Sophie Kinsella - I’ve Got Your Number

After Lucinda’s gone, I stand motionless for about three minutes solid, in a state of shock. Then, abruptly, I come to. I head for the stairwell and down the stairs. As I step out of the building I switch off my phone. I can’t afford any distractions. I need to think. I need to be alone. Like Lucinda said, I need to work this out for myself.

I start walking along the pavement, not caring which direction I’m going. My mind is circling around all the facts, the guesses, the speculation, and back to the facts. But gradually, as I walk, thoughts seem to settle into place. My resolve hardens. I have a plan.

I don’t know where my sudden determination has come from: whether Lucinda has spurred me on or whether I’ve just had enough of avoiding confrontation while my stomach ties itself up in knots. But I’m going to face this one down. I’m going to do it. The weirdest thing is, I keep hearing Sam’s voice in my ear, reassuring me and bolstering me and telling me I can do it. It’s as if he’s giving me a pep talk, even though he’s not here. And it’s making me stand taller. It’s making me feel like I can do this. I’m going to be a Whole New Poppy.

As I reach the corner of Battersea Rise, I feel ready. I haul out my phone, turn it on, and, without reading a single new message, speed-dial Magnus. Of course he doesn’t answer, but I expected that.

“Hi, Magnus,” I say in the most crisp, businesslike tones I can muster. “Can you call me as soon as possible? We need to talk.”

OK. Good. That was dignified. A brief, cutting message that he will understand. Now ring off.

Ring off, Poppy.

But I can’t. My hand feels welded to the phone. While I’m connected to him, or even just to his voice mail, I can feel my defenses coming down. I want to talk. I want to hear from him. I want him to know how shocked and hurt I am.

“Because … I’ve heard some news, OK?” I hear myself continuing. “I’ve been speaking to your great friend Lucinda.” I give Lucinda an angry little emphasis. “And what she told me was a bit of a shock, to say the least, so I think we need to talk as soon as possible. Because unless you’ve got some great, marvelous explanation, which I can’t think how you would, because was Lucinda lying? Because someone must be lying, Magnus. Someone must be—”

Beep.

Damn, I got cut off.

As I turn off my phone again, I’m cursing myself. So much for the brief, cutting message. So much for a Whole New Poppy. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.

Still, never mind. At least I made the call. At least I didn’t sit with my hands over my ears, avoiding the whole thing. And now to the next thing on my mental list. I step into the road, lift my hand, and flag down a cab.

“Hi,” I say as I get in. “I’d like to go to Hampstead, please.”

I know Wanda’s in today, because she said she was preparing for some radio show she’s doing tonight. And, sure enough, as I draw up to the house, music is blasting out of the windows. I have no idea if Antony is there too, but I don’t care. They can both hear this. As I approach the house, I’m trembling, like I was the other night—but in a different way. In a positive way. In a bring-it-on way.

“Poppy!” As Wanda swings the door open, she beams widely. “What a lovely surprise!” She swoops in for a kiss, then studies my face again. “Have you just dropped round to be sociable, or was there anything—”

“We need to talk.”

There’s a brief moment of silence between us. I can tell she understands that I don’t mean a jolly chitchat.

“I see. Well, come in!” She smiles again, but I can see anxiety in the downward slant of her eyes and the faint crinkling of her mouth. She has a very expressive face, Wanda: Her English-rose skin is pale and fragile, like tissue paper, and the lines round her eyes crease in a myriad of different ways according to her mood. I guess that’s what happens when you have no Botox, makeup, or fake tan. You have expressions instead. “Shall I put on some coffee?”

“Why not?” I follow her into the kitchen, which is about ten times as messy as it was when I was living here with Magnus. I can’t help wrinkling my nose at a bad smell in the air—which I guess is the bunch of flowers still in paper, gently rotting on the counter. A man’s shoe is in the sink, along with a hairbrush, and there are huge piles of old cardboard folders on every chair.

“Ah.” Wanda gestures vaguely around as though hoping one of the chairs might magically clear itself. ’We were having a sort-out. To what extent does one archive? That’s the question.”

Once upon a time I would have hastily cast around for something intelligent to say about archives. But now I face her square-on and say bluntly, “Actually, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

“Indeed,” says Wanda after a pause. “I rather thought there might be. Let’s sit down.”

She grabs a pile of folders off a chair, to reveal a large fish wrapped in fishmonger’s paper. OK. So that was the smell.

“That’s where that went. Extraordinary.” She frowns, hesitates a moment, then puts the folders back on top of it. “Let’s try the drawing room.”

I sit down on one of the bumpy sofas, and Wanda draws up an ancient needlepoint-embroidered chair opposite. The smell of old wood smoke, musty kilim, and potpourri is overwhelming. Golden light is streaming through the original stained-glass panels in the windows. This room is so Tavish. And so is Wanda. She’s sitting in her usual uncompromising position, knees firmly apart, dirndl skirt draping around her legs, head tilted forward to listen, with her frizzy hennaed hair falling all around her face.

“Magnus—” I begin, then immediately come to a halt.

“Yes?”

“Magnus—”

I stop again. There’s silence for a moment.

This woman is so significant in my life, but I barely know her. We’ve had a completely civilized, distant relationship where we haven’t talked about anything except things that don’t matter. Now it feels like I’m about to rip down the screen between us. But I don’t know where to start. Words are buzzing around my head like flies. I need to catch one.