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.”
Deep down inside, I feel a crushing disappointment. Of course he doesn’t love me. He just thinks I shouldn’t marry Magnus. He’s just putting right what he sees as a wrong. That’s a totally different thing. It doesn’t mean he has any feelings for me whatsoever. Let alone—
“All I can say is, she’s the one I think about.” Margaret pauses, and her voice softens as she reads. “All the time. She’s the voice I want to hear. She’s the face I hope to see.”
My throat is full of lumps. I’m swallowing desperately, trying to keep my composure. He’s the one I think about. All the time. He’s the voice I want to hear. When my phone bleeps, I hope it’s him.
“Who is he?” Magnus sounds incredulous.
“Yes, who is he?” pipes up Annalise from beside the altar, and there’s a ripple of laughter around the church.
“He’s just … a guy. I found his phone… .” I trail off helplessly.
I can’t even begin to describe who Sam is and what we’ve been to each other.
Margaret’s phone bleeps again, and the hubbub dies down to an expectant hush. “It’s from him,” she says.
