner or later. Whatever your intentions are. It’ll happen.”

“Rubbish,” he says fiercely.

“You will. You don’t love me enough for the long haul.”

“Yes, I do!”

“You don’t, Magnus,” I say, almost wearily. “I don’t light up your life like I should. And you don’t light up mine.” I pause. “Not enough. Not enough for forever.”

“Really?” Magnus looks shocked. “I don’t?” I can see that I’ve pricked his vanity.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, Poppy,” he says, clearly in a huff. “If that’s the way you feel—”

“But it’s the way you feel too!” I exclaim. “Be honest! Magnus, you and I, we’re not destined to be together forever. We’re not the main event. I think we’re … ” I screw up my face, trying to think of a way to put it. “I think we’re each other’s footnotes.”

There’s silence. Magnus looks as though he wants to find a riposte but can’t. I touch his hand, then turn to the vicar. “Reverend Fox, I’m sorry. We’ve wasted your time. I think we should probably call it a day.”

“I see,” says Reverend Fox. “Goodness. I see.” He mops his head with his handkerchief, looking flustered. “Are you sure … Perhaps a five-minute chat in the vestry … ”

“I don’t think that’ll fix it,” I say gently. “I think we’re done. Don’t you, Magnus?”

“If you say so.” Magnus looks genuinely gutted, and for a moment I wonder—

No. There’s no doubt. I’m doing the right thing.

“Well … what shall we do now?” I say hesitantly. “Shall we still have the reception?”

Magnus looks uncertain—then nods. “Might as well. We’ve paid for it.”

I step down from the altar, then pause. OK, this is awkward. We didn’t rehearse this. The congregation is all watching, agog, to see what happens next.

“So … um … should I …” I turn to Magnus. “I mean, we can’t exactly walk down the aisle together.”

“You go first.” He shrugs. “Then I’ll go.”

Reverend Fox is signaling at the organist, who suddenly starts playing the bridal march.

“No!” I squeak in horror. “No music! Please!”

“So sorry!” Reverend Fox makes hasty cut-it gestures. “I was trying to signal Don’t play. Mrs. Fortescue is a little deaf, I’m afraid. She may not have followed exactly what’s been going on.”

This is such a shambles. I don’t even know whether to hold my flowers or not. In the end, I grab them from Ruby, who gives me a sympathetic squeeze on the arm, while Annalise whispers, “Are you insane ?”

The music has finally petered out, so I start making my way back down the aisle in silence, avoiding everyone’s eyes and prickling all over with self-consciousness. Oh God, this is hideous. There should be an exit strategy for this eventuality. There should be an option in the Book of Common Prayer: Procession for Ye Bride Who Chang-ed Her Minde.

No one’s talking as I make my way along the stone aisle. Everyone’s watching me, riveted. But I’m aware of phones being turned on, from the cacophony of bleepy noises up and down the pews. Great. I expect there’ll be a race to see who can post it on Facebook.

Suddenly a woman at the end of a pew thrusts a hand out in front of me. She’s got a big pink hat on, and I have absolutely no idea who she is.

“Stop!”

“Me?” I come to a halt and look at her.

“Yes, you.” She looks a bit flustered. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a message for you.”

“For me ?” I say, puzzled. “But I don’t even know you.”

“That’s what’s so odd.” She flushes. “Sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m Magnus’s godmother, Margaret. I don’t know many people here. But a text arrived in my phone during the service, from someone called Sam Roxton. At least … it’s not for you, it’s about you. It says: If you happen to be at the wedding of Poppy Wyatt— ”

There’s a loud gasp behind her. “I’ve got that message too!” a girl exclaims. “Exactly the same! If you happen to be at the wedding of Poppy Wyatt— ”

“Me too! Same here!” Voices start chiming in around the church. “I’ve just got it! If you happen to be at the wedding of Poppy Wyatt …”

I’m too bewildered to speak. What’s going on? Has Sam been texting the wedding guests? More and more hands are flying up; more and more phones are bleeping; more and more people are exclaiming.

Has he texted everyone at the wedding ?

“Have we all got the same text?” Margaret looks around the congregation in disbelief. “All right, let’s see. If you’ve got the message in your phone, read it out. I’ll count us in. One, two, three: If you happen …”

As the rumble of voices starts, I feel faint. This can’t be real. There’s a crowd of two hundred people at this wedding, and most are joining in, reading aloud from their phones in unison. As the words echo round the church, it sounds like a mass prayer or a football chant or something.

“ … to be at the wedding of Poppy Wyatt, I’d like to ask a favor. Stop it. Stop her. Hold it off. Delay it. She’s doing the wrong thing. At least get her to think about it.”

I’m transfixed in the aisle, clutching my bouquet, my heart thudding. I can’t believe he’s done this. I can’t believe it. Where did he get all the phone numbers from? Lucinda?

“Let me tell you why. As a clever man once said: A treasure such as this should not be left in the hands of Philistines. And Poppy is a treasure, though she doesn’t realize it.”

I can’t help glancing over at Antony, who is holding his phone and has raised his eyebrows very high.

“There isn’t time to talk or discuss or be reasonable. Which is why I’m taking this extreme measure. And I hope you will too. Anything you can do. Anything you can say. The wedding is wrong. Thank you.”

As the reading comes to an end, everyone seems slightly shell-shocked.

“What the fuck—” Magnus is striding down from the altar. “Who was that?”

I can’t answer. Sam’s words are going round and round my head. I want to grab someone’s phone and read them through again.

“I’m going to reply!” exclaims Margaret. “ Who’s this? ” she says aloud as she taps at her phone. “Are you her lover?” She presses send with a dramatic flourish, and there’s a rapt silence in the church, till her phone suddenly bleeps. “He’s answered!” She pauses for effect, then reads out: “Lover? I don’t know. I don’t know if she loves me. I don’t know if I love her.”