I've Got Your Number (32 page)

Hi. How are you doing? P

No kisses.

As I press
send
, my eyes start to sting. It’s a simple message, but I feel as though every word is freighted with double, triple, even quadruple meaning, with a heartbreaking subtext which he may or may not get.
⁸¹

Hi
means,
Hi, have you been unfaithful? Have you? Please, PLEASE don’t let this be true
.

How
means,
I really wish you’d ring me. I know you’re on your stag do, but it would reassure me so much just to hear your voice and know that you love me and you couldn’t do such a thing
.

Are
means,
Oh God, I can’t bear it. What if it’s true? What will I do? What will I say? But, then, what if it’s NOT true and I’ve suspected you for no good reason—

“Poppy.” Sam is turning toward me, and I jump.

“Yes! Here.” I nod, thrusting my phone away. I have to concentrate now. I have to put Magnus from my mind. I have to be useful.

“These are Mark and Robbie. They work for Vicks.”

“She’s on her way down.” Mark consults his phone as we all head up the steps. “Sir Nicholas is staying put for now. We think Berkshire’s the best place for him to be if there’s any chance of being doorstepped.”

“Nick shouldn’t
hide
.” Sam’s frowning.

“Not hiding. Staying calm. We don’t want him rushing to London, looking like there’s a crisis. He’s speaking at a dinner tonight; we’ll regroup tomorrow, see how things have played out. As for the conference, we keep going for now. Obviously Sir Nicholas was due to arrive here in the morning, but we’ll have to see”—he hesitates, wincing slightly—”what happens.”

“What about the injunction?” says Sam. “I was talking to Julian; he’s pulling out all the stops.”

Robbie sighs. “Sam, we already know that won’t work. I mean, we’re not
not
going to apply for one, but—”

He stops midstream as we arrive in a big lobby. Wow. This conference is a lot more high-tech than our annual physiotherapists’ one. There are massive
WHITE GLOBE CONSULTING
logos everywhere and big screens mounted all round the lobby. Someone is clearly using some kind of TV camera inside the hall, because images of an audience sitting in rows are being beamed out. There are two sets of closed double doors straight ahead of us, and the sound of an audience laughing suddenly emanates from them, followed, ten seconds later, by laughter from the screens.

The whole lobby is empty except for a table bearing a
few lonely name badges, behind which a bored-looking girl is lolling. She stands up straighter as she sees us and smiles uncertainly at me.

“They’re having a good time,” says Sam, glancing at the TV screen.

“Malcolm’s speaking,” says Mark. “He’s doing a great job. We’re in here.” He ushers us into a side room and shuts the door firmly behind us.

“So, Poppy.” Robbie turns to me politely. “Sam’s filled us in on your … theory.”

“It’s not
my
theory,” I say in horror. “I don’t know anything about it! I just got these messages, and I wondered if they could be relevant, and Sam worked it out.”

“I think she has something.” Sam faces up to Mark and Robbie as though daring them to disagree. “The memo was planted. We all agree on that.”

“The memo is … uncharacteristic,” amends Robbie.

“Uncharacteristic?” Sam looks like he wants to explode. “He didn’t bloody write it! Someone else wrote it and inserted it into the system. We’re going to find out who. Poppy heard the voice. Poppy will recognize it.”

“OK.” Robbie exchanges wary glances with Mark. “All I will say, Sam, is that we have to be very, very careful. We’re still working on breaking this news to the company. If you go crashing in with accusations—”

“I won’t crash in with anything.” Sam glowers at him. “Have a little trust. Jesus.”

“So what are you planning to do?” Mark looks genuinely interested.

“Walk around. Listen. Find the needle in the haystack.” Sam turns to me. “You up for that, Poppy?”

“Totally.” I nod, trying to hide how panicked I feel. I’m half-wishing I never took those messages down now.

“And then …” Robbie still looks dissatisfied.

“Let’s cross that bridge.”

There’s silence in the room.

“OK,” says Robbie at last. “Do it. Go on. I guess it can’t do any harm. And how will you explain away Poppy?”

“New PA?” suggests Mark.

Sam shakes his head. “I’ve appointed a new PA, and half the floor has met her already. Let’s keep it simple. Poppy’s thinking of joining the company. I’m showing her round. OK with that, Poppy?”

“Yes! Fine.”

“Got that personnel list?”

“Here.” Robbie hands it to him. “But be discreet, Sam.”

Mark has opened the door a crack and is looking into the lobby.

“They’re coming out,” he says. “All yours.”

We head out of the room, into the lobby. Both sets of double doors are open and people are streaming out of them, all wearing badges and chatting, some laughing. They look pretty fresh, given it’s 6:30 p.m. and they’ve been listening to speeches all afternoon.

“There are so
many
.” I stare at the groups of people, feeling totally daunted.

“It’s fine,” says Sam firmly. “You know it’s a male voice. That already cuts it down. We’ll just go round the room and rule them out, one by one. I have my suspicions, but … I won’t bias you.”

Slowly, I follow him into the melee. People are grabbing drinks from waiters and greeting one another and shouting
jokes across other people’s heads. It’s cacophony. My ears feel as though they’re radar sensors, straining this way and that to catch the sound of voices.

“Heard our guy yet?” Sam says, as he hands me a glass of orange juice. I can tell he’s half joking, half hopeful.

I shake my head. I’m feeling overwhelmed. The sound in the room is like a melded roar in my head. I can barely distinguish any individual strands, let alone pick out the exact tones of a voice I heard for twenty seconds, days ago, down a mobile-phone line.

“OK, let’s be methodical.” Sam is talking almost to himself. “We’ll go round the room in concentric circles. Does that sound like a plan?”

I flash him a smile, but I’ve never felt so pressured in my life. No one else can do this. No one else heard that voice. It’s down to me. Now I know how sniffer dogs must feel at airports.

We head to a group of women, who are standing together with two middle-aged men.

“Hi there!” Sam greets them all pleasantly. “Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Jeremy … and Peter…. Jeremy, how many years have you been with us now? And Peter? Is it three years?”

OK. Now that I’m listening properly, close up, this is easier. One man has a low growly voice and the other is Scandinavian. After about ten seconds I shake my head at Sam, and he moves us swiftly off to another group, discreetly ticking his list as we go.

“Hi there! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, you’ve already met Nihal. Now, Colin, what are you up to these days?”

It’s amazing how different voices are, once you start to pay attention. Not only the pitch but the accents, the timbres, the little speech impediments and slurs and quirks.

“What about you?” I join in, smiling at a bearded guy who hasn’t uttered a syllable.

“Well, it’s been a
tricky
year …,” he begins ponderously.

No. Uh-uh. Nothing like. I glance at Sam, shaking my head, and he abruptly takes hold of my arm.

“Sorry, Dudley, we must dash.” He heads to the next group along and charges straight in, interrupting an anecdote. “Poppy, this is Simon…. Stephanie you’ve met, I think … Simon, Poppy was just admiring your jacket. Where’s it from?”

I can’t believe how blatant Sam’s being. He’s practically ignoring all the women and being totally unsubtle about getting the men to talk. But I guess it’s the only way.

The more voices I listen to, the more confident I feel. This is easier than I thought it would be, because they’re all so
different
from the one on the phone. Except that we’ve already been to four groups and eliminated them. I scan the room anxiously. What if I get all the way round the room and I still haven’t heard the guy from the phone?

“Hi there, gang! Having a good time?” Sam is still in full flow as we approach the next group. “Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Tony. Tony, why don’t you tell Poppy about your department? And here’s Daniel, and this is … ah. Willow.”

She was turned away as we approached, so her face was averted, but now she faces us full on.

Yowzer.

“Sam!” she says, after such a long pause I start to feel embarrassed for everybody. “Who’s … this?”

OK. If my text to Magnus was laden with meaning, that little two-word sentence of Willow’s was collapsing under its weight. You don’t have to be an expert in the Language of Willow to know that what she
actually
meant was, “Who the FUCK is this girl and WHAT is she doing here with YOU? Jesus, Sam, are you DELIBERATELY SCREWING AROUND WITH ME? Because, believe me, you are going to regret that BADLY.”

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.