I’m starting to feel seriously freaked out now. Everything’s unraveling.
To make matters even worse, as I run back in to the lobby, the concierge is busy. His desk is surrounded by a large group of conference delegates talking about restaurant reservations. I try to catch his eye, hoping he’ll beckon me forward as a priority, but he studiously ignores me, and I feel a twinge of hurt. I know I’ve taken up quite a lot of his time this afternoon—but doesn’t he realize what a hideous crisis I’m in?
“Madam.” The doorman has followed me into the lobby, his brow creased with concern. “Can we get you something for the shock? Arnold!” He briskly calls over a waiter. “A brandy for the lady, please, on the house. And if you’ll talk to our concierge, he’ll help you with the police. Would you like to sit down?”
“No, thanks.” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Maybe I should phone my own number! Call the mugger! I could ask him to come back, offer him a reward…. What do you think? Could I borrow your phone?”
The doorman almost recoils as I thrust out a hand.
“Madam, I think that would be a very foolhardy action,” he says severely. “And I’m sure the police will agree you should do no such thing. I think you must be in shock. Kindly have a seat and try to relax.”
Hmm. Maybe he’s right. I’m not wild about setting up some assignation with a criminal in a hoody. But I can’t sit down and relax; I’m far too hyper. To calm my nerves, I start walking round and round the same path, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Past the massive potted ficus tree … past the table with newspapers … past a big shiny litter bin … back to the ficus. It’s a comforting little circuit, and I can keep my eyes fixed on the concierge the whole time, waiting for him to be free.
The lobby is still bustling with business types. Through the glass doors I can see the doorman back on the steps, busy hailing taxis and pocketing tips. A squat Japanese man in a blue suit is standing near me with some European-looking businessmen, exclaiming in what sounds like loud, furious Japanese and gesticulating at everybody with the conference pass strung round his neck on a red cord. He’s so short and the other men look so nervous, I almost want to smile.
The brandy arrives on a salver and I pause briefly to drain it in one, then keep walking in the same repetitive route.
Potted ficus … newspaper table … litter bin … potted ficus … newspaper table … litter bin …
Now that I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m starting to churn with murderous thoughts. Does that hoody guy realize he’s wrecked my life? Does he realize how crucial a phone is? It’s the worst thing you can steal from a person. The worst.
And it wasn’t even that great a phone. It was pretty ancient. So good luck to hoody guy if he wants to type B in a text or go on the Internet. I hope he tries and fails. Then he’ll be sorry.
Ficus … newspapers … bin … ficus … newspapers … bin …
And he hurt my shoulder. Bastard. Maybe I could sue him for millions. If they ever catch him, which they won’t.
Ficus … newspapers … bin …
Bin.
Wait.
What’s that?
I stop dead in my tracks and stare into the bin, wondering if someone’s playing a trick on me or I’m hallucinating.
It’s a phone.
Right there in the litter bin. A mobile phone.
1 His specialism is Cultural Symbolism. I speed-read his book, The Philosophy of Symbolism, after our second date and then tried to pretend I’d read it ages ago, coincidentally, for pleasure. (Which, to be fair, he didn’t believe for a minute.) Anyway, the point is, I read it. And what impressed me most was: There were so many footnotes. I’ve totally got into them. Aren’t they handy? You just bung them in whenever you want and instantly look clever.
Magnus says footnotes are for things which aren’t your main concern but nevertheless hold some interest for you. So. This is my footnote about footnotes.
2 Which, actually, I never say. Just like Humphrey Bogart never said, “Play it again, Sam.” It’s an urban myth.
3 Of course, the hotel wasn’t on fire. The system had short-circuited. I found that out afterward, not that it was any consolation.
4 Did Poirot ever say “oh my God”? I bet he did. Or “sacrebleu!” which comes to the same thing. And does this not disprove Antony’s theory, since Poirot’s gray cells are clearly stronger than anyone else’s? I might point this out to Antony one day. When I’m feeling brave. (Which, if I’ve lost the ring, will be never, obviously.)
5 Weak mind.
6 I’m allowed to give myself at least a chance of getting it back safely and him never having to know, aren’t I?
I blink a few times and look again—but it’s still there, half hidden amid a couple of discarded conference programs and a Starbucks cup. What’s a phone doing in a bin?
I look around to see if anyone’s watching me—then reach in gingerly and pull it out. It has a couple of drops of coffee on it, but otherwise it seems perfect. It’s a good one too. Seems quite new.
Cautiously, I turn and survey the thronging lobby. Nobody’s paying me the slightest bit of attention. No one’s rushing up and exclaiming “There’s my phone!” And I’ve been walking around this area for the last ten minutes. Whoever threw this phone in here did it a while ago.
There’s a sticker on the back of the phone, with White Globe Consulting Group printed in tiny letters and a number. Did someone just chuck it away? Is it bust? I press the on switch and the screen glows. It seems in perfect working order to me.
A tiny voice in my head is telling me that I should hand it in. Take it up to the front desk and say, “Excuse me, I think someone’s lost this phone.” That’s what I should do. March up to the desk right now, like any responsible, civic member of society …
My feet don’t move an inch. My hand tightens protectively round the phone. Thing is, I need a phone. I bet White Globe Consulting Group, whoever that is, has millions of phones. And it’s not like I found it on the floor or in the ladies’ room, is it? It was in a bin. Things in bins are rubbish. They’re fair game. They’ve been relinquished to the world. That’s the rule.
I peer into the bin again and glimpse a red cord, just like the ones round all the delegates’ necks. I check the concierge to make sure he’s not watching, then plunge my hand in again and pull out a conference pass. A mug shot of a stunningly pretty girl stares back at me, under which is printed: Violet Russell, White Globe Consulting Group.
I’m building up a pretty good theory now. I could be Poirot. This is Violet Russell’s phone and she threw it away. For … some reason or other.
Well, that’s her fault. Not mine.
The phone buzzes and I start. Shit! It’s alive. The ring tone begins at top volume—and it’s Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.” I quickly press ignore, but a moment later it starts up again, loud and unmistakable.
Isn’t there a bloody volume control on this thing? A couple of nearby businesswomen have turned to stare, and I’m so flustered that I jab at talk instead of ignore. The businesswomen are still watching me, so I press the phone to my ear and turn away.
“The person you have called is not available,” I say, trying to sound robotic. “Please leave a message.” That’ll get rid of whoever it is.
“Where the fuck are you?” A smooth, well-educated male voice starts speaking and I nearly squeak with astonishment. It worked! He thinks I’m a machine! “I’ve just been talking to Scottie. He has a contact who reckons he can do it. It’ll be like keyhole surgery. He’s good. There won’t be any trace.”
I don’t dare breathe. Or scratch my nose, which is suddenly incredibly itchy.
“OK,” the man is saying. “So, whatever else you do, be fucking careful.”
He rings off and I stare at the phone in astonishment. I never thought anyone would actually leave a message.
Now I feel a bit guilty. This is a genuine voice mail, and Violet’s missed it. I mean, it’s not my fault sh
e threw her phone away, but even so … On impulse I scrabble in my bag for a pen and the only thing I’ve got to write on, which is an old theater program.7 I scribble down: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.
God alone knows what that’s all about. Liposuction, maybe? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, if I ever do meet this Violet girl, I’ll be able to pass it on.
Before the phone can ring again, I hurry to the concierge’s desk, which has miraculously cleared.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Me again. Has anyone found my ring?”
“May I please assure you, madam,” he says with a frosty smile, “that we would have let you know if we had found it. We do have your phone number—”
“No, you don’t!” I cut him off, almost triumphantly. “That’s the thing! The number I gave you is now … er … defunct. Out of use. Very much so.” The last thing I want is him calling hoody guy and mentioning a priceless emerald ring. “Please don’t call it. Can you use this number instead?” I carefully copy the phone number from the back of the White Globe Consulting phone. “In fact, just to be sure … can I test it?” I reach for the hotel landline phone and dial the printed number. A moment later Beyonce starts blasting out of the mobile phone. OK. At last I can relax a little. I’ve got a number.
“Madam, was there anything else?”
The concierge is starting to look quite pissed off, and there’s a queue of people building behind me. So I thank him again and head to a nearby sofa, full of adrenaline. I have a phone and I have a plan.
It only takes me five minutes to write out my new mobile number on twenty separate pieces of hotel writing paper, with POPPY WYATT—EMERALD RING, PLEASE CALL!!!! in big capitals. To my annoyance, the doors to the ballroom are now locked (although I’m sure I can hear the cleaners inside), so I’m forced to roam around the hotel corridors, the tearoom, the ladies’ rooms, and even the spa, handing my number out to every hotel worker I come across and explaining the story.
I call the police and dictate my new number to them. I text Ruby—whose mobile number I know by heart—saying:
Hi! Phone stolen. This is my new mobile number. Cn u pass to everyone? Any sign of ring???
Then I flop onto the sofa in exhaustion. I feel like I’ve been living in this bloody hotel all day. I should phone Magnus too and give him this number—but I can’t face it yet. I have this irrational conviction that he’ll be able to tell from my tone of voice that my ring is missing. He’ll sense my bare finger the minute I say “Hi.”
Please come back, ring. Please, PLEASE come back….
I’ve leaned back, closed my eyes, and am trying to send a telepathic message through the ether. So when Beyonce starts up again, I give a startled jump. Maybe this is it! My ring! Someone found it! I don’t even check the screen before pressing talk and answering excitedly, “Hello?”
“Violet?” A man’s voice hits my ear. It’s not the man who called before; it’s a guy with a deeper voice. He sounds a bit bad-tempered, if you can tell that just from three syllables.8 He’s also breathing quite heavily, which means he’s either a pervert or doing some exercise. “Are you in the lobby? Is the Japanese contingent still there?”
In reflex, I look around. There are a whole bunch of Japanese people by the doors.
“Yes, they are,” I say. “But I’m not Violet. This isn’t Violet’s phone anymore. Sorry. Maybe you could spread the word that her number’s changed?”
I need to get Violet’s mates off my case. I can’t have them ringing me every five seconds.
“Excuse me, who is this?” the man demands. “Why are you answering this number? Where’s Violet?”
“I possess this phone,” I say, more confidently than I feel. Which is true. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.9
“You possess it? What the hell are you—Oh Jesus.” He swears a bit more, and I can hear distant footsteps. It sounds like he’s running downstairs.10 “Tell me, are they leaving?”
“The Japanese people?” I squint at the group. “Maybe. Can’t tell.”
“Is a short guy with them? Overweight? Thick hair?”
“You mean the man in the blue suit? Yes, he’s right in front of me. Looks pissed off. Now he’s putting on his mac.”
The squat Japanese man has been handed a Burberry by a colleague. He’s glowering as he puts it on, and a constant stream of angry Japanese is coming out of his mouth, as all his friends nod nervously.
“No!” The man’s exclamation down the phone takes me by surprise. “He can’t leave.”
“Well, he is. Sorry.”
“You have to stop him. Go up to him and stop him leaving the hotel. Go up to him now. Do whatever it takes.”
“What?” I stare at the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve never even met you—”
“Nor me you,” he rejoins. “Who are you, anyway? Are you a friend of Violet? Can you tell me exactly why she decided to quit her job halfway through the biggest conference of the year? Does she think I suddenly don’t need a PA anymore?”
Aha. So Violet’s his personal assistant. This makes sense. And she walked out on him! Well, I’m not surprised, he’s so bossy.
“Anyway, doesn’t matter,” he interrupts himself. “Point is, I’m on the stairs, floor nine, the lift jammed, I’ll be downstairs in less than three minutes, and you have to keep Yuichi Yamasaki there till I arrive. Whoever the hell you are.”
What a nerve.
“Or what?” I retort.
“Or else a year of careful negotiation goes down the tubes because of one ridiculous misunderstanding. The biggest deal of the year falls apart. A team of twenty people lose their jobs.” His voice is relentless. “Senior managers, secretaries, the whole gang. Just because I can’t get down there fast enough and the one person who could help won’t.”
Oh, bloody hell.
“All right!” I say furiously. “I’ll do my best. What’s his name again?”
“Yamasaki.”
“Wait!” I raise my voice, running forward across the lobby. “Please! Mr. Yamasaki? Could you wait a minute?”
Mr. Yamasaki turns questioningly, and a couple of flunkies move forward, flanking him protectively. He has a broad face, still creased in anger, and a wide, bullish neck, around which he’s draping a silk scarf. I get the sense he’s not into idle chitchat.
I have no idea what to say next. I don’t speak Japanese, I don’t know anything about Japanese business or Japanese culture. Apart from sushi. But I can’t exactly go up to him and say “Sushi!” out of the blue. It would be like going up to a top American businessman and saying “T-bone steak!”
“I’m … a huge fan,” I improvise. “Of your work. Could I have your autograph?”
He looks puzzled, and one of his colleagues whispers a translation into his ear. Immediately, his brow clears and he bows to me.
Cautiously, I bow back, and he snaps his fingers, barking an instruction. A moment later, a beautiful leather folder has been opened in front of him, and he’s writing something elaborate in Japanese.
“Is he still there?” The stranger’s voice suddenly emanates from the phone.
“Yes,” I mutter into it. “Just about. Where are you?” I shoot a bright smile at Mr. Yamasaki.
“Fifth floor. Keep him there. Whatever it takes.”
Mr. Yamasaki hands me his piece of paper, caps his pen, bows again, and makes to walk off.
“Wait!” I cry desperately. “Could I … show you something?”
“Mr. Yamasaki is very busy.” One of his colleagues, wearing steel glasses and the whitest shirt I’ve ever seen, turns back. “Kindly contact our office.”
They’re heading away again. What do I do now? I can’t ask for another autograph. I can’t rugby-tackle him. I need to attract his attention somehow.
“I have a special announcement to make!” I exclaim, hurrying after them. “I am a singing telegram! I bear a message from all Mr. Yamasaki’s many fans. It would
be a great discourtesy to them if you were to refuse me.”
The word discourtesy seems to have stopped them in their tracks. They’re frowning and exchanging confused glances.
“A singing telegram?” says the man in steel glasses suspiciously.
“Like a Gorilla Gram?” I offer. “Only singing.”
I’m not sure that’s made things any clearer.
The interpreter murmurs furiously in Mr. Yamasaki’s ear and after a moment looks at me.
“You may present.”
Mr. Yamasaki turns and all his colleagues follow suit, folding their arms expectantly and lining up in a row. Around the lobby I can see a few interested glances from other groups of businesspeople.
“Where are you?” I murmur desperately into the phone.
“Third floor,” comes the man’s voice after a moment. “Half a minute. Don’t lose him.”
“Begin,” the man in steel spectacles says pointedly.
Some people nearby have turned to watch. Oh God. How did I get myself into this? Number one, I can’t sing. Number two, what do I sing to a Japanese businessman I’ve never met before? Number three, why did I say singing telegram?
But if I don’t do something soon, twenty people might lose their jobs.
I make a deep bow, to spin out some more time, and all the Japanese bow back.
“Begin,” repeats the man in steel spectacles, his eyes glinting ominously.
I take a deep breath. Come on. It doesn’t matter what I do. I only have to last half a minute. Then I can run away and they’ll never see me again.
“Mr. Yamasaki …,” I begin cautiously, to the tune of “Single Ladies.” “Mr. Yamasaki. Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.” I shimmy my hips and shoulders at him, just like Beyonce.11 “Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.”
Actually, this is quite easy. I don’t need any lyrics—I can just keep singing “Mr. Yamasaki” over and over. After a few moments, some of the Japanese even start singing along and clapping Mr. Yamasaki on the back.
“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki. Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.” I lift my finger and waggle it at him with a wink. “Ooh-ooh-ooh … ooh-ooh-ooh …”
I've Got Your Number Page 2