I've Got Your Number

by Sophie Kinsella

  You know. Paraphrasing.

  I’ve never felt such overt hostility from anyone in my life. It’s like an electric current between us. Willow’s nostrils are flared and whitening. Her eyes are all stary. Her hand has gripped her glass so tightly, her tendons are showing through her pale skin. But her smile is still soft and pleasant, and her voice is still mellifluous. Which is almost most creepy of all.

  “Poppy’s thinking of joining the company,” says Sam.

  “Oh.” Willow carries on smiling. “Lovely. Welcome, Poppy.”

  She’s unnerving me. She’s like some alien. Behind the soft smile and the dulcet voice is a lizard.

  “Thanks.”

  “Anyway, we must press on…. See you later, Willow.” Sam takes my arm to guide me away.

  Uh-oh. Bad idea. I can feel her laser eyes in my back. Does Sam not feel them too?

  We head to a new group and Sam launches into his spiel, and I dutifully crane my neck to listen, but nobody sounds a bit like the phone guy. As we work our way farther round, I can tell Sam’s getting dispirited, though he’s trying to hide it. After we leave a group of youngish IT guys drinking beers, he says, “Really? None of those guys?”

  “No.” I shrug apologetically. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry!” He gives a short, strained laugh. “You heard what you heard. You can’t … If it’s not any of them—” He breaks off a moment. “Definitely not the blond guy? The one talking about his car? He didn’t sound at all familiar?”

  And now the disappointment in his voice is evident.

  “Is that who you thought it was?”

  “I … don’t know.” He spreads his hands, exhaling. “Maybe. Yes. He’d have the IT contacts, he’s new to the company, Justin and Ed could easily have talked him round….”

  I don’t know what to reply. Like he says, I heard what I heard.

  “I think some people have gone out to the terrace,” I say, trying to be helpful.

  “We’ll try there.” He nods. “Let’s finish up here first.”

  Even I can tell that none of the four gray-haired men standing by the bar will be the guy from the phone—and I’m right. As Sam is inveigled into a conversation about Malcolm’s speech, I take the opportunity to edge away and see if Magnus has replied. Of course he hasn’t. But flashing at the top of my in-box is an email sent to samro xton@ white globe consulting. com, cc’ed to pasam roxto npa@ white globe consu lting. com, which makes me splutter.

  Sam,

  Nice try. I know EXACTLY what you’re up to and you’re PATHETIC. Where did you get her from, an agency? I would have thought you could do better than that.

  Willow

  As I’m staring at the screen in disbelief, a second email pops in.

  I mean, Jesus, Sam. She isn’t even DRESSED for the occasion. Or are cutesy denim skirts suddenly appropriate conference wear??

  My skirt is not cutesy! And I wasn’t exactly planning to come to a conference when I got dressed this morning, was I?

  In outrage, I press reply and type an email.

  Actually, I think she’s stunningly beautiful. And her denim skirt isn’t cutesy. So there, Willow the Witch.

  Sam

  Then I delete it. Naturally. I’m about to put my phone away when a third email pops in from Willow. Honestly. Can’t she give it a rest?

  You want me to be jealous, Sam. Fine. I respect that. I even like it. We need sparks in our relationship. But TRY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE JEALOUS OF!!!

  Because believe me, no one here is impressed by your little stunt. I mean, parading around some nondescript girl who clearly has NO IDEA HOW TO BLOW-DRY HER FUCKING HAIR … Well. It’s tragic, Sam. TRAGIC.

  Talk to you when you’re a grown-up.

  Willow

  I touch my hair defensively. I did blow-dry it this morning. It’s just hard to get to the back bits. I mean, not that I care what she thinks, but I can’t help feeling a little stung—

  My thoughts are interrupted mid-flow and I stare at the screen. I don’t believe it. An email has arrived in the phone from Sam. He’s responded to Willow. He’s actually replied to her! Except he’s pressed reply all, so it’s come to me too.

  I glance up in astonishment and see that he’s still talking to the gray-haired men, apparently engrossed. He must have rattled it off very quickly. I open up the email and see a single line.

  Cut it out, Willow. You’re not impressing anyone.

  I blink at the screen. She won’t like that.

  I wait for her to launch some further scathing attack on Sam—but no more emails arrive. Maybe she’s as taken aback as I am.

  “Great. We’ll talk later.” Sam’s voice rises above the hubbub. “Poppy, few more people I’d like you to meet.”

  “OK.” I snap to attention, thrusting my phone away. “Let’s do it.”

  We circulate around the rest of the room. Sam’s list is covered with ticks. I must have listened to nearly every male voice in the company, and I haven’t heard anybody who sounds anything like the guy on the phone. I’m even starting to wonder whether I’m remembering him right. Or whether I hallucinated the whole thing.

  As we head along a carpeted corridor toward the open terrace doors, I can tell Sam is low. I feel pretty low myself.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “Not your fault.” He looks up and seems to clock my mood. “Poppy, seriously. I know you’re doing your best.” His face crinkles for a moment. “Hey, and I’m sorry about Willow.”

  “Oh.” I brush it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

  We walk in silence for a few moments. I want to say something like, “Thanks for sticking up for me,” but I’m too awkward. I feel like I shouldn’t really have been inside that email exchange.

  The terrace is covered in lanterns, and there are a few clusters of people but not nearly as many as there were inside. I suppose it’s too cold. But it’s a shame, because there’s actually quite a nice partylike atmosphere out here. There’s a bar, and a couple of people are even dancing. On the corner of the terrace, a guy holding a TV camera seems to be interviewing a pair of giggling girls.

  “So, maybe we’ll strike lucky.” I try to sound upbeat.

  “Maybe.” Sam nods, but I can tell he’s given up.

  “What happens if we don’t find him out here?”

  “Then … we tried.” Sam’s face is taut, but for the briefest of moments his smile pops out. “We tried.”

  “OK. Well, let’s do it.” I put on my best motivational you-can-get-mobility-back-into-that-hip-joint voice. “Let’s try.”

  We head out and Sam launches into the same old routine.

  “Hi there, gang! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is James. James, why don’t you tell Poppy what your line is? And here’s Brian, and this is Rhys.”

  It’s not James or Brian or Rhys. Or Martin or Nigel.

  Every name on Sam’s list is ticked off. I almost want to cry when I look at his face. At last we step away from a group of interns who weren’t even on the list and can’t possibly be Scottie.

  We’re done.

  “I’ll phone Vicks,” Sam says, his voice a little heavy. “Poppy, thanks for giving up your time. It was a stupid plan.”

  “It wasn’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “It … could have worked.”

  Sam looks up and for a moment we just stand there.

  “You’re very kind,” he says at last.

  “Hi, Sam! Hi, guys!” A girl’s raised voice makes me flinch. Maybe I’m sensitive because I’ve been listening more carefully to the way people speak—but this voice is setting my teeth on edge. I turn to see a bubbly-looking girl with a pink scarf tied in her hair approaching us with the TV camera guy, who has a dark crew cut and jeans.

  Uh-oh.

  “Hi, Amanda.” Sam nods. “What’s up?”

  “We’re filming all the conference guests,” she says cheerfully. “Just a little shout-out, say hi,
we’ll show it at the gala dinner.”

  The TV camera is pointing in my face, and I flinch. I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t do a “little shout-out.”

  “Anything you like,” Amanda prompts me. “A personal message, a joke …” She consults her list, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what department you’re in….”

  “Poppy’s a guest,” says Sam.

  “Oh!” The girl’s brow clears. “Lovely! Tell you what, since you’re a special guest, why don’t you do our Q and A interview? What do you think, Ryan? Do you know Ryan?” she adds to Sam. “He’s on an internship from the LSE for six months. He’s been doing all our promotional filming. Hey, Ryan, get a close-up. Poppy’s a special guest!”

  What? I’m not a “special guest.” I want to escape, but somehow I feel pinned to the spot by the TV camera.

  “Just introduce yourself and Ryan will ask the questions!” says the girl brightly. “So, tell us your name.”

  “Hi,” I say reluctantly to the camera. “I’m … Poppy.” This is so stupid. What am I going to say to a conference of strangers?

  Maybe I’ll do a shout-out to Willow.

  Hey, Willow the Witch. You know how you think I’m “parading around” with your boyfriend? Well, here’s the news flash. He’s not your boyfriend anymore.

  The thought makes me snort, and Amanda gives me an encouraging smile.

  “That’s right! Enjoy yourself. Ryan, do you want to start the Q and A?”

  “Sure. So, Poppy, what do you think of the conference so far?”

  The high-pitched, reedy voice which comes from behind the camera hits my ears like a twenty-volt shock.

  It’s him.

  That’s the voice I heard down the phone. This person talking to me now. This guy, with a crew cut and a camera on his shoulder. This is him.

  “Having fun?” he prompts me, and my brain explodes with recognition again. The memory of his voice on the phone is running through my head like a TV sports replay.

  It’s Scottie. It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike.

  “Which was your favorite speech of the conference?”

  “She didn’t go to any of the speeches,” interjects Sam.

  “Oh. OK.”

  No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself. Adios, Santa Claus.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the drinks party?”

  It’s Scottie.

  This is Scottie. No question.

  “Are you all right?” He leans round the camera, looking impatient. “You can talk. We’re rolling.”

  I stare at his thin, intelligent face, my heart thumping, willing myself not to give anything away. I feel like a rabbit being mesmerized by a snake.

  “It’s OK, Poppy.” Sam steps forward, looking sympathetic. “Don’t worry. A lot of people get stage fright.”

  “No!” I manage. “It’s not—It’s—”

  I stare up at him helplessly. My voice won’t work. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you can’t shout out that you’re being murdered.

  “Guys, I don’t think she’s up for it,” Sam’s saying. “Could you …” He gestures with his hand.

  “Sorry!” Amanda puts a hand over her mouth. “Didn’t mean to freak you out! Have a good evening!” They head off to accost another group of people, and I stare after them, transfixed.

  “Poor old Poppy.” Sam smiles ruefully. “Just what you needed. Sorry about that, it’s a new thing they’re doing at the conferences, although I can’t see what it adds—”

  “Shut up.” Somehow I cut him off, although I can still barely speak. “Shut up, shut up.”

  Sam looks astonished. I move closer to him and reach up on tiptoe until my mouth is touching his ear, his hair brushing against my skin. I inhale, breathing in his warmth and smell, then murmur, as quietly as a breath, “That’s him.”

  We stay outside for another twenty minutes. Sam has a long telephone conversation with Sir Nicholas—none of which I can hear—then a brief, brusque call with Mark, of which I catch bits and pieces as he strides around, his hand to his head: Well, company policy can fuck itself…. The minute Vicks gets here …

  It’s clear that tension levels are rising. I thought Sam would be happy that I’d helped, but he looks even more grim than before. He ends the call by snapping, “Whose side are you on, anyway? Jesus, Mark.”

  “So … what are you going to do?” I say timidly as he rings off.

  “Ryan’s company email is being searched. But he’s sharp. He won’t have used the company system. He’ll have set it all up by phone or with some private email account.”

  “What, then?”

  “That’s the debate.” Sam screws up his face in frustration. “Trouble is, we don’t have time for a discussion on protocol. We don’t have time to consult our lawyers. If it were me—”

  “You’d have him arrested, all his personal property confiscated, and a lie-detector test forcibly conducted,” I can’t help saying. “In a dark cellar somewhere.”

  A reluctant smile passes across Sam’s face. “Something like that.”

  “How’s Sir Nicholas?” I venture.

  “Acting chipper. You can imagine. He keeps his chin up. But he feels it far more than he’s letting on.” Sam’s face twists briefly and he hunches his arms round his chest.

  “You do too,” I say gently, and Sam looks up in a startled movement, as though I’ve caught him out.

  “I suppose I do,” he says after a long pause. “Nick and I go back a long time. He’s a good guy. He’s done some remarkable things over his lifetime. But if this smear gets out unchallenged, it’ll be the only thing the wider world ever remembers about him. It’ll be the same headline over and over, till he dies. Sir Nicholas Murray, suspected of corruption. He doesn’t deserve that. He especially doesn’t deserve to be stitched up by his own board.”

  There’s a somber moment, then Sam visibly pulls himself together. “Anyway. Come on. They’re waiting for us. Vicks is nearly here.”

  We head back, past a group of girls clustered round a table, past an ornamental garden, toward the huge double doors leading into the hotel. My phone has been buzzing and I quietly take it out to check my in-box, just to see if Magnus has replied—

  I blink at the screen. I don’t believe it. I give a tiny involuntary whimper, and Sam shoots me an odd look.

  There’s a brand-new email right at the top of my in-box and I click on it, desperately hoping it won’t say what I’m dreading—

  Shit. Shit.

  I stare at it in dismay. What am I going to do? We’re nearly at the hotel. I have to speak. I have to tell him.

  “Um, Sam.” My voice is a bit strangled. “Um, stop a minute.”

  “What?” He halts with a preoccupied frown, and my stomach lurches with nerves.

  OK. Here’s the thing. In my defense, if I’d known Sam was going to be mired in a massive, urgent crisis involving leaked memos and senior government advisers and ITN News, I wouldn’t have sent that email to his father. Of course I wouldn’t.

  But I didn’t know. And I did send the email. And now …

  “What’s up?” Sam looks impatient.

  Where on earth do I start? How do I soften him up?

  “Please don’t get angry,” I throw out as a preemptive sally, even though it feels a bit like chucking an ice cube into the path of a forest fire.

  “About what?” There’s an ominous tone to Sam’s voice.

  “The thing is …” I clear my throat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I can see that you may not view it exactly that way….”

  “What on earth are you—” He breaks off, his face suddenly clearing with appalled understanding. “Oh, Jesus. No. Please don’t say you’ve been telling your friends about this—”

  “No!” I say in horror. “Of course not!”

  “Then what?”

  I feel slightly emboldened by his wrong suspicions. At least I haven’t b
een blabbing everything to my friends. At least I haven’t been selling my story to The Sun.

  “It’s a family thing. It’s about your dad.”

  Sam’s eyes widen sharply, but he says nothing.

  “I just felt bad that you and he weren’t in contact. So I emailed him back. He’s desperate to see you, Sam. He wants to reach out! You never go down to Hampshire, you never see him—”

  “For God’s sake,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I really don’t have time for this.”

  “You don’t have time for your own father?” His words sting me. “You know what, Mr. Big Shot, maybe your priorities are a little screwed. I know you’re busy, I know this crisis is important, but—”

  “Poppy, stop right there. You’re making a big mistake.”

  He looks so impassive, I feel a surge of outrage. How dare he be so sure of himself all the time?

  “Maybe you’re the one who’s making a big mistake!” The words burst out before I can stop them. “Maybe you’re the one who’s letting your life pass by without engaging in it! Maybe Willow’s right!”

  “Excuse me?” Sam looks thunderous at the mention of Willow.

  “You’re going to miss out! You’re going to miss out on relationships which could give you so much, because you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to listen….”

  Sam glances around, looking embarrassed. “Poppy, cool it,” he mutters. “You’re getting too emotional.”

  “Well, you’re staying too calm!” I feel like exploding. “You’re too stoic!” An image suddenly comes to me of those Roman senators, all waiting in the arena to be massacred. “You know something, Sam? You’re turning into stone.”

  “Stone?” He gives a burst of laughter.