And he still hasn’t replied. Still.
I don’t understand him. If I’d been invited to something so amazing, I would have replied instantly, Yes, please! Thank you so much! I can’t wait! . Whereas he hasn’t even acknowledged it.
Rolling my eyes, I forward every single email, then type him a text:
Thx again for Scrabble! Have just sent on some new emails. Poppy
A moment later my phone rings. It’s Sam.
“Oh, hi—” I start.
“OK, you’re a genius,” he interrupts. “I had a hunch Vivien would be working late. I called her for a chat and mentioned the issues we discussed. It all came out. You were right. We’re going to talk again tomorrow, but I think she’s staying.”
“Oh,” I say, pleased. “Cool.”
“No,” he says firmly. “Not only cool. Awesome. Incredible. Do you know how much time and money and trouble you have saved me? I owe you, big-time.” He pauses. “Oh, and you’re right, she hates being called Viv. So I owe you twice.”
“No problem! Anytime.”
“So … that’s all I had to say. I won’t keep you.”
“Good night. Glad it all worked out.” As I ring off, I remember something and quickly type a text.
Have u booked dentist yet? U will get manky teeth!!!
A few seconds later the phone bleeps with a reply:
I’ll take my chances.
Take his chances? Is he nuts ? My aunt is a dental nurse, so I know what I’m talking about.
I search the Web for the most gross, revolting photo of decaying teeth I can find. They’re all blackened and some have fallen out. I click on send/share and text it to him.
The phone almost immediately bleeps with a reply:
You made me spill my drink.
I giggle and text back:
Be afraid!!!!
I nearly add: Willow won’t be impressed when your teeth fall out!!! But then I stop, feeling awkward. You have to draw a line. Despite all the texting back and forth, I don’t know this guy. And I certainly don’t know his fiancée.
Although the truth is, I feel as though I do know her. And not in a good way.
I’ve never come across anyone or anything like Willow before. She’s unbelievable. I would say she’s sent twenty emails to Sam since I’ve had this phone. Each screwier than the last. At least she’s given up sending messages addressed directly to Violet. But, still, she keeps cc’ing her emails to the PA address, as though she wants to have as much chance of reaching Sam as possible and doesn’t care who sees what.
Why does she have to email her most private thoughts, anyway? Why can’t they just have these conversations in bed, like normal people?
This evening she was going on about this dream she’d had about him last night, and how she felt suffocated but ignored all at the same time, and did he realize how toxic he was? Did he realize how he was CORRODING HER SPIRIT????
I always type a reply to her now; I can’t help it. This time I put: Do you realize how toxic YOU are, Willow the Witch?
And then deleted it. Naturally.
The most frustrating thing is that I never get to see Sam’s replies. There’s no back-and-forth correspondence; she always starts a fresh email. Sometimes they’re friendly—like yesterday she sent one that just said, You’re a really, really special man, you know that, Sam? Which was quite sweet. But nine out of ten are whinging. I can’t help feeling sorry for him.
Anyway. His life. His fiancée. Whatever.
“Sweetheart!” Magnus comes into the room, interrupting my thoughts.
“Oh, hi!” I quickly turn off. “Finished your work?”
“Don’t let me disturb you.” He nods at the phone. “Chatting to the girls?”
I give a noncommittal smile and slip the phone into my pocket.
I know, I know, I know. This is bad. Keeping a secret from Magnus. Not telling him about the ring or the phone or any of it. But how can I start now? Where would I begin? And maybe I’d regret it. What if I confess all and cause a huge rift and half an hour later the ring turns up and I needn’t have said anything?
“You know me!” I say at last, and give a little laugh. “What did you talk to your parents about tonight?” I quickly move on to the subject I really want to find out about—i.e., what do his parents think of me and have they changed their mind?
“Oh, my parents.” He makes an impatient gesture and sinks down on the sofa. He’s tapping his fingers on the arm, and his eyes are distant.
“You OK?” I say cautiously.
“I’m great.” He turns to me and the clouds fall away from his eyes. Suddenly he’s focused. “Remember when we first met?”