I've Got Your Number
Page 108
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As it rounds the corner, I check my phone, half-hoping, half-expecting …
But it’s dark and silent. It remains dark and silent. And for the first time in a long while, I feel utterly alone.
81 OK, he won’t get. I know.
82 Not such a huge range, then.
83 Magnus is doing it with Professor Wilson? No. Surely not. She has a beard.
84 And, by the way, in what sense have I appeared in her life?
85 And we’re not exactly starting from a high bar.
86 I think it can. It’s all in the timing.
87 Another one for Antony. Not.
13
It’s in every single paper the next morning. Front-page news. I headed out to the newsagents as soon as I was up and bought every newspaper they had.
There are pictures of Sir Nicholas, pictures of the prime minister, pictures of Sam, pictures of Ed Exton, even a picture of Vicks in the Mail. The headlines are full of corruption and smear attempt and integrity. The memo is printed in full, everywhere, and there’s an official quote from Number 10 about Sir Nicholas considering his position on the government committee. There are even two different cartoons of Sir Nicholas holding bags labeled Happiness and stuffed full of money.
But Sam was right: There’s an air of confusion about it. Some journalists obviously think Sir Nicholas did write the memo. Others obviously think he didn’t. One paper has run an editorial about how Sir Nicholas is an arrogant bighead and of course he’s been taking bribes all along; another has written that Sir Nicholas is known for his quiet integrity and it couldn’t possibly be him. If Sam wanted to throw up a question mark over everything, he’s definitely succeeded.
I texted him this morning:
You OK?
But I got no reply. I guess he’s busy. To say the least.
Meanwhile, I feel like a wreck. It took me hours to get to sleep last night, I was so wired—but then I woke at six and sat bolt upright, already grabbing for my phone, my heart racing. Magnus had texted four words:
Having great time. M xxx
Having a great time. What does that tell me? Nothing.
He could be having a great time congratulating himself on how I have no idea about his secret mistress. There again, he could be having a great time innocently looking forward to a life of faithful monogamy, with no idea that Clemency somehow got the wrong end of the stick about him and Lucinda.88 Or possibly he could be having a great time deciding that he’s never going to be unfaithful again and regrets it hugely and will confess everything to me as soon as he gets back.89
I can’t cope. I need Magnus to be here, in this country, in this room. I need to ask him, “Have you been unfaithful with Lucinda?” and see what he says, and then maybe we can move forward and I can work out what I’m going to do. Until then, I feel like I’m in limbo.
As I go to make another cup of tea, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, and I wince. My hair is a mess. My hands are covered with newsprint from reading all the papers. My stomach is full of acid, and my skin looks drawn. So much for my bridal beauty regimem. According to my plan, last night I was supposed to apply a hydration mask. I didn’t even take my makeup off.
I’d originally set today aside to do wedding preparation—but every time I even think about it, my insides clench and I feel like crying or shouting at someone. (Well, Magnus.) There’s no point just sitting here all day though. I have to go out. I have to do something. After a few sips of tea, I decide to go in to work. I don’t have any appointments, but I’ve got some admin I can catch up with. And at least it’ll force me to have a shower and get myself together.
I’m the first to arrive, and I sit in the quiet calm, sorting through patient files, letting the monotony of the job soothe me. Which lasts about five minutes before Angela slouches through the door and clatters around, starting her computer and making coffee and turning on the wall-mounted telly.
“Do we have to?” I feel as if I’ve got a hangover, even though I hardly drank anything last night, and I could do without this blaring in my ears. But Angela stares at me as though I’ve violated some basic human right.
“I always watch Daybreak. ”
It’s not worth arguing. I could always heft all the files into my appointment room, but I don’t have the energy for that either, so I just hunch my shoulders and try to block the world out.
“Parcel!” Angela dumps a Jiffy bag in front of me. “StarBlu. Is that your swimwear for the honeymoon?”
I stare at it blankly. I was a different person when I ordered that. I can remember myself now, going online one lunchtime, picking out bikinis and wraps. Never in a million years did I think that three days before the wedding I’d be sitting here, wondering if the whole thing should go ahead at all.
But it’s dark and silent. It remains dark and silent. And for the first time in a long while, I feel utterly alone.
81 OK, he won’t get. I know.
82 Not such a huge range, then.
83 Magnus is doing it with Professor Wilson? No. Surely not. She has a beard.
84 And, by the way, in what sense have I appeared in her life?
85 And we’re not exactly starting from a high bar.
86 I think it can. It’s all in the timing.
87 Another one for Antony. Not.
13
It’s in every single paper the next morning. Front-page news. I headed out to the newsagents as soon as I was up and bought every newspaper they had.
There are pictures of Sir Nicholas, pictures of the prime minister, pictures of Sam, pictures of Ed Exton, even a picture of Vicks in the Mail. The headlines are full of corruption and smear attempt and integrity. The memo is printed in full, everywhere, and there’s an official quote from Number 10 about Sir Nicholas considering his position on the government committee. There are even two different cartoons of Sir Nicholas holding bags labeled Happiness and stuffed full of money.
But Sam was right: There’s an air of confusion about it. Some journalists obviously think Sir Nicholas did write the memo. Others obviously think he didn’t. One paper has run an editorial about how Sir Nicholas is an arrogant bighead and of course he’s been taking bribes all along; another has written that Sir Nicholas is known for his quiet integrity and it couldn’t possibly be him. If Sam wanted to throw up a question mark over everything, he’s definitely succeeded.
I texted him this morning:
You OK?
But I got no reply. I guess he’s busy. To say the least.
Meanwhile, I feel like a wreck. It took me hours to get to sleep last night, I was so wired—but then I woke at six and sat bolt upright, already grabbing for my phone, my heart racing. Magnus had texted four words:
Having great time. M xxx
Having a great time. What does that tell me? Nothing.
He could be having a great time congratulating himself on how I have no idea about his secret mistress. There again, he could be having a great time innocently looking forward to a life of faithful monogamy, with no idea that Clemency somehow got the wrong end of the stick about him and Lucinda.88 Or possibly he could be having a great time deciding that he’s never going to be unfaithful again and regrets it hugely and will confess everything to me as soon as he gets back.89
I can’t cope. I need Magnus to be here, in this country, in this room. I need to ask him, “Have you been unfaithful with Lucinda?” and see what he says, and then maybe we can move forward and I can work out what I’m going to do. Until then, I feel like I’m in limbo.
As I go to make another cup of tea, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, and I wince. My hair is a mess. My hands are covered with newsprint from reading all the papers. My stomach is full of acid, and my skin looks drawn. So much for my bridal beauty regimem. According to my plan, last night I was supposed to apply a hydration mask. I didn’t even take my makeup off.
I’d originally set today aside to do wedding preparation—but every time I even think about it, my insides clench and I feel like crying or shouting at someone. (Well, Magnus.) There’s no point just sitting here all day though. I have to go out. I have to do something. After a few sips of tea, I decide to go in to work. I don’t have any appointments, but I’ve got some admin I can catch up with. And at least it’ll force me to have a shower and get myself together.
I’m the first to arrive, and I sit in the quiet calm, sorting through patient files, letting the monotony of the job soothe me. Which lasts about five minutes before Angela slouches through the door and clatters around, starting her computer and making coffee and turning on the wall-mounted telly.
“Do we have to?” I feel as if I’ve got a hangover, even though I hardly drank anything last night, and I could do without this blaring in my ears. But Angela stares at me as though I’ve violated some basic human right.
“I always watch Daybreak. ”
It’s not worth arguing. I could always heft all the files into my appointment room, but I don’t have the energy for that either, so I just hunch my shoulders and try to block the world out.
“Parcel!” Angela dumps a Jiffy bag in front of me. “StarBlu. Is that your swimwear for the honeymoon?”
I stare at it blankly. I was a different person when I ordered that. I can remember myself now, going online one lunchtime, picking out bikinis and wraps. Never in a million years did I think that three days before the wedding I’d be sitting here, wondering if the whole thing should go ahead at all.
