Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

1

         Perspective. I need to get perspective. It’s not an earthquake or a crazed gunman or a

nuclear meltdown, is it? On the scale of disasters, this is not huge. Not huge. One day I expect

I’ll look back at this moment and laugh and think, Ha-ha, how silly I was to worry—

         Stop, Poppy. Don’t even try. I’m not laughing—in fact, I feel sick. I’m walking blindly

around the hotel ballroom, my heart thudding, looking fruitlessly on the patterned blue carpet,

behind gilt chairs, under discarded paper napkins, in places where it couldn’t possibly be.

        I’ve lost it. The only thing in the world I wasn’t supposed to lose. My engagement ring.

        To say this is a special ring is an understatement. It’s been in Magnus’s family for three

generations. It’s this stunning emerald with two diamonds, and Magnus had to get it out of a

special bank vault before he proposed. I’ve worn it safely every day for three whole months,

religiously putting it on a special china tray at night, feeling for it on my finger every thirty

seconds … and now, the very day his parents are coming back from the States, I’ve lost it. The

very same day.

        Professors Antony Tavish and Wanda Brook-Tavish are, at this precise moment, flying

back from six months’ sabbatical in Chicago. I can picture them now, eating honey-roasted

peanuts and reading academic papers on their his ’n’ hers Kindles. I honestly don’t know which

of them is more intimidating.

        Him. He’s so sarcastic.

        No, her. With all that frizzy hair and always asking you questions about your views on

feminism.

        OK, they’re both bloody scary. And they’re landing in about an hour, and of course

they’ll want to see the ring—

        No. Do not hyperventilate, Poppy. Stay positive. I just need to look at this from a

different angle. Like … what would Poirot do? Poirot wouldn’t flap around in panic. He’d stay

calm and use his little gray cells and recall some tiny, vital detail which would be the clue to

everything.

        I squeeze my eyes tight. Little gray cells. Come on. Do your best.

        Thing is, I’m not sure Poirot had three glasses of pink champagne and a mojito before he

solved the Murder on the Orient Express.

        “Miss?” A gray-haired cleaning lady is trying to get round me with a Hoover, and I gasp

in horror. They’re Hoovering the ballroom already? What if they suck it up?

        “Excuse me.” I grab her blue nylon shoulder. “Could you just give me five more minutes

to search before you start Hoovering?”

        “Still looking for your ring?” She shakes her head doubtfully, then brightens. “I expect

you’ll find it safe at home. It’s probably been there all the time!”

        “Maybe.” I force myself to nod politely, although I feel like screaming, “I’m not that

stupid!”

        I spot another cleaner, on the other side of the ballroom, clearing cupcake crumbs and

crumpled paper napkins into a black plastic bin bag. She isn’t concentrating at all. Wasn’t she

listening to me?

        “Excuse me!” My voice shrills out as I sprint across to her. “You are looking out for my

ring, aren’t you?”

        “No sign of it so far, love.” The woman sweeps another load of detritus off the table into

the bin bag without giving it a second glance.

        “Careful!” I grab for the napkins and pull them out again, feeling each one carefully for a

hard lump, not caring that I’m getting buttercream icing all over my hands.

        “Dear, I’m trying to clear up.” The cleaner grabs the napkins out of my hands. “Look at

the mess you’re making!”

        “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” I scrabble for the cupcake cases I dropped on the floor. “But

you don’t understand. If I don’t find this ring, I’m dead.”

        I want to grab the bin bag and do a forensics check of the contents with tweezers. I want

to put plastic tape round the whole room and declare it a crime scene. It has to be here, it has to

be.

        Unless someone’s still got it. That’s the only other possibility that I’m clinging to. One of

my friends is still wearing it and somehow hasn’t noticed. Perhaps it’s slipped into a handbag …

maybe it’s fallen into a pocket … it’s stuck on the threads of a jumper … The possibilities in my

head are getting more and more far-fetched, but I can’t give up on them.

        “Have you tried the ladies’ room?” The woman tries to get past me.

        Of course I’ve tried the ladies’ room. I checked every single cubicle, on my hands and

knees. And then all the basins. Twice. And then I tried to persuade the concierge to close it and

have all the sink pipes investigated, but he refused. He said it would be different if I knew it had

been lost there for certain, and he was sure the police would agree with him, and could I please

step aside from the desk as there were people waiting?

        Police. Bah. I thought they’d come roaring round in their squad cars as soon as I called,

not just tell me to come down to the police station and file a report. I don’t have time to file a

report! I’ve got to find my ring!

        I hurry back to the circular table we were sitting at this afternoon and crawl underneath,

patting the carpet yet again. How could I have let this happen? How could I have been so stupid?

        It was my old school friend Natasha’s idea to get tickets for the Marie Curie Champagne

Tea. She couldn’t come to my official hen spa weekend, so this was a kind of substitute. There

were eight of us at the table, all merrily swigging champagne and stuffing down cupcakes, and it

was right before the raffle started that someone said, “Come on, Poppy, let’s have a go with your

ring.”

        I can’t even remember who that was. Annalise, maybe? Annalise was at university with

me, and now we work together at First Fit Physio, with Ruby, who was also in our physio course.

Ruby was at the tea too, but I’m not sure she tried on the ring. Or did she?

        I can’t believe how rubbish I am at this. How can I do a Poirot if I can’t even remember

the basics? The truth is, everyone seemed to be trying on the ring: Natasha and Clare and Emily

(old school friends up from Taunton), Lucinda (my wedding planner, who’s kind of become a

friend) and her assistant, Clemency, and Ruby and Annalise (not only college friends and

colleagues but my two best friends. They’re going to be my bridesmaids too).

        I’ll admit it: I was basking in all the admiration. I still can’t believe something so grand

and beautiful belongs to me. The fact is, I still can’t believe any of it. I’m engaged! Me, Poppy

Wyatt. To a tall, handsome university lecturer who’s written a book and even been on the TV.

Only six months ago, my love life was a disaster zone. I’d had no significant action for a year

and was reluctantly deciding I should give that match.com guy with the bad breath a second

chance—and now my wedding’s only ten days away! I wake up every morning and look at

Magnus’s smooth, freckled, sleeping back and think, My fiancé, Dr. Magnus Tavish, Fellow of

King’s College London,1 and feel a tiny tweak of disbelief. And then I swivel round and look at

the ring, gleaming expensively on my nightstand, and feel another tweak of disbelief.

        What will Magnus say?

        My stomach clenches and I swallow hard. No. Don’t think about that. Come on, little

gray cells. Get with it.

        I remember that Clare wore the ring for a long time. She really didn’t want to take it off.

Then Natasha started tugging at it, saying, “My turn, my turn!” And I remember calling out,

“Careful!”

        I mean, it’s not like I was irresponsible. I was carefully watching the ring as it was passed

round the table.

         But then my attention was split, because they started calling out the raffle numbers and

the prizes were fantastic. A week in an Italian villa, and a top salon haircut, and a Harvey

Nichols voucher … The ballroom was buzzing, with people pulling out tickets and numbers

being called from the platform and women jumping up and shouting, “Me!”

         And this is the moment where I went wrong. This is the gut-churning, if-only instant. If I

could go back in time, that’s the moment I would march up to myself and say severely, “Poppy,

priorities.”

         But you don’t realize, do you? The moment happens, and you make your crucial mistake,

and then it’s gone and the chance to do anything about it is blown away.

         So what happened was, Clare won Wimbledon tickets in the raffle. I love Clare to bits,

but she’s always been a tad feeble. She didn’t stand up and yell, “Me! Woohoo!” at top volume,

she just raised her hand a few inches. Even those of us at her table didn’t realize she’d won.

         As it dawned on me that Clare was waving a raffle ticket in the air, the presenter on the

platform said, “I think we’ll draw again, if there’s no winner … ”

         “Shout!” I poked Clare and waved my own hand wildly. “Here! The winner’s over here!”

         “And the new number is … 4403.”

         To my disbelief, some dark-haired girl on the other side of the room started whooping

and brandishing a ticket.

         “She didn’t win!” I exclaimed indignantly. “You won.”

         “It doesn’t matter.” Clare was shrinking back.

         “Of course it matters!” I cried out before I could stop myself, and everyone at the table

started laughing.

         “Go, Poppy!” called out Natasha. “Go, White Knightess! Sort it out!”

         “Go, Knightie!”

         This is an old joke. Just because there was this one incident at school, where I started a

petition to save the hamsters, everyone began to call me the White Knightess. Or Knightie, for

short. My so-called catchphrase is apparently “Of course it matters!”2

         Anyway. Suffice it to say that within two minutes I was up on the stage with the

dark-haired girl, arguing with the presenter about how my friend’s ticket was more valid than

hers.

         I know now that I never should have left the table. I never should have left the ring, even

for a second. I can see how stupid that was. But, in my defense, I didn’t know the fire alarm was

going to go off, did I?

         It was so surreal. One minute, everyone was sitting down at a jolly champagne tea. The

next minute, a siren was blaring through the air and everyone was on their feet, heading for the

exits in pandemonium. I could see Annalise, Ruby, and all the others grabbing their bags and

making their way to the back. A man in a suit came onto the stage and started ushering me, the

dark-haired girl, and the presenter toward a side door and wouldn’t let us go the other way.

“Your safety is our priority,” he kept saying.3

         Even then, it’s not as if I was worried. I didn’t think the ring would have gone. I assumed

one of my friends had it safe and I’d meet up with everyone outside and get it back.

         Outside, of course, it was mayhem. As well as our tea, there was some big business

conference happening at the hotel, and all the delegates were spilling out of different doors into

the road. Hotel staff were trying to make announcements into loudspeakers, and cars were

beeping, and it took me ages just to find Natasha and Clare in the mêlée.

“Have you got my ring?” I demanded at once, trying not to sound accusatory. “Who’s got

it?”

         Both of them looked blank.

         “Dunno.” Natasha shrugged. “Didn’t Annalise have it?”

         So then I plunged into the throng to find Annalise, but she didn’t have it; she thought

Clare had it. And Clare thought Clemency had it. And Clemency thought Ruby might have had

it, but hadn’t she gone already?

         The thing about panic is, it creeps up on you. One minute you’re still quite calm, still

telling yourself, Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it can’t be lost. The next, the Marie Curie staff

are announcing that the event will be curtailed early due to unforeseen circumstances and are

handing out goody bags. And all your friends have disappeared to catch the tube. And your

finger is still bare. And a voice inside your head is screeching, Oh my God! I knew this would

happen! Nobody should ever have entrusted me with an antique ring! Big mistake! Big mistake!

         And that’s how you find yourself under a table an hour later, groping around a grotty

hotel carpet, praying desperately for a miracle. (Even though your fiancé’s father has written a

whole bestselling book on how miracles don’t exist and it’s all superstition and even saying

“OMG” is the sign of a weak mind.)4

         Suddenly I realize my phone is flashing and grab it with trembling fingers. Three

messages have come in, and I scroll through them in hope.

         Found it yet? Annalise xx

         Sorry, babe, haven’t seen it. Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to Magnus. N xxx

         Hi Pops! God, how awful, to lose your ring! Actually I thought I saw it … (incoming

text)

         I stare at my phone, galvanized. Clare thought she saw it? Where?

         I crawl out from under the table and wave my phone around, but the rest of the text

resolutely refuses to come through. The signal in here is rubbish. How can this call itself a

five-star hotel? I’ll have to go outside.

         “Hi!” I approach the gray-haired cleaner, raising my voice above the Hoover’s roar. “I’m

popping out to check a text. But if you do find the ring, call me—I’ve given you my mobile

number. I’ll just be on the street.”

         “Right you are, dear,” says the cleaner patiently.

         I hurry through the lobby, dodging groups of conference delegates, slowing slightly as I

pass the concierge’s desk.

         “Any sign of—”

         “Nothing handed in yet, madam.”

         The air outside is balmy, with a hint of summer, even though it’s only mid April. I hope

the weather will still be like this in ten days’ time, because my wedding dress is backless and I’m

counting on a fine day.

         There are wide shallow steps in front of the hotel, and I walk up and down them,

swishing my phone back and forth, trying to get some signal, with no success. At last I head

down onto the actual pavement, waving my phone around more wildly, holding it over my head,

then leaning into the quiet Knightsbridge street, my phone in my outstretched fingertips.

         Come on, phone, I mentally cajole it. You can do it. Do it for Poppy. Fetch the message.

There must be a signal somewhere… . You can do it… .

         “Aaaaaaah!” I hear my own yell of shock before I even clock what’s happened. There’s a

twisting pain in my shoulder. My fingers feel scratched. A figure on a bike is pedaling swiftly

toward the end of the road. I only have time to register an old gray hoodie and skinny black jeans

before the bike turns the corner.

         My hand’s empty. What the hell—

         I stare at my palm in numb disbelief. It’s gone. That guy stole my phone. He bloody stole

it.

         My phone’s my life. I can’t exist without it. It’s a vital organ.

         “Madam, are you all right?” The doorman is hurrying down the steps. “Did something

happen? Did he hurt you?”

         “I … I’ve been mugged,” I somehow manage to stutter. “My phone’s been nicked.”

         The doorman clicks sympathetically. “Chancers, they are. Have to be so careful in an

area like this … ”

         I’m not listening. I’m starting to shake all over. I’ve never felt so bereft and panicky.

What do I do without my phone? How do I function? My hand keeps automatically reaching for

my phone in its usual place in my pocket. Every instinct in me wants to text someone OMG, I’ve

lost my phone! but how can I do that without a bloody phone?

         My phone is my people. It’s my friends. It’s my family. It’s my work. It’s my world. It’s

everything. I feel like someone’s wrenched my life support system away from me.

         “Shall I call the police, madam?” The doorman is peering at me anxiously.

         I’m too distracted to reply. I’m consumed with a sudden, even more terrible realization.

The ring. I’ve handed out my mobile number to everyone: the cleaners, the ladies’ room

attendants, the Marie Curie people, everyone. What if someone finds it? What if someone’s got it

and they’re trying to call me right this minute and there’s no answer because hoody guy has

already chucked my SIM card into the river?

         Oh God.5 I need to talk to the concierge. I’ll give my home number instead—

         No. Bad idea. If they leave a message, Magnus might hear it.6

         OK, so … so … I’ll give my work number. Yes.

         Except no one will be at the physio clinic this evening. I can’t go and sit there for hours,

just in case.

         I’m starting to feel seriously freaked out now. Everything’s unraveling.

         To make matters even worse, as I run back in to the lobby, the concierge is busy. His

desk is surrounded by a large group of conference delegates talking about restaurant reservations.

I try to catch his eye, hoping he’ll beckon me forward as a priority, but he studiously ignores me,

and I feel a twinge of hurt. I know I“ve taken up quite a lot of his time this afternoon—but

doesn’t he realize what a hideous crisis I’m in?

         “Madam.” The doorman has followed me into the lobby, his brow creased with concern.

“Can we get you something for the shock? Arnold!” He briskly calls over a waiter. “A brandy for

the lady, please, on the house. And if you’ll talk to our concierge, he’ll help you with the police.

Would you like to sit down?”

         “No, thanks.” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Maybe I should phone my own

number! Call the mugger! I could ask him to come back, offer him a reward … What do you

think? Could I borrow your phone?”

         The doorman almost recoils as I thrust out a hand.

         “Madam, I think that would be a very foolhardy action,” he says severely. “And I’m sure

the police will agree you should do no such thing. I think you must be in shock. Kindly have a

seat and try to relax.”

         Hmm. Maybe he’s right. I’m not wild about setting up some assignation with a criminal

in a hoody. But I can’t sit down and relax; I’m far too hyper. To calm my nerves, I start walking

round and round the same path, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Past the massive potted

ficus tree … past the table with newspapers … past a big shiny litter bin … back to the ficus. It’s

a comforting little circuit, and I can keep my eyes fixed on the concierge the whole time, waiting

for him to be free.

         The lobby is still bustling with business types. Through the glass doors I can see the

doorman back on the steps, busy hailing taxis and pocketing tips. A squat Japanese man in a blue

suit is standing near me with some European-looking businessmen, exclaiming in what sounds

like loud, furious Japanese and gesticulating at everybody with the conference pass strung round

his neck on a red cord. He’s so short and the other men look so nervous, I almost want to smile.

         The brandy arrives on a salver and I pause briefly to drain it in one, then keep walking in

the same repetitive route.

         Potted ficus … newspaper table … litter bin … potted ficus … newspaper table … litter

bin …

         Now that I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m starting to churn with murderous thoughts. Does

that hoody guy realize he’s wrecked my life? Does he realize how crucial a phone is? It’s the

worst thing you can steal from a person. The worst.

         And it wasn’t even that great a phone. It was pretty ancient. So good luck to hoody guy if

he wants to type B in a text or go on the Internet. I hope he tries and fails. Then he’ll be sorry.

         Ficus … newspapers … bin … ficus … newspapers … bin …

         And he hurt my shoulder. Bastard. Maybe I could sue him for millions. If they ever catch

him, which they won’t.

         Ficus … newspapers … bin …

         Bin.

         Wait.

         What’s that?

         I stop dead in my tracks and stare into the bin, wondering if someone’s playing a trick on

me or I’m hallucinating.

         It’s a phone.

         Right there in the litter bin. A mobile phone.

         1 His specialism is Cultural Symbolism. I speed-read his book, The Philosophy of

Symbolism, after our second date and then tried to pretend I’d read it ages ago, coincidentally,

for pleasure. (Which, to be fair, he didn’t believe for a minute.) Anyway, the point is, I read it.

And what impressed me most was: There were so many footnotes. I’ve totally got into them.

Aren’t they handy? You just bung them in whenever you want and instantly look clever.

         Magnus says footnotes are for things which aren’t your main concern but nevertheless

hold some interest for you. So. This is my footnote about footnotes.

         2 Which, actually, I never say. Just like Humphrey Bogart never said, “Play it again,

Sam.” It’s an urban myth.

         3 Of course, the hotel wasn’t on fire. The system had short-circuited. I found that out

afterward, not that it was any consolation.

         4 Did Poirot ever say “oh my God”? I bet he did. Or “sacrebleu!” which comes to the

same thing. And does this not disprove Antony’s theory, since Poirot’s gray cells are clearly

stronger than anyone else’s? I might point this out to Antony one day. When I’m feeling brave.

(Which, if I’ve lost the ring, will be never, obviously.)

         5 Weak mind.

       6 I’m allowed to give myself at least a chance of getting it back safely and him never

having to know, aren’t I?

2

         I blink a few times and look again—but it’s still there, half hidden amid a couple of

discarded conference programs and a Starbucks cup. What’s a phone doing in a bin?

         I look around to see if anyone’s watching me—then reach in gingerly and pull it out. It

has a couple of drops of coffee on it, but otherwise it seems perfect. It’s a good one too. A Nokia.

New.

         Cautiously, I turn and survey the thronging lobby. Nobody’s paying me the slightest bit

of attention. No one’s rushing up and exclaiming “There’s my phone!” And I’ve been walking

around this area for the last ten minutes. Whoever threw this phone in here did it a while ago.

         There’s a sticker on the back of the phone, with White Globe Consulting Group printed in

tiny letters and a number. Did someone just chuck it away? Is it bust? I press the on switch and

the screen glows. It seems in perfect working order to me.

         A tiny voice in my head is telling me that I should hand it in. Take it up to the front desk

and say, “Excuse me, I think someone’s lost this phone.” That’s what I should do. March up to

the desk right now, like any responsible, civic member of society… .

         My feet don’t move an inch. My hand tightens protectively round the phone. Thing is, I

need a phone. I bet White Globe Consulting Group, whoever that is, has millions of phones. And

it’s not like I found it on the floor or in the ladies’ room, is it? It was in a bin. Things in bins are

rubbish. They’re fair game. They’ve been relinquished to the world. That’s the rule.

         I peer into the bin again and glimpse a red cord, just like the ones round all the delegates’

necks. I check the concierge to make sure he’s not watching, then plunge my hand in again and

pull out a conference pass. A mug shot of a stunningly pretty girl stares back at me, under which

is printed: Violet Russell, White Globe Consulting Group.

         I’m building up a pretty good theory now. I could be Poirot. This is Violet Russell’s

phone and she threw it away. For … some reason or other.

         Well, that’s her fault. Not mine.

         The phone buzzes and I start. Shit! It’s alive. The ring tone begins at top volume—and

it’s Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.” I quickly press ignore, but a moment later it starts up again, loud

and unmistakable.

         Isn’t there a bloody volume control on this thing? A couple of nearby businesswomen

have turned to stare, and I’m so flustered that I jab at talk instead of ignore. The businesswomen

are still watching me, so I press the phone to my ear and turn away.

         “The person you have called is not available,” I say, trying to sound robotic. “Please

leave a message.” That’ll get rid of whoever it is.

         “Where the fuck are you?” A smooth, well-educated male voice starts speaking and I

nearly squeak with astonishment. It worked! He thinks I’m a machine! “I’ve just been talking to

Scottie. He has a contact who reckons he can do it. It’ll be like keyhole surgery. He’s good.

There won’t be any trace.”

         I don’t dare breathe. Or scratch my nose, which is suddenly incredibly itchy.

         “OK,” the man is saying. “So, whatever else you do, be fucking careful.”

         He rings off and I stare at the phone in astonishment. I never thought anyone would

actually leave a message.

        Now I feel a bit guilty. This is a genuine voice mail, and Violet’s missed it. I mean, it’s

not my fault she threw her phone away, but even so … On impulse I scrabble in my bag for a pen

and the only thing I’ve got to write on, which is an old theater program.7 I scribble down: Scottie

has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.

        God alone knows what that’s all about. Liposuction, maybe? Anyway, it doesn’t matter.

The point is, if I ever do meet this Violet girl, I’ll be able to pass it on.

        Before the phone can ring again, I hurry to the concierge’s desk, which has miraculously

cleared.

        “Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Me again. Has anyone found my ring?”

        “May I please assure you, madam,” he says with a frosty smile, “that we would have let

you know if we had found it. We do have your phone number—”

        “No, you don’t!” I cut him off, almost triumphantly. “That’s the thing! The number I

gave you is now … er … defunct. Out of use. Very much so.” The last thing I want is him calling

hoody guy and mentioning a priceless emerald ring. “Please don’t call it. Can you use this

number instead?” I carefully copy the phone number from the back of the White Globe

Consulting phone. “In fact, just to be sure … can I test it?” I reach for the hotel landline phone

and dial the printed number. A moment later Beyoncé starts blasting out of the mobile phone.

OK. At last I can relax a little. I’ve got a number.

        “Madam, was there anything else?”

        The concierge is starting to look quite pissed off, and there’s a queue of people building

behind me. So I thank him again and head to a nearby sofa, full of adrenaline. I have a phone and

I have a plan.

        It only takes me five minutes to write out my new mobile number on twenty separate

pieces of hotel writing paper, with POPPY WYATT—EMERALD RING, PLEASE CALL!!!! in

big capitals. To my annoyance, the doors to the ballroom are now locked (although I’m sure I

can hear the cleaners inside), so I’m forced to roam around the hotel corridors, the tea room, the

ladies’ rooms, and even the spa, handing my number out to every hotel worker I come across and

explaining the story.

        I call the police and dictate my new number to them. I text Ruby—whose mobile number

I know by heart—saying:

        Hi! Phone stolen. This is my new mobile number. Cn u pass to everyone? Any sign of

ring???

        Then I flop onto the sofa in exhaustion. I feel like I’ve been living in this bloody hotel all

day. I should phone Magnus too and give him this number—but I can’t face it yet. I have this

irrational conviction that he’ll be able to tell from my tone of voice that my ring is missing. He’ll

sense my bare finger the minute I say, “Hi.”

        Please come back, ring. Please, PLEASE come back… .

        I’ve leaned back, closed my eyes, and am trying to send a telepathic message through the

ether. So when Beyoncé starts up again, I give a startled jump. Maybe this is it! My ring!

Someone found it! I don’t even check the screen before pressing talk and answering excitedly,

“Hello?”

        “Violet?” A man’s voice hits my ear. It’s not the man who called before; it’s a guy with a

deeper voice. He sounds a bit bad-tempered, if you can tell that just from three syllables.8 He’s

also breathing quite heavily, which means he’s either a pervert or doing some exercise. “Are you

in the lobby? Is the Japanese contingent still there?”

         In reflex, I look around. There are a whole bunch of Japanese people by the doors.

         “Yes, they are,” I say. “But I’m not Violet. This isn’t Violet’s phone anymore. Sorry.

Maybe you could spread the word that her number’s changed?”

         I need to get Violet’s mates off my case. I can’t have them ringing me every five seconds.

         “Excuse me, who is this?” the man demands. “Why are you answering this number?

Where’s Violet?”

         “I possess this phone,” I say, more confidently than I feel. Which is true. Possession is

nine-tenths of the law.9

         “You possess it? What the hell are you—Oh Jesus.” He swears a bit more, and I can hear

distant footsteps. It sounds like he’s running downstairs.10 “Tell me, are they leaving?”

         “The Japanese people?” I squint at the group. “Maybe. Can’t tell.”

         “Is a short guy with them? Overweight? Thick hair?”

         “You mean the man in the blue suit? Yes, he’s right in front of me. Looks pissed off.

Now he’s putting on his mac.”

         The squat Japanese man has been handed a Burberry by a colleague. He’s glowering as

he puts it on, and a constant stream of angry Japanese is coming out of his mouth, as all his

friends nod nervously.

         “No!” The man’s exclamation down the phone takes me by surprise. “He can’t leave.”

         “Well, he is. Sorry.”

         “You have to stop him. Go up to him and stop him leaving the hotel. Go up to him now.

Do whatever it takes.”

         “What?” I stare at the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve never even met you—”

         “Nor me you,” he rejoins. “Who are you, anyway? Are you a friend of Violet? Can you

tell me exactly why she decided to quit her job halfway through the biggest conference of the

year? Does she think I suddenly don’t need a PA anymore?”