I've Got Your Number (34 page)

I gasp with horror. Are they
so
out of touch? Did he not even
know
his father had moved back to this country?

“Sam!” My words tumble out. “You don’t understand! He’s moved back. He lives in Hampshire! He sent you an email. He wanted to see you. Don’t you read
anything
?”

Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter, and I stare at him, affronted.

“OK,” he says at last, wiping his eyes. “Let’s start from the beginning. Let’s get this straight. You’re talking about the email from David Robinson, right?”

“No, I’m not! I’m talking about the one from—”

I break off midstream, suddenly uncertain. Robinson?
Robinson?
I grab my phone and check the email address: David r452@ hotmail. com.

I just assumed he was David Roxton. It seemed
obvious
he was David Roxton.

“Contrary to your assumptions, I
did
read that email,” Sam is saying. “And I chose to ignore it. Believe me, David Robinson is not my father.”

“But he called himself
Dad
.” I’m totally bewildered. “That’s what he wrote.
Dad
. Is he … your stepdad? Your half-dad?”

“He’s not my dad in any shape or form,” says Sam patiently. “If you must know, when I was at college I hung out with a group of guys. He was one of them. David Andrew Daniel Robinson. D.A.D. Robinson. We called him Dad. OK? Got it, finally?”

He starts walking toward the hotel as though the subject is closed, but I’m rooted to the spot, my mind flitting around in shock. I can’t get over this.
Dad
isn’t Sam’s dad?
Dad
is a
friend
? How was I supposed to know that? People shouldn’t be allowed to sign themselves as
Dad
unless they are your dad. It should be the
law
.

I’ve never felt so stupid in all my life.

Except … Except. As I’m standing there, I can’t help replaying all David Robinson’s emails in my head.

It’s been a long time. I think of you often…. Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow…. As I said, there is something I’d love to talk to you about. Are you ever down Hampshire way?

OK. So maybe I got it wrong about Sam’s father and the cottage and the faithful dog. But these words still touch a nerve in me. They sound so humble. So self-effacing. This David is clearly an old, old friend who wants to reach out. Maybe this is another relationship which Sam is leaving to
wither. Maybe they’ll see each other and the years will fall away and afterward Sam will thank me and tell me how he needs to value friendship more, he simply didn’t realize it, and I’ve transformed his life….

Abruptly, I hurry after Sam and catch up with him.

“So, is he a good friend?” I begin. “David Robinson? Is he, like, a really old, close chum?”

“No.” Sam doesn’t break his stride.

“But you must have been friends once.”

“I suppose so.”

Could he sound any less enthusiastic? Does he realize how empty his life will be if he doesn’t keep up with the people who were once important to him?

“So, surely he’s someone you still have a bond with! If you saw him, maybe you’d rekindle that! You’d bring something positive into your life!”

Sam stops dead and stares at me. “What business is this of yours, anyway?”

“Nothing,” I say defensively. “I just … I thought you might like to get in touch with him.”

“I
am
in touch with him.” Sam sounds exasperated. “Every year or so we meet for a drink, and it’s always the same story. He has some new entrepreneurial project he needs investors for, usually involving some ridiculous product or pyramid scheme. If it’s not fitness equipment, it’s double-glazing or time-shares in Turkey. Against my better judgment I give him some money. Then the business folds and I don’t hear from him again for another year. It’s a ridiculous cycle I need to break. Which is why I blanked his email. I’ll call him in a month or two, maybe, but right now, frankly, the last thing I need in my life is David bloody Robinson—” He breaks off and peers at me. “What?”

I gulp. There’s no way round this. None.

“He’s waiting for you in the bar.”

Maybe Sam hasn’t turned into a statue
quite
yet. Because as we head into the hotel, he says nothing, but I can easily read his feelings on his face, the entire range of them: from anger, to fury, to frustration, to …

Well. Back to anger again.
⁸²

“Sorry,” I say yet again. “I thought …”

I peter out. I’ve already explained what I thought. It hasn’t really helped, to be honest.

We push our way through the heavy double doors to see Vicks hurrying down the corridor toward us, holding a phone to her ear, struggling with a pile of stuff and looking harassed.

“Sure,” she’s saying as she nears us. “Mark, wait a minute. Just met Sam. I’ll ring you back.” She looks up and launches in with no niceties. “Sam, I’m sorry. We’re going with the original statement.”

“What?”
Sam’s voice is so thunderous, I jump. “You have to be kidding.”

“We have nothing on Ryan. No proof of anything untoward. There’s no more time. I’m sorry, Sam. I know you tried, but …”

There’s a tense silence. Sam and Vicks aren’t even looking at each other, but the body language is obvious. Vicks’s arms are now wrapped defensively around her laptop and a mass of papers. Sam is kneading both fists into his forehead.

Personally, I’m trying to blend into the wallpaper.

“Vicks, you know this is bollocks.” Sam sounds as though he’s trying hard to control his impatience. “We
know
what happened. What, we ignore all this new information?”

“It’s not information, it’s guesswork! We don’t know what happened!” Vicks looks up and down the empty corridor and lowers her voice. “And if we don’t get a statement out to ITN, pronto, we are sitting fucking
ducks
, Sam.”

“We have time,” he says mutinously. “We can talk to this guy Ryan. Interview him.”

“How long will that take? What will that achieve?” Vicks puts a hand to her head. “Sam, these are grave accusations. They have no substance. Unless we find some solid proof …”

“So we stand back. We wash our hands. They win.” Sam’s voice is calm, but I can tell he’s simmering with rage.

“The techies are still investigating in London.” Vicks sounds weary. “But unless they find
proof
…” She glances at her watch. “It’s coming up to nine. Jesus. We have
no
time, Sam.”

“Let me speak to them.”

“OK.” She sighs. “Not here. We’ve moved to a bigger room with a Skype screen.”

“Right. Let’s go.”

They both start walking briskly along, and I follow, not sure if I should or not. Sam looks so preoccupied, I don’t dare utter a sound. Vicks leads us through a ballroom filled with banqueting tables, into the lobby, past the bar …

Has he forgotten about David Robinson?

“Sam,” I mutter hastily. “Wait! Don’t go near the bar; we should go a different way—”

“Sam!” A throaty voice hails us. “
There
you are!”

My heart freezes in horror. That must be him. That’s David Robinson. That guy with curly, receding dark hair and a pale-gray metallic suit, which he’s accessorized with a black shirt and white leather tie. He’s striding toward us with a massive beam on his fleshy face and a whiskey in his hand.

“Been far, far too long!” He envelops Sam in a bear hug. “What can I get you, my old mucker? Or is it all on the house? In which case, mine’s a double!” He gives a high-pitched laugh that makes me cringe.

I glance desperately at Sam’s tight face.

“Who’s this?” says Vicks, looking astonished.

“Long story. College friend.”

“I know all Sam’s secrets!” David Robinson bangs Sam on the back. “You want me to dish the dirt, cross my hand with a fifty. Only joking! I’ll take a twenty!” He roars with laughter again.

This is officially unbearable.

“Sam.” Vicks can barely conceal her impatience. “We have to go.”

“Go?” David Robinson makes a mock stagger backward. “
Go?
When I’ve only just arrived?”

“David.” Sam’s politeness is so chill I want to shiver. “Sorry about this. Change of schedule. I’ll try to catch up with you later.”

“After I’ve driven for forty minutes?” David shakes his head in a pantomime of disappointment. “Can’t even spare ten minutes for your old mate. What am I supposed to do, drink here on my own?”

I’m feeling worse and worse. I’ve totally landed Sam in this. I have to do something about it.

“I’ll have a drink with you!” I chime in hurriedly. “Sam, you go. I’ll entertain David. I’m Poppy Wyatt, hi!” I thrust my hand out and try not to wince at his clammy touch. “Go.” I meet eyes with Sam. “Go on.”

“OK.” Sam hesitates a moment, then nods. “Thanks. Use the company tab.” Already he and Vicks are hurrying away.

“Well!” David seems a bit unsure how to react. “That’s a fine thing! Some people get a bit too big for their boots, if you ask me.”

“He’s very busy at the moment,” I say apologetically. “I mean
really
busy.”

“So where do you fit in? Sam’s PA?”

“Not exactly. I’ve kind of been helping Sam out. Unofficially.”

“Unofficially.” David gives a great big wink. “Say no more. All on expenses. Got to look kosher.”

OK, now I get it: This man is a nightmare. No wonder Sam spends his life avoiding him.

“Would you like another drink?” I say as charmingly as I can. “And then maybe you could tell me what you do. Sam said you were an investor? In … fitness equipment?”

David scowls and drains his glass. “I was in that line for a while. Too much health and safety, that’s the problem with
that
game. Too many inspectors. Too many namby-pamby rules. Another double whiskey, if you’re buying.”

I order the whiskey and a large glass of wine for myself, rigid with mortification. I still can’t believe how wrong I called this. I am never interfering in anyone’s emails ever, ever again.

“And after fitness equipment?” I prompt him. “What did you do then?”

“Well.” David Robinson leans back and cracks his knuckles. “Then I went down the self-tanning route….”

Half an hour later, my mind is numbed. Is there any business this man hasn’t been in? Each story seems to follow the same pattern. The same phrases have been rolled out every time.
Unique opportunity, I mean, unique, Poppy … serious investment … on the brink … megabucks, I mean, megabucks, Poppy … events outside my control … damn stupid banks … shortsighted investors … bloody regulation …

There’s been no sign of Sam. No sign of Vicks. Nothing in my phone. I’m almost beside myself with tension, wondering what’s going on. Meanwhile, David has sunk two whiskeys, torn into three packets of crisps, and is now scooping up a dish of hummus with taco chips.

“Interested in children’s entertainment, are you, Poppy?” he suddenly says.

Why would I be interested in children’s entertainment?

“Not really,” I say politely, but he ignores me. He’s produced a brown furry animal glove puppet from his briefcase and is dancing it round the table.

“Mr. Wombat. Goes down a storm with the kids. Want to have a go?”

No, I do not want to have a go. But, in the interests of keeping the conversation going, I shrug. “OK.”

I have no idea what to do with a glove puppet, but David seems galvanized as soon as I have it on my hand.

“You’re a natural! You take these along to a kids’ party, playground, whatever, they
fly
. And the beauty is the profit margin. Poppy, you would not believe it.” He smacks the
table. “Plus, it’s flexible. You can sell them around your daytime job. I’ll show you the whole kit….” He reaches into his briefcase again and produces a plastic folder.

I stare at him in bewilderment. What does he mean,
sell
them? He surely doesn’t mean …

“Have I spelled your name right?” He looks up from writing on the folder, and I gape at it. Why is he writing my name on the front of a folder entitled
Mr. Wombat Official Franchise Agreement
?

“What you’d do is take a small consignment at first. Say … a hundred units.” He waves a hand airily. “You’ll sell that in a day, easy. Especially with our new free gift, Mr. Magical.” He places a plastic wizard on the table and twinkles at me. “The next step is the exciting one. Recruitment!”

“Stop!” I rip the glove puppet off. “I don’t want to sell glove puppets! I’m not doing this!”

David doesn’t even seem to hear me. “Like I say, it’s totally flexible. It’s all profit, direct to you, into your pocket—”

“I don’t want any profit in my pocket!” I lean across the bar table. “I don’t want to join! Thanks anyway!” For good measure I take his pen and cross through
Poppy Wyatt
on the folder, and David flinches as though I’ve wounded him.

“Well! No need for that! Just trying to do you a favor.”

“I appreciate it.” I try to sound polite. “But I don’t have time to sell wombats. Or …” I pick up the wizard. “Who’s this? Dumbledore?”

It’s all so random. What’s a magician got to do with a wombat, anyway?

“No!” David seems mortally offended. “It’s not Dumbledore.
This is Mr. Magical. New TV series. Next big thing. It was all lined up.”

“
Was?
What happened?”

“It’s been temporarily canceled,” he says stiffly. “But it’s still a very exciting product. Versatile, unbreakable, popular with both girls and boys. I could let you have five hundred units for … two hundred pounds?”

Is he nuts?

“I don’t want any plastic wizards,” I say as politely as I can. “Thanks anyway.” A thought suddenly crosses my mind. “How many of these Mr. Magicals have you got, then?”

David looks as though he doesn’t want to answer the question. At last he says, “I believe my current stock is ten thousand,” and takes a glug of whiskey.

Ten thousand?
Oh my God. Poor David Robinson. I feel quite sorry for him now. What’s he going to do with ten thousand plastic wizards? I dread to ask how many wombats he’s got.