I've Got Your Number (23 page)

“Sam! Oh my God!” A dark-haired girl, quite drunk, lurches up to the group and elbows Matt out of the way, making him drop Sam’s hand. She’s looking highly flushed and her mascara is smudged, and she grabs Sam’s hand herself. “Thank you
so much
for your e-card about Scamper. You made my day, you know that?”

“It’s quite all right, Chloe,” Sam says tightly. He darts an incandescent glance of fury at me, and I flinch.

“Those beautiful things you wrote,” she gulps. “I knew when I read them you must have lost a dog yourself. Because you understand, don’t you? You
understand
.” A tear rolls down her cheek.

“Chloe, do you want to sit down?” says Sam, extricating his hand, but Justin cuts in, a malicious grin at his lips.

“I’ve heard about this famous e-card. Could I see it?”

“I’ve got a printout.” Wiping her nose, Chloe drags a
crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, and Justin immediately grabs it.

“Oh, now, this is beautiful, Sam,” he says, scanning it with mock admiration. “Very moving.”

“I’ve shown everybody in the department.” Chloe nods tearfully. “They all think you’re
amazing
, Sam.”

Sam’s hand is clenching his glass so hard, it’s turning white. He looks like he wants to press an ejector button and escape. I’m feeling really, really bad now. I didn’t realize I’d sent
quite
so many emails. I’d forgotten about Guatemala. And I shouldn’t have sent the e-card. If I could go back in time, that’s the moment I’d go up to myself and say, “Poppy! Stop! No e-card!”

“Young Scamper’s joined his friends in heaven, but we are left to weep,”
Justin reads aloud in a stagy voice.
“His furry fur, his eyes so bright, his bone upon the seat.”
Justin pauses. “Not sure
seat
exactly rhymes with
weep
, Sam. And why is his bone on the seat, anyway? Hardly hygienic.”

“Give that here.” Sam makes a swipe for it, but Justin dodges, looking delighted.

“His blanket empty in his bed, the silence in the air. If Scamper now is looking down, he’ll know how much we cared.”
Justin winces. “
Air? Cared?
Do you know what a rhyme
is
, Sam?”

“I think it’s very touching,” says Sir Nicholas cheerfully.

“Me too,” I say hurriedly. “I think it’s brilliant.”
⁷⁰

“It’s so true.” Tears are streaming down Chloe’s face. “It’s beautiful because it’s
true
.”

She’s absolutely plastered. She’s completely fallen out of one of her stilettos and doesn’t even seem to have noticed.

“Justin,” says Sir Nicholas kindly. “Maybe you could get Chloe a glass of water.”

“Of course!” Justin deftly pockets the sheet. “You don’t mind if I keep this poem of yours, do you, Sam? It’s just so
special
. Have you ever thought of working for Hallmark?” He escorts Chloe away and practically dumps her on a chair. A moment later I see him gleefully beckoning to the group he was with earlier and pulling the paper out of his pocket.

I almost don’t dare look at Sam, I feel so guilty.

“Well!” says Sir Nicholas, looking amused. “Sam, I had no idea you were such an animal lover.”

“I’m not.” Sam seems barely able to operate his voice. “I …”

I’m trying frantically to think of something I can say to redeem the situation. But what can I do?

“Now, Poppy, please do excuse me.” Sir Nicholas cuts into my thoughts. “Much as I would prefer to stay here, I must go over and talk to that
interminably
boring man from Greene Retail.” He makes such a comical face at me, I can’t help giggling. “Sam, we’ll talk later.” He presses my hand in his and heads off into the crowd, and I quell an urge to run away with him.

“So!” I turn back to Sam and swallow several times. “Um … sorry about all that.”

Sam says nothing, just holds out his hand, palm up. After five seconds I realize what he means.

“What?”
I feel a swoop of alarm. “No! I mean … can’t I keep it till tomorrow? I’ve got all my contacts on it now, all my messages—”

“Give it.”

“But I haven’t even been to the phone shop yet! I haven’t got a replacement, this is my only number, I
need
it—”

“Give it.”

He’s implacable. In fact, he looks quite scary.

On the other hand … he can’t
force
it off me, can he? Not without causing a scene, which I’m sensing is the last thing he wants to do.

“Look, I know you’re angry.” I try to sound as grovelly as possible. “I can understand that. But wouldn’t you like me to forward all your emails on first? And give it back tomorrow when I’ve tied up all the loose ends? Please?”

At least that’ll give me a chance to make a note of some of my messages.

Sam is breathing hard through his nose. I can tell he’s realizing he doesn’t have a choice.

“You don’t send a single further email,” he snaps at last, dropping his hand.

“OK,” I say humbly.

“You detail for me a list of the emails you
did
send.”

“OK.”

“You hand the phone back tomorrow and that is the last I ever hear from you.”

“Shall I come to the office?”

“No!” He almost recoils at the idea. “We’ll meet at lunchtime. I’ll text you.”

“OK.” I heave a sigh, feeling quite downcast by now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your life.”

I was half-hoping Sam might say something nice, like, “Don’t worry, you didn’t,” or “Never mind, you meant well.” But he doesn’t. He looks as merciless as ever.

“Is there anything else I should know about?” he asks curtly. “Be honest, please. Any more foreign trips you’ve signed me up to? Company initiatives you’ve started in my name? Inappropriate poetry you’ve written on my behalf?”

“No!” I say nervously. “That’s it. I’m sure.”

“You realize how much havoc you’ve caused?”

“I know.” I gulp.

“You realize how many embarrassing situations you’ve put me in?”

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” I say desperately. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I didn’t mean to create trouble. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“A favor?” He stares at me incredulously. “A
favor
?”

“Hey, Sam.” A breathy voice interrupts us, and I get a waft of perfume. I turn to see a girl in her late twenties, wearing skyscraper heels and lots of makeup. Her red hair is tonged into curls and her dress is
really
low-cut. I mean, I can practically see her navel. “Excuse me, could I have a quick moment with Sam?” She shoots me an antagonistic glance.

“Oh! Er … sure.” I move away a few steps, but not so far that I can’t just about hear them.

“So. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” She’s gazing up at Sam and batting her false eyelashes.
⁷¹
“In your office. I’ll be there.”

Sam looks perplexed. “Do we have an appointment?”

“That’s the way you want to play it?” She gives a soft, sexy laugh and swooshes her hair, like actresses do on
those American TV drama series set in beautiful kitchens. “I can play it any way you like.” She lowers her voice to a throaty whisper. “If you know what I mean, Sam.”

“I’m sorry, Lindsay….” Sam frowns, obviously at a loss.

Lindsay?
I nearly spill my drink down my dress. This girl is Lindsay?

Oh no. Oh no, oh no. This isn’t good. I knew I should have canceled out Sam’s kisses. I knew that winky face meant something. I’m almost hopping with alarm. Can I warn Sam? Should I somehow semaphore to him?

“I knew,” she’s murmuring now. “The first time I saw you, Sam, I knew there was a special vibe between us. You’re
hot
.”

Sam looks disconcerted. “Well … thanks, I guess. But, Lindsay, this really isn’t—”

“Oh, don’t worry. I can be very discreet.” She runs a lacquered nail gently down his shirt. “I’d almost given up on you, you know that?”

Sam takes a step backward, looking alarmed. “Lindsay—”

“All this time, no signs—then out of the blue you start contacting me.” She opens her eyes wide. “Wishing me happy birthday, complimenting my work—I knew what that was really about. And then tonight …” Lindsay moves close to Sam, speaking even more breathily. “You have no
idea
what it did to me, seeing your email. Mmmm. Bad boy.”

“Email?”
echoes Sam. He slowly turns his head to meet my agonized gaze.

I should have run. While I had the chance. I should have run.

⁶⁶
Where did he get that? Why has nobody offered me a shot?

⁶⁷
He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to the left.

⁶⁸
Doesn’t everyone want to go to Iceland? Why would you say no to Iceland?

⁶⁹
So not
that
polite.

⁷⁰
OK, I know it’s not brilliant. In my defense, I chose it in a hurry from some e-card site, and the picture was really good. It was a line drawing of an empty dog basket, and it nearly made
me
cry.

⁷¹
What
is
the etiquette when someone’s false eyelash is coming off a bit at the edge? Tell them or politely ignore?

I
am the sorriest sorry person there ever was.

I really screwed up. I can see that now. I’ve caused Sam a whole load of work and aggro and I’ve abused his trust and been a complete pain in the neck.

Today was supposed to be a fun day. A weddingy day. I’ve got a whole load of days booked off work for last-minute wedding preparation—and what am I doing instead? Trying to think of all the different words for
sorry
that I can.

As I arrive for lunch, I’m wearing a suitably penitent gray T-shirt and denim-skirt combo. We’re meeting at a restaurant round the corner from his office, and the first thing I see when I walk in is a group of girls I remember from the Savoy last night, clustered at a circular table. I’m sure they wouldn’t recognize me, but I duck hurriedly past anyway.

Sam described this as “a second office cafeteria” on the phone. Some cafeteria. There are steel tables and taupe linen-covered chairs and one of those cool menus where everything’s in lowercase and each dish is described in the minimal amount of words.
⁷²
There aren’t even any pound signs.
⁷³
No wonder Sam likes it.

I’ve ordered some water and am trying to decide between soup and salad, when Sam appears at the door. Immediately, all the girls start waving him over, and after a moment’s hesitation, he joins them. I can’t hear all the conversation, but I catch the odd word:
amazing idea … excited … so supportive
. Everyone’s smiling and looking positive, even Sam.

Eventually he makes his excuses and heads over toward me.

“Hi. You made it.” No smile for
me
, I notice.

“Yes. Nice restaurant. Thanks for meeting me. I really appreciate it.” I’m trying to be as mollifying as possible.

“I practically live here.” He shrugs. “Everyone at WGC does.”

“So … here’s a list of all the emails I sent in your name.” I want to get this over straightaway. As I hand the sheet over, I can’t help wincing. It looks such a lot, written down. “And I’ve forwarded everything.”

A waiter interrupts me with a jug of water and a “Welcome back, sir,” to Sam, and then beckons over a waitress with the bread basket. As they leave, Sam folds my sheet and pockets it without comment. Thank God. I thought he was going to go through it item by item, like a headmaster.

“Those girls are from your company, aren’t they?” I nod at the circular table. “What were they talking about?”

There’s a pause as Sam pours himself some water—then he looks up. “They were talking about your project, as it happens.”

I stare at him. “My project? You mean my email about ideas?”

“Yes. It’s gone down well in admin.”

“Wow!” I let myself bask in this thought for a moment. “So … not
everyone
reacted badly.”

“Not everyone, no.”

“Has anyone come up with any good ideas for the company?”

“As it happens … yes,” he says grudgingly. “Some interesting thoughts have emerged.”

“Wow! Great!”

“Though I still have several people convinced there’s a conspiracy theory to sack everyone and one threatening legal action.”

“Oh.” I feel chastened. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“Hello.” A cheerful girl in a green apron approaches. “May I explain the menu?
⁷⁴
We have a butternut squash soup today, made with an organic chicken stock….”