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.

“ … and in today’s front-page story, we’re talking possible corruption at government level.” The presenter’s voice attracts my attention. “Here in the studio, a man who has known Sir Nicholas Murray for thirty years: Alan Smith-Reeves. Alan, this is a confusing business. What’s your take?”

“I know that guy,” Angela says self-importantly, as Alan Smith-Reeves starts talking. “He used to work in the same building as my last job.”

“Oh, right.” I nod politely, as a picture of Sam appears on the screen.

I can’t look. Just the sight of him sends shooting pains through my chest, but I don’t even know why. Is it because he’s in trouble? Is it because he’s the only other person who knows about Magnus? Is it because last night I was standing in a wood with his arms around me and now I’ll probably never see him again?

“He’s quite good-looking,” says Angela, squinting at Sam critically. “Is he Sir Nicholas Whatsit?”

“No!” I say, more vehemently than I meant to. “Don’t be stupid!”

“All right!” She scowls at me. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

I can’t answer. I have to escape from all this. I get to my feet. “Want a coffee?”

“I’m making one. Duh.” Angela shoots me an odd look. “Are you OK? What are you doing here, anyway? Thought you had the day off.”

“I wanted to get ahead with stuff.” I grab my denim jacket. “But maybe it was a bad idea.”

“Here she is!” The door bursts open and Ruby and Annalise bustle in. “We were just talking about you!” says Ruby, looking surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d do some admin. But I’m going.”

“No, don’t go! Wait a sec.” Ruby grabs my shoulder, then turns to Annalise. “Now, Annalise. Why don’t you say to Poppy what we were talking about? Then you won’t have to write a letter.”

Uh-oh. She’s wearing her headmistressy look. And Annalise’s looking shamefaced. What’s going on?

“I don’t want to say it.” Annalise bites her lip like a six-year-old. “I’ll write a letter.”

“Say it. Then it’s done.” Ruby is eyeing Annalise with the kind of stern gaze that’s impossible to ignore.

“OK!” Annalise takes a breath, looking a little pink around the cheeks. “Poppy, I’m sorry I behaved badly with Magnus the other day. It was wrong of me and I was just doing it to get back at you.”

“And?” prompts Ruby.

“I’m sorry I’ve given you a hard time. Magnus is yours, not mine. He belongs with you, not me. And I’m never going to mention the fact we switched appointments again,” she finishes in a rush. “Promise.”

She looks so discomfited, I feel quite touched. I can’t believe Ruby did that. They should put her in charge at White Globe Consulting. She’d sort out Justin Cole in no time.

“Well … thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

“I truly am sorry, you know, Poppy.” Annalise twists her fingers, looking abject. “I don’t want to spoil your wedding.”

“Annalise, take it from me. You won’t spoil my wedding.” I smile, but to my horror I can feel tears welling up in my eyes.

If anything spoils my wedding it’ll be the fact that it was called off. It’ll be the fact that Magnus didn’t really love me after all. It’ll be the fact that I was a completely stupid, deluded fool …

Oh God. I am going to cry.

“Missus?” Ruby gives me a close look. “You OK?”

“Fine!” I exclaim, blinking furiously.

“Wedding stress,” says Annalise. “Oh my God, Poppy, are you turning into a bridezilla at last? Go on! I’ll help. I’ll be a bridesmaidzilla. Let’s go and throw a hissy fit somewhere. That’ll cheer you up.”

I raise a half smile and wipe my eyes. I don’t know how to respond. Do I tell them about Magnus? They’re my friends, after all, and I’m longing for someone to talk to.

But then, what if it is all a mix-up? I haven’t heard anything further from Unknown Number.90 The whole thing’s guesswork. I can’t start telling the world that Magnus has been unfaithful, based on one anonymous text. And then have Annalise putting it on Facebook and calling him a love rat and booing as we walk down the aisle.91

“I’m just tired,” I say at last.

“Slap-up breakfast!” exclaims Ruby. “That’s what you need.”

“No!” I say in horror. “I won’t fit into my dress!”

Assuming I’m still going to get married. I feel the rush of tears again. Preparing for a wedding is stressful enough. Preparing for a wedding or possible last-minute breakup/cancelation is going to turn my hair gray.

“You will,” Ruby contradicts me. “Everyone knows brides lose two dress sizes before their wedding. You’ve got a massive margin to play with there, girl. Use it! Pig out! You’ll never be in this position again!”

“Have you dropped two dress sizes?” asks Annalise, eyeing me a little resentfully. “You can’t have.”

“No,” I say gloomily. “Maybe half of one.”

“Well, that qualifies you for a latte and a doughnut, at any rate,” says Ruby, heading for the door. “Come on. Comfort food’s what you need. We’ve got half an hour. Let’s cram it in.”

When Ruby gets an idea, she goes for it. She’s already striding along the pavement and into the Costa two doors away. As Annalise and I push our way in, she’s heading up to the till.

“Hello there!” she begins cheerfully. “I“d like three lattes, three doughnuts, three plain croissants, three almond croissants—”

“Ruby, stop!” I start giggling.