Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Poppy Wyatt.”

        I wait while she turns away and makes a call on her cell phone. I’m trying to stand there

patiently, but I’m barely able to contain myself. Those messages are something to do with this

whole memo thing. I know they are.

        “I’m sorry.” The girl faces me with professional pleasantness. “Sam is unavailable right

now.”

        “Could you tell him it’s urgent?” I shoot back. “Please?”

        Clearly restraining a desire to tell me to go away, the girl turns and makes another call,

which lasts all of thirty seconds.

        “I’m sorry.” Another frozen smile. “Mr. Roxton is busy for the remainder of the day, and

most of the other staff are away at the company conference. Perhaps you should phone his

assistant and make an appointment. Now, if you could please make way for our other guests?”

         She’s ushering me out of the main doors. Make way clearly means piss off.

         “Look, I need to see him.” I duck round her and start heading for the escalators. “Please

let me go up there. It’ll be fine.”

         “Excuse me!” she says, grabbing me by the sleeve. “You can’t just march in there!

Thomas?”

         Oh, you have to be kidding. She’s calling over the security guard. What a wimp.

         “But it’s a real emergency.” I appeal to both of them. “He’ll want to see me. ’

         “Then call and make an appointment!” she snaps, as the security guard leads me to the

main doors.

         “Fine!” I snap back. “I will! I’ll call right now! See you in two minutes!” I stomp onto

the pavement and reach into my pocket.

         And then the full horror hits me. I don’t have a phone.

         I don’t have a phone.

         I’m powerless. I can’t get into the building and I can’t ring Sam. I can’t tell him about

this. I can’t do anything. Why didn’t I buy a new phone earlier? Why don’t I always walk around

with a spare phone? It should be the law, like having a spare tire.

         “Excuse me?” I hurry over to the window cleaner. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”

         “Sorry, love.” He clicks his teeth. “I do, but it’s out of battery.”

         “Right.” I smile, breathless with anxiety. “Thanks anyway—oh!”

         I stop midstream, peering through the glass into the building. God loves me! There’s

Sam! He’s standing twenty yards away in the lobby, talking animatedly to some guy in a suit

holding a leather briefcase. Maybe that’s Julian from legal.

         As they head towards the lifts, I push open the main doors, but Thomas the security guard

is waiting for me.

         “I don’t think so,” he says, blocking my way.

         “But I need to get in.”

         “If you could step aside—”

         “But he’ll want to see me! Sam! Over here! It’s Poppy! Saaam!” I yell, but someone’s

moving a sofa in the reception area, and the scraping sound on the marble drowns me out.

         “No, you don’t!” says the security guard firmly. “Out you go.” His hands are around my

shoulders and, the next thing, I find myself back on the pavement, panting in outrage.

         I can’t believe that just happened. He threw me out! I’ve never been physically thrown

out of anywhere in my life. I didn’t think they were allowed to do that.

         A crowd of people has arrived at the entrance and I stand aside to let them go in, my

thoughts skittering wildly. Should I hurry down the street and try to find a pay phone? Should I

try to get in again? Should I make a run for it into the lobby and see how far I get before I’m

tackled to the ground? Sam’s standing in front of the lifts now, still talking to the guy with the

leather briefcase. He’ll be gone in a few moments. It’s torture. If I could only attract his attention

…

         “No luck?” says the window cleaner sympathetically from the top of his ladder. He’s

covered an entire massive pane of glass with suds and is about to wipe them off with his scraper

thing.

         And then it comes to me.

         “Wait!” I call urgently up to him. “Don’t wipe! Please!”

        I’ve never written in soap suds in my life before, but luckily I’m not aiming for anything

very ambitious. Just MAS. In six-foot-high letters. A bit wobbly—but who’s fussing?

        “Nice job,” says the window cleaner approvingly from where he’s sitting. “You could

come into business with me.”

        “Thanks,” I say modestly, and wipe my brow, my arm aching.

        If Sam doesn’t see that, if someone doesn’t notice it and poke him on the shoulder and

say, “Hey, look at that—”

        “Poppy?”

        I turn and look down from my perch on the window cleaner’s ladder. Sam’s standing

there on the pavement, looking up at me incredulously.

        “Is that addressed to me?”

        We travel upstairs in silence. Vicks is waiting in Sam’s office, and as she sees me she

bangs her forehead with the heel of her hand.

        “This had better be good,” says Sam tersely, closing the glass door behind us. “I have

five minutes. There’s a bit of an emergency going on—”

        I feel a flash of anger. Does he think I don’t realize that? Does he think I wrote SAM in

six-foot sudsy letters on a whim?

        “I appreciate that,” I say, matching his curt tone. “I just thought you might be interested

in these messages, which came in to Violet’s phone last week. This phone.” I reach for the

phone, still lying on his desk.

        “Whose phone is that?” says Vicks, eyeing me with suspicion.

        “Violet’s,” replies Sam. “My PA? Clive’s daughter? Shot off to be a model?”

        “Oh, her.” Vicks frowns again and jerks a thumb at me. “Well, what was she doing with

Violet’s phone?”

        Sam and I exchange glances.

        “Long story,” says Sam at last. “Violet threw it away. Poppy was … babysitting it.”

        “I got a couple of messages, which I wrote down.” I put the Lion King program down

between them and read the messages out for good measure, as I know my writing isn’t that clear.

“Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.” I point at the program.

“This second message was a few days later, from Scottie himself. It’s done. Surgical strike. No

trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa Claus.” I let the words sink in a moment before I add, “The first

message was from Justin Cole.”

        “Justin?” Sam looks alert.

        “I didn’t recognize his voice at the time, but I do now. It was him talking about keyhole

surgery and no trace.”

        “Vicks.” Sam is looking at her. “Come on. You’ve got to see now—”

        “I see nothing! Just a few random words. How can we even be sure it was Justin?”

        Sam turns to me. “Are these voice mails? Can we still listen to them?”

        “No. They were just … you know. Phone messages. They left them and I wrote them

down.”

        Vicks looks perplexed. “OK, this makes no sense. Did you introduce yourself? Why

would Justin have left a message with you?” She exhales angrily. “Sam, I don’t have time for

this.”

        “He didn’t realize I was a person,” I explain, flushing. “I pretended to be an answering

machine.”

        “What?” She stares at me, uncomprehending.

         “You know.” I put on my voice-mail-lady voice. “I’m afraid the person you’ve called is

not available. Please leave a message. And then he left the message and I wrote them down.”

         Sam gives a muffled snort of laughter, but Vicks looks speechless. She picks up the Lion

King program, frowning at the words, then flicking through to the inside pages, although the

only information she’ll find there is the actors’ biographies. At last she puts it back down on the

table. “Sam, this means nothing. It changes nothing.”

         “It does not mean nothing.” He shakes his head adamantly. “This is it! Right here.” He

jabs a thumb at the program. “This is what’s been going on.”

         “But what’s been going on?” Her voice rises in exasperation. “Who’s Scottie, for fuck’s

sake?”

         “He called Sir Nicholas ‘Santa Claus.’ ” Sam’s face is screwed up with thought. “Which

means it’s likely to be someone in the company. But where? In IT?”

         “Is Violet anything to do with it?” I venture. “It was her phone, after all.”

         There’s silence for a moment—then Sam shakes his head, almost regretfully.

         “She was only here for about five minutes, and her father’s a good friend of Sir

Nicholas… . I just can’t believe she’s involved.”

         “So why did they leave messages for her? Did they have the wrong number or

something?”

         “Unlikely.” Sam wrinkles his nose. “I mean, why this number?”

         Automatically I look at the phone, flashing away on the desk. I wonder in a detached way

if I’ve got any voice mails. But somehow, right at this minute, the rest of my life seems a million

miles away. The world has shrunk to this room. Both Sam and Vicks have sunk into chairs and I

follow suit.

         “Who had Violet’s phone before her?” says Vicks suddenly. “It’s a company phone. She

was only here for, what, three weeks? Could it have been someone else’s number previously and

those messages were left by mistake?”

         “Yes!” I look up, galvanized. “People are always calling the wrong number by mistake.

And emailing the wrong address. I even do it myself. You forget to delete it and press the

contact’s name and the old number pops up and you don’t realize. Especially if you go to some

generic voice mail.”

         I can see Sam’s mind working overtime.

         “Only one way to find out,” he says, reaching for a landline phone on the desk. He jabs in

a three-digit speed-dial and waits.

         “Hi, Cynthia. Sam here,” he says easily. “Just a quick question about the cell phone that

was allocated to Violet, my PA. I was wondering: Did anyone else have it before her? Did

anyone else ever have that number?”

         As he listens, his face changes. He makes a fierce, silent gesture at Vicks, who shrugs

back helplessly.

         “Great,” he says. “Thanks, Cynthia—”

         From the stream of tinny sound coming from the phone, it’s clear this Cynthia likes to

talk.

         “I’d better go… .” Sam is rolling his eyes desperately. “Yes, I know the phone should

have been delivered back… . No, we haven’t misplaced it, don’t worry… . Yes, very

unprofessional. No warning… . I know, company property … I’ll pop it along … yes … yes … ”

         At last he manages to extricate himself. He puts the receiver down and is silent for an

agonizing three seconds before turning to Vicks.

         “Ed.”

         “No.” Vicks breathes.

         Sam has picked up the phone and is staring incredulously at it. “This was Ed’s company

phone till four weeks ago. Then it was reassigned to Violet. I had no idea.” Sam turns to me. “Ed

Exton was—”

         “I remember.” I nod. “Finance director. Fired. Suing the company.”

         “Jesus.” Vicks seems genuinely shell-shocked. She’s sagged back against her chair. “Ed.”

         “Who else?” Sam seems absolutely wired by this discovery. “Vicks, this isn’t just an

orchestrated plan, it’s a bloody three-movement symphony. Nick is smeared. Bruce axes him

because he’s a pusillanimous asshole. The board needs another CEO, quick. Ed kindly

announces he’ll drop his lawsuit and step back in to save the day; Justin’s nest is feathered.”

         “They’d really go to all that trouble?” says Vicks skeptically.

         Sam’s mouth twists into a half smile. “Vicks, do you have any idea quite how much Ed

loathes Nick? Some hacker was paid good money to change that memo and remove the old one

from the system. I reckon Ed would spend a hundred grand to ruin Nick’s reputation. Two

hundred, even.”

         Vicks’s face twists with distaste.

         “This would never happen if the company was run by women,” she says at last. “Never.

Bloody macho … twats.” She gets to her feet and heads over to the window, staring out at the

traffic, her arms hunched around her body.

         “The question is: Who made this happen? Who actually executed it?” Sam is sitting on

his desk, tapping his pen against his knuckles in an urgent drumbeat, his face taut with

concentration. “Scottie. Who’s that? Someone Scottish?”

         “He didn’t actually sound Scottish,” I volunteer. “Maybe his nickname’s a joke?”

         Sam suddenly focuses on me, the light dawning on his face. “That’s it. Of course. Poppy,

would you know his voice again if you heard it?”

         “Sam!” Vicks interrupts sharply before I can answer. “No way. You can’t be serious.”

         “Vicks, would you step out of denial for one second?” Sam rises to his feet, erupting in

fury. “The faked memo wasn’t an accident. The leak to ITN wasn’t an accident. This is

happening. Someone did this to Nick. This isn’t just a matter of hushing up a little bit of

embarrassing”—He gropes for a moment—“I don’t know, Facebook activity. It’s a smear. It’s

fraud.”

         “It’s a theory.” She squares up to him. “Nothing more, Sam. A few words on a fucking

Lion King program.”

         I feel a bit hurt. It’s not my fault all I had with me was a Lion King program.

         “We need to identify this guy Scottie.” Sam turns to me. “Would you know his voice if

you heard it again?”

         “Yes,” I say, a little nervous at his intensity.

         “You’re sure?”

         “Yes!”

         “Right. Well, let’s do it. Let’s go and find him.”

         “Sam, stop right now!” Vicks sounds furious. “You’re insane! What are you going to do,

get her to listen to every staff member talk till she hears that voice?”

         “Why not?” says Sam mutinously.

         “Because it’s the most ridiculous fucking idea I’ve ever heard!” Vicks explodes. “That’s

why not!”

         Sam regards her steadily, then turns to me. “Come on, Poppy. We’ll trawl the building.”

         Vicks is shaking her head. “And if she does recognize his voice? Then what? Citizen’s

arrest?”

         “Then it’ll be a start,” says Sam. “Ready, Poppy?”

         “Poppy.” Vicks comes over and faces me head-on. Her cheeks are pink and she’s

breathing hard. “I have no idea who you are. But you don’t have to listen to Sam. You don’t have

to do this. You owe him nothing. This is all nothing to do with you.”

         “She doesn’t mind,” says Sam. “Do you, Poppy?”

         Vicks ignores him. “Poppy, I strongly advise you to leave. Now.”

         “That’s not the kind of girl Poppy is,” says Sam with a scowl. “She doesn’t bail out on

people. Do you?” He meets my eyes, and his gaze is so unexpectedly warm, I feel an inward

glow.

         I turn to Vicks. “You’re wrong. I do owe Sam one. And Sir Nicholas is a potential patient

at my physio practice, actually. So he is something to do with me too.”

         I quite liked dropping that in, although I bet Sir Nicholas never does make it down to

Balham.

         “And anyway,” I continue, lifting my chin nobly, “whoever it was, whether I knew them

or not, if I could help in some way, I would. I mean, if you can help, you have to help. Don’t you

think?”

         Vicks stares at me for a moment, as though trying to work me out—then gives a strange,

wry smile.

         “OK. Well, you got me. I can’t argue against that.”

         “Let’s go.” Sam makes for the door.

         I grab my bag and wish yet again that my T-shirt didn’t have a huge great splotch on it.

         “Hey, Wallander,” Vicks chimes in sarcastically. “Small point. In case you’d forgotten,

everyone’s either at the conference or on their way to the conference.”

         There’s another silence, apart from Sam tapping his pen furiously again. I don’t dare

speak. I certainly don’t dare look at Vicks.

         “Poppy,” says Sam at last. “Do you have a few hours? Could you come down to

Hampshire?”

         77 Or than I do, for that matter. Not that anyone’s asked me.

11

        This is totally surreal. And thrilling. And a bit of a pain. All at the same time.

        It’s not that I’m regretting my noble gesture, exactly. I still mean what I said in the office.

How could I possibly walk away? How could I not at least try to help Sam out? But, on the other

hand, I thought it would take about half an hour. Not a train journey down to Hampshire, just for

starters.

        I’m supposed to be at the hairdresser’s right now. I’m supposed to be talking about updos

and trying on my tiara. Instead, I’m on Waterloo station concourse, buying a cup of tea and

clutching the phone, which, needless to say, I grabbed from the desk as we left. Sam could

hardly complain. I’ve texted Sue to tell her that I’m really sorry, I’ll have to miss the

appointment with Louis, but of course I’ll pay the whole fee and please give Louis my love.

        I looked at it after I’d finished typing it, and I deleted half the kisses. Then I put them

back in again. Then I took them out again. Maybe five is enough.

         Now I’m waiting for Magnus to pick up. He’s leaving for his stag trip to Bruges this

afternoon, so it’s not like I was going to see him, but still. I feel like if I don’t at least ring him,

it’ll be wrong.

         “Oh, hi, Magnus!”

         “Pops!” The line is terrible, and I can hear the public-address system in the background.

“We’re about to board. You OK?”

         “Yes! I just wanted to … ” I trail off, not sure where I’m going with this.

         Just wanted to tell you that I’m off to Hampshire with a man you know nothing about,

embroiled in a situation you know nothing about.

         “I’ll … be out tonight,” I say lamely. “In case you call.”

         There. That’s honest. Kind of.

         “OK!” He laughs. “Well, you have fun. Sweets, I’ve got to go.”

         “OK! Bye! Have a good time!” The phone goes dead and I look up to see Sam watching

me. I tug my shirt self-consciously, wishing again that I’d popped to the shops. It turns out that

Sam does keep a spare shirt in his office, and my T-shirt was so frightful that I borrowed it. But

it makes the situation even stranger, wearing his stripy Turnbull & Asser.

         “Saying goodbye to Magnus,” I explain needlessly, as he’s been standing there the whole

time and must have heard every word.

         “That’ll be two pounds.” The woman at the sandwich shop hands me my cup.

         “Thanks! Right … shall we go?”

         As Sam and I walk down the concourse and get into the carriage, I feel unreal. I’m stiff

with awkwardness. We must look like a couple to anyone watching. What if Willow sees us?

         No. Don’t be paranoid. Willow was on the second coach to the conference. She sent an

email to Sam, telling him. And, anyway, it’s not like Sam and I are doing anything illicit. We’re

just … friends.

         No, friends doesn’t feel right. Not colleagues either. Not really acquaintances …

         OK. Let’s face it. It’s weird.

         I glance over at Sam to see if he’s thinking the same, but he’s staring blankly out the train

window. The train jolts and moves off down the tracks, and he comes to. As he catches me

gazing at him, I quickly look away.

         I’m trying to appear relaxed, but secretly I’m feeling more and more freaked out. What

have I agreed to? Everything rests on my memory. It’s up to me, Poppy Wyatt, to identify some

voice I heard down a phone days ago, for about twenty seconds. What if I fail?

         I take a sip of tea to calm myself, and I wince. First the soup was too cold. Now this is

too hot. The train starts rushing along the tracks and a spot of tea jumps out of the lid, scalding

my hand.

         “OK?” Sam’s noticed me.

         “Fine.” I smile.

         “Can I be honest?” he says bluntly. “You don’t look fine.”

         “I’m good!” I protest. “I’m just … you know. There’s a lot going on at the moment.”

         Sam nods.

         “I’m sorry we never got to go through those confrontation techniques I promised.”

         “Oh! That.” I brush it off with a hand. “This is more important.”

         “Don’t say, ‘Oh! That.’ ” Sam shakes his head, looking exasperated. “That’s what I’m

talking about. You automatically put yourself second.”

         “I don’t! I mean … you know.” I shrug awkwardly. “Whatever.”

         The train pulls up at Clapham Junction, and a group of people files into the carriage. For

a while Sam is engrossed in texting. His phone has been constantly flashing, and I can only

imagine how many messages are flying around. Eventually though, he puts the phone back in his

pocket and leans forward, resting his elbow on the little table between us.

         “Everything OK?” I ask timidly, immediately realizing what an inane question this is. To

his credit, Sam ignores it.

         “I have a question for you,” he says calmly. “What is it about these Tavishes that makes

you feel as though they’re superior? Is it the titles? The doctorates? The brains?”

         Not this again.

         “Everything! It’s obvious! They’re just … I mean, you respect Sir Nicholas, don’t you?”

I throw back at him defensively. “Look at all this effort you’re making for him. It’s because you

respect him.”

         “Yes, I respect him. Of course I do. But I don’t feel as though I’m inherently inferior to

him. He doesn’t make me feel like a second-class citizen.”

         “I don’t feel like a second-class citizen! You don’t know anything about it. So … stop!”

         “OK.” Sam lifts his hands up high. “If I’m wrong, I apologize. It’s only an impression

I’ve got. I only wanted to help, as a … ” I can sense him reaching for the word friend, then

rejecting it, like I did. “I just wanted to help,” he ends finally. “But it’s your life. I’ll butt out.”

         There’s silence for a while. He’s stopped. He’s given up. I’ve won.

         Why don’t I feel like I’ve won?

         “Excuse me.” Sam puts his phone to his ear. “Vicks. What’s up?”

         He heads out of the carriage and, without meaning to, I exhale in a massive sigh. The

gnawing pain is back, nestling beneath my ribs. But right now I can’t tell if it’s because the

Tavishes don’t want me to marry Magnus, or because I’m trying to deny it, or because I’m

nervous about this whole escapade, or because my tea’s too strong.

         For a while I sit there, gazing down at my steaming tea, wishing that I’d never heard the

Tavishes arguing in the church. That I knew nothing. That I could blot that gray cloud out of my

life and go back to lucky, lucky me, isn’t everything perfect?

         Sam takes his seat again, and there’s silence for a few moments. The train has come to a

halt in the middle of nowhere, and it’s oddly quiet without the sound of the engine.

         “OK.” I stare down at the little Formica table. “OK.”

         “OK what?”

         “OK, you’re not wrong.”

         Sam says nothing, just waits. The train jolts and lurches, like a horse deciding whether to

behave, then slowly begins moving off again down the tracks.

         “But I’m not making this up in my head or whatever you think.” I hunch my shoulders

miserably. “I overheard the Tavishes, OK? They don’t want Magnus to marry me. I’ve done

everything I can. I’ve played Scrabble and I’ve tried making conversation and I’ve even read

Antony’s book.78 But I’ll never be like them. Never.”

         “Why should you?” Sam looks perplexed. “Why would you want to?”

         “Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “Why would anyone want to be a really brainy celebrity

who goes on TV?”

         “Antony Tavish has a big brain,” says Sam steadily. “Having a big brain is like having a

big liver or a big nose. Why do you feel insecure? What if he had a huge lower intestine? Would

you feel insecure then?”

         I can’t help giggling.

         “He’s a freak, strictly speaking.” Sam presses on. “You’re marrying into a family of

freaks. To be in the outermost centile of anything is freakish. Next time you’re intimidated by

them, imagine a big neon sign over their heads, reading, FREAKS!”

         “That’s not what you really think.” I’m smiling but shaking my head.

         “It is absolutely what I think.” He looks deadly serious now. “These academic guys have

to feel important. They give papers and present TV shows to show they’re useful and valuable.

But you do useful, valuable work every day. You don’t need to prove anything. How many

people have you treated? Hundreds. You’ve reduced their pain. You’ve made hundreds of people

happier. Has Antony Tavish made anyone happier?”

         I’m sure there’s something wrong with what he’s saying, but right now I can’t work out

what it is. All I can do is feel a little glow. That had never occurred to me before. I’ve made

hundreds of people happier.

         “What about you? Have you?” I can’t help saying, and Sam shoots me a wry smile.

         “I’m working on it.”

         The train slows as it passes though Woking, and we both instinctively look out the

window. Then Sam turns back. “The point is, it’s not about them. It’s about you. You and him.

Magnus.”

         “I know,” I say at last. “I know it is.”

         It sounds strange, hearing Magnus’s name on his lips. It feels all wrong.

         Magnus and Sam are so very different. It’s like they’re made out of different stuff.

Magnus is so shiny, so mercurial, so impressive, so sexy. But a teeny-weeny bit self-obsessed.79

Whereas Sam is so … straight and strong. And generous. And kind. You just know he’d always

be there for you, whatever.

         Sam looks at me now and smiles, as though he can read my thoughts, and my heart

experiences that tiny fillip it always does when he smiles.

         Lucky Willow.

         I give an inward gasp at my own thought and take a gulp of tea to cover my

embarrassment.

         That popped into my head with no warning. And I didn’t mean it. Or, rather, yes, I did

mean it but simply in the sense that I wish them both well, as a disinterested friend—no, not

friend …

         I’m blushing.

         I’m blushing at my own stupid, nonsensical, meaningless thought process, which, by the

way, nobody knows about except me. So I can relax. I can stop this now and drop the ridiculous

idea that Sam can read my mind and knows I fancy him—

         No. Stop. Stop. That’s ridiculous.

         This is just—

         Erase the word fancy. I do not. I do not.

         “Are you OK?” Sam gives me a curious look. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset

you.”

         “No!” I say quickly. “You haven’t! I appreciate it. Really.”

         “Good. Because—” He breaks off to answer his phone. “Vicks. Any news?”

         As Sam heads outside for another call, I gulp my tea, staring fixedly out the window,

willing my blood to cool and my brain to go blank. I need to backtrack. I need to reboot. Do not

save changes.

         To establish a more businesslike atmosphere, I reach in my pocket for the phone, check it

for messages, then put it on the table. There’s nothing on general email about the memo

crisis—clearly it’s all going on between a select number of high-level colleagues.

         “You do know you have to buy another phone at some point,” says Sam, raising an

eyebrow as he returns. “Or are you planning to purloin all your phones from bins from now on?”

         “It’s the only place.” I shrug. “Bins and skips.”

         The phone buzzes with an email and I automatically reach for it, but Sam gets there first.

His hand brushes against mine, and our eyes lock.

         “Might be for me.”

         “True.” I nod. “Go ahead.”

         He checks it, then shakes his head. “Wedding-trumpeter bill. All yours.”

         With a little grin of triumph, I take the phone from him. I send a quick reply to Lucinda,

then put it back on the table. As it buzzes again a few moments later, we both make a grab and I

just beat him.

         “Shirt sale.” I pass it to him. “Not really my thing.” Sam deletes the email, then replaces

the phone on the table.

         “In the middle!” I shift it an inch. “Cheat.”

         “Put your hands on your lap,” he retorts. “Cheat.”

         There’s silence. We’re both sitting poised, waiting for the phone to buzz. Sam looks so

deadly intent I feel a laugh rising. Someone else’s phone rings across the carriage, and Sam

makes a half grab for ours before realizing.

         “Tragic,” I murmur. “Doesn’t even know the ring tone.”

         Ours bleeps with a text, and Sam’s momentary hesitation is just enough for me to scoop

the phone up out of his grasp.

         “Ha-ha! And I bet it’s for me… .”

         I click on the text and peer at it. It’s from an unknown number and only half the message

has come in, but I can work out the gist—

         I read it again. And again. I look up at Sam and lick my suddenly dry lips. Never in a

million years was I expecting this.

         “Is it for you?” says Sam.

         “No.” I swallow. “For you.”

         “Vicks?” His hand is already outstretched. “She shouldn’t be using that number—”

         “No, not Vicks. Not work. It’s … it’s … personal.”

         Yet again I read it over, not wanting to relinquish the phone until I’m absolutely sure of

what I’m seeing.

         I’m not sure if this is the right number. But I had to let you know. Your fiancée has been

unfaithful. It’s with someone you know. (Incoming text)

         I knew it. I knew she was a bitch, and this proves she’s even worse than I thought.

         “What is it?” Sam bangs his hand impatiently on the table. “Give. Is it to do with the

conference?”

         “No!” I knit my hands around the phone. “Sam, I’m really sorry. And I wish I hadn’t seen

this first. But it says … ” I hesitate, agonized. “It says Willow’s being unfaithful to you. I’m

sorry.”

         Sam looks absolutely shocked. As I hand the phone over, I feel a wrenching sympathy for

him. Who the hell sends that kind of news in a text?

         I bet she’s shagging Justin Cole. Those two would totally suit each other.

         I’m scanning Sam’s face for distress, but after that initial flash of shock, he seems

extraordinarily calm. He frowns, flicks to the end of the text, then puts the phone back down on

the table.

         “Are you OK?” I can’t help venturing.

         He shrugs. “Makes no sense.”

         “I know!” I’m so stirred up on his behalf, I can’t help throwing in my views. “Why

would she do that? And she gives you such a hard time! She’s such a hypocrite! She’s horrible!”