I've Got Your Number (22 page)

“OK, I’m sorry,” I say in a rush. “I know I shouldn’t be here, it’s just I’ve never been to the Savoy, and it sounded so amazing, and you didn’t want to go, and—” I break off as he lifts a hand, looking amused.

“It’s no problem. You should have told me you wanted to come. I would have put you on the list.”

“Oh!” The wind is taken out of my sails. “Well … thanks. I’m having a really nice time.”

“Good.” He smiles and takes a glass of red wine from a passing waiter’s tray. “You know what?” He pauses thoughtfully, cradling his glass in his hands. “I have something to say, Poppy Wyatt. I should have said it before. And that’s thank you. You’ve been a great help to me, these past few days.”

“It’s fine, really. No problem.” I hurriedly make a brushing-off motion, but he shakes his head.

“No, listen, I want to say this. I know originally I was doing you the favor—but in the end you’ve done me one. I
haven’t had any proper PA support at work. You’ve done a great job, keeping me up-to-date with everything. I appreciate it.”

“Honestly, it’s nothing!” I say, feeling uncomfortable.

“Take the credit!” He laughs, then shrugs off his jacket and loosens his tie. “Jesus, it’s been a long day.” He slings his jacket over his shoulder and takes a gulp of wine. “So, nothing up today? The airwaves have gone very quiet.” He gives another of those devastating little smiles. “Or are all my emails coming through to Jane now?”

My phone contains two hundred and forty-three emails for him. And they’re still coming in.

“Well …” I take a gulp of cosmo, desperately playing for time. “Funnily enough, you did get a
few
messages. I thought I wouldn’t disturb you while you were in Germany.”

“Oh yes?” He looks interested. “What?”

“Um … this and that. Or would you rather wait till tomorrow?” I clutch at a last hope.

“No, tell me now.”

I rub my nose. Where do I start?

“Sam! There you are!” A thin guy in glasses is approaching. He’s blinking quite fast and holding a large black portfolio under his arm. “They said you weren’t coming tonight.”

“I wasn’t,” Sam says wryly.

“Great. Great!” The thin guy is twitching with nervous energy. “Well, I brought these along on the off chance.” He thrusts the portfolio at Sam, who takes it, looking bemused. “If you have a moment tonight, I’ll be staying up till two or three, always happy to Skype from home…. A
bit
radical, some of it, but … Anyway! I think it’s a great
thing you’re doing. And if there
is
a job opportunity behind all this … count me in. Right. Well … I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks, Sam!” He darts away again into the crowd.

For a moment neither of us speaks, Sam because he looks too baffled and me because I’m trying to work out what to say.

“What was all that about?” says Sam at last. “Do you have any idea? Is there something I’ve missed?”

I lick my dry lips nervously. “There
was
something I meant to tell you about.” I give a high-pitched laugh. “It’s quite funny, actually, if you see it that way—”

“Sam!” A large woman with a booming voice interrupts me. “So delighted we’ve got you signed up for the Fun Run!” Oh my God. This must be Rachel.

“Fun Run?” Sam echoes the words as though they’re complete anathema to him. “No. Sorry, Rachel. I don’t do Fun Runs. I’m happy to donate, let other people do the running, good for them—”

“But your email!” She stares at him. “We were so thrilled you wanted to take part! No one could believe it! This year we’re all running in superhero costumes,” she adds enthusiastically. “I’ve earmarked a Superman one for you.”

“Email?” Sam looks bewildered. “What email?”

“That lovely email you sent! Friday, was it? Oh, and
bless
you for the e-card you sent young Chloe.” Rachel lowers her voice and pats Sam on the hand. “She was so touched. Most directors wouldn’t even
care
if an assistant’s dog had died, so for you to send such a lovely e-card of condolence, with a poem and everything …” She opens her eyes wide. “Well. We were all amazed, to be honest!”

My face is getting hotter. I’d forgotten about the e-card.

“An e-card of condolence for a dog,” says Sam at last, in a strange voice. “Yes, I’m pretty amazed at myself.”

He’s staring straight at me. It’s not the most friendly of expressions. In fact, I feel like backing away, only there’s nowhere to go.

“Oh, Loulou!” Rachel suddenly waves a hand across the room. “Do excuse me, Sam.” She heads off, pushing her way through the throng, leaving us alone.

There’s silence. Sam regards me evenly, without a flicker. He’s waiting for me to start, I realize.

“I thought …” I swallow hard.

“Yes?” His voice is curt and unforgiving.

“I thought you might
like
to do a Fun Run.”

“You did.”

“Yes. I did.” My voice is a little husky with nerves. “I mean … they’re fun! So I thought I’d reply. Just to save you time.”

“You wrote an email and signed it as me?” He sounds thunderous.

“I was trying to help!” I say hurriedly. “I knew you didn’t have time, and they kept asking you, and I thought—”

“The e-card was you, too, I take it?” He shuts his eyes briefly. “Jesus. Is there anything
else
you’ve been meddling in?”

I want to bury my head like an ostrich. But I can’t. I have to tell him, quickly, before anyone else accosts him.

“OK, I had this … this other idea,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Only everyone got a bit carried away, and now everyone’s emailing about it, and they think there’s a job involved—”

“A job?” He stares at me. “What are you talking about?”

“Sam.” A guy claps him on the back as he passes. “Glad you’re interested in coming to Iceland. I’ll be in touch.”

“Iceland?”
Sam’s face jerks in shock.

I’d forgotten about accepting the Iceland trip too.
⁶⁸
But I only have time to make another apologetic smile before someone else is accosting Sam.

“Sam, OK, I don’t know what’s going on.” It’s a girl with glasses and a very intense way of speaking. “I don’t know if you’re playing us for fools or what….” She seems a bit stressed out and keeps pushing her hair back off her brow. “Anyway. Here’s my CV. You
know
how many ideas I’ve had for this company, but if we all have to keep jumping through even
more
bloody hoops, then … whatever, Sam. Your call.”

“Elena—” Sam breaks off in bafflement.

“Just read my personal statement. It’s all in there.” She stalks off.

There’s a silent beat, then Sam wheels round, his face so ominous I feel a quailing inside.

“Start from the beginning. What did you do?”

“I sent an email.” I scuff my foot, feeling like a naughty child. “From you.”

“To whom?”

“Everyone in the company.” I cringe as I say the words. “I just wanted everyone to feel … encouraged and positive. So I said everyone should send their ideas in. To you.”

“You
wrote
that? Under
my name
?”

He looks so livid I actually back away, feeling a bit petrified.

“I’m sorry,” I say breathlessly. “I thought it was a good idea. But some people thought you were trying to sack them, and other people think you’re secretly interviewing for a job, and everyone’s got into a tizz about it…. I’m sorry,” I end lamely.

“Sam, I got your email!” A girl with a ponytail interrupts us eagerly. “So, I’ll see you at dance classes.”

“Wh—” Sam’s eyes swivel in his head.

“Thanks
so
much for the support. Actually, you’re my only pupil so far! Bring comfortable clothes and soft shoes, OK?”

I glance at Sam and gulp at his expression. He seems literally unable to speak. What’s wrong with dance classes? He’s going to need to dance at his wedding, isn’t he? He should be
grateful
I signed him up.

“Sounds great!” I say encouragingly.

“See you next Tuesday evening, Sam!”

As she disappears into the hubbub, I fold my arms defensively, all ready to tell him that I’ve done him a huge favor. But as he turns back, his face is so stony, I lose my nerve.

“Exactly how many emails have you sent in my name?” He sounds calm, but not in a good way.

“I—not many,” I flounder. “I mean … just a few. I only wanted to help—”

“If you were my PA, I’d have you fired on the spot and quite possibly prosecuted.” He fires the words out as though he’s a machine gun. “As it is, I can only ask for my phone back and request that you—”

“Sam! Thank God for a friendly face!”

“Nick.” Sam’s demeanor instantly changes. His eyes light up and his icy expression seems to melt. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming.”

A man in his sixties, wearing a pin-striped suit over a groovy floral shirt, is raising a glass to us. I raise mine back, feeling awestruck. Sir Nicholas Murray! When I was Googling the company, I saw pictures of him with the prime minister, and Prince Charles, and everybody.

“Never turn down a bash if I can help it,” Sir Nicholas says cheerfully. “Missed the speeches, have I?”

“Spot-on timing.” Sam grins. “Don’t tell me you sent your driver in to see if they were over.”

“I couldn’t possibly comment.” Sir Nicholas winks at him. “Did you get my email?”

“Did you get
mine
?” counters Sam, and lowers his voice. “You’ve nominated Richard Doherty for this year’s Dealmaker Award?”

“He’s a bright young talent, Sam,” says Sir Nicholas, looking a little caught out. “Remember his work with Hardwicks last year? He deserves recognition.”

“You put the Ryan Energy deal together. Not him.”

“He helped,” Sir Nicholas retorts. “He helped in many ways. Some of them … intangible.”

For a moment they stare at each other. They both look as though they’re suppressing laughter.

“You’re incorrigible,” says Sam at last. “I hope he’s grateful. Now, you know I’m just back from Germany? Few things we should discuss.”

He’s totally frozen me out of the conversation, but I really don’t mind. Really. In fact, maybe I’ll just creep away while I have the chance.

“Sam, do introduce me to your friend,” Sir Nicholas cuts into my thoughts, and I smile back nervously.

Sam obviously has no desire at all to introduce me to Sir Nicholas. But he’s obviously also a polite man, because after about thirty seconds of what is clearly an internal struggle,
⁶⁹
he says, “Sir Nicholas, Poppy Wyatt. Poppy, Sir Nicholas Murray.”

“How do you do.” I shake his hand, trying not to give away my excitement. Wow. Sir Nicholas Murray and me. Chatting at the Savoy. I’m already thinking of ways I could casually drop this into conversation with Antony.

“Are you at Johnson Ellison or Greene Retail?” inquires Sir Nicholas politely.

“Neither,” I say awkwardly. “Actually, I’m a physiotherapist.”

“A physiotherapist!” His face lights up. “How wonderful! The most underrated of all the medical arts, I always think. I’ve been going to a super man in Harley Street for my back, although he hasn’t
quite
cracked it….” He winces slightly.

“You want Ruby,” I say, nodding wisely. “My boss. She’s amazing. Her deep-tissue massage makes grown men
weep
.”

“I see.” Sir Nicholas looks interested. “Do you have a card?”

Yessss! Ruby made us all cards when we first started out, and I have never been asked for mine before. Not once.

“Here you are.” I reach in my bag and produce a card nonchalantly, as though I do it all the time. “We’re in Balham. It’s south of the river; you may not know it….”

“I know Balham well.” He twinkles at me. “My first flat in London was on Bedford Hill.”

“No way!” My canape nearly falls out of my mouth. “Well, you’ll definitely have to come and see us now.”

I can’t believe it. Sir Nicholas Murray, living on Bedford Hill. God, it shows. You start off in Balham and you end up knighted. It’s quite inspiring, really.

“Sir Nicholas.” The guy with olive skin has materialized from nowhere to join the group. “Delighted to see you here. Always a pleasure. How are things going at Number Ten? Found the secret to happiness yet?”

“The wheels turn.” Sir Nicholas gives him an easy smile.

“Well, it’s an honor. Absolute honor. And Sam.” The olive-skinned guy claps him on the back. “My main man. Couldn’t do what we do without you.”

I stare at him indignantly. He was calling Sam a “stubborn fuck” a moment ago.

“Thanks, Justin.” Sam smiles tightly.

It
is
Justin Cole. I was right. He looks as sneery in real life as he does in his emails.

I’m about to ask Sir Nicholas what the prime minister’s really like, when a young guy approaches us nervously.

“Sam! Sorry to interrupt. I’m Matt Mitchell. Thanks
so
much for volunteering. It’s going to make such a difference to our project to have you on board.”

“Volunteering?” Sam shoots a sharp look at me.

Oh God. I have no idea. My mind is working overtime, trying to recall. Volunteering … volunteering … what was it again …

“For the expedition to Guatemala! The exchange program!” Matt Mitchell is glowing. “We’re so excited that you want to sign up!”

My stomach flips over. Guatemala. I’d
totally
forgotten about Guatemala.

“Guatemala?” echoes Sam, with a kind of rictus smile on his face.

Now I remember. I sent that email quite late at night. I think I’d had a glass of wine or two. Or … three.

I risk a tiny peek at Sam, and his expression is so thunderous, I want to slink away. But the thing is, it sounded like an amazing opportunity. And from what I’ve seen of his schedule, he never takes a holiday. He
should
go to Guatemala.

“We were all really touched by your email, Sam.” Matt grasps Sam’s hand earnestly with both of his. “I never knew you felt that way about the developing world.
How
many orphans do you sponsor?”