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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.”
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 A
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.
“What does he say?” I can hardly trust my voice.
The church is so silent and still, I can almost hear my own heart beating.
“It says, And I’ll be standing outside the church. Warn her.”
He’s here.
I don’t even realize I’m ru
alarmed. The heavy church door is closed, and it takes about five tugs before I manage to wrench
it open. I burst out and stand on the step, panting hard, looking up and down the pavement,
searching for his face …
There he is. On the other side of the road. He’s standing in the doorway of a Starbucks, in
jeans and a dark-blue shirt. As he meets my gaze, his eyes crinkle, but he doesn’t smile. He
keeps looking at my hands. His eyes have a huge question burning in them.
Doesn’t he know? Can’t he tell the answer?
“Is that him?” breathes A
“A
“Here you go.” A moment later the iPhone is in my hand, lit up and ready to go, and I’m
sending him a text.
Hi.
He texts something back, and a moment later it arrives.
Nice outfit.
Involuntarily, I glance down at my wedding dress.
This old thing.
There’s a long silence—and then I see Sam typing a new message. His head is bowed and
he doesn’t look up, even when he’s finished, even when the text arrives in my phone.
So are you married?
I carefully line up my phone and take a picture of my bare left finger.
Sam Mobile.
Send.
A crowd of wedding guests is jostling behind me to see, but I don’t move my head an
inch. My eyes are glued on Sam, so that I see the reaction on his face as the text arrives. I see his
brow relax; I see his face expand into the most brilliant, joyous smile. And finally he looks up at
me.
I could go to bed in that smile.
Now he’s texting again.
Want a cup of coffee?
“Poppy.” A voice in my ear interrupts me, and I turn to see Wanda peering anxiously at
me from under her hat, which looks like a massive dead moth. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I acted
dishonorably and selfishly.”
“What do you mean?” I say, momentarily confused.
“The second ring. I told Magnus … At least, I suggested that he might—” Wanda breaks
off, wincing.
“I know. You told Magnus to pretend he’d chosen the ring for me especially, didn’t
you?” I touch her arm. “Wanda, I appreciate it. But you’d better have this one back too.” I pull
the twisty gold ring off my right hand and give it to her.
“I would have loved you to join our family,” she says wistfully. “But that shouldn’t have