Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

I break off, wondering if I’ve gone too far. Sam is looking at me oddly.

         “No, you don’t understand. It makes no sense because I’m not engaged. I don’t have a

fiancée.”

         “But you’re engaged to Willow,” I say stupidly.

         “No, I’m not.”

         “But … ” I stare at him blankly. How can he not be engaged? Of course he’s engaged.

         “Never have been.” He shrugs. “What gave you that idea?”

         “You told me! I know you told me!” My face is screwed up, trying to remember. “At

least … yes! It was in an email. Violet sent it. It said, Sam’s engaged. I know it did.”

         “Oh, that.” His brow clears. “Occasionally I’ve used that as an excuse to get rid of

persistent people.” He adds, as though to make it clear, “Women.”

         “An excuse?” I echo incredulously. “So, who’s Willow, then?”

         “Willow is my ex-girlfriend,” he says after a pause. “We split up two months ago.”

         Ex-girlfriend?

         For a moment, I can’t speak. My brain feels like a fruit machine, whirling round, trying to

find the right combination. I can’t cope with this. He’s engaged. He’s supposed to be engaged.

         “But you—you should have said!” My agitation bursts out at last. “All this time, you let

me think you were engaged!”

         “No, I didn’t. I never mentioned it.” He looks perplexed. “Why are you angry?”

         “I … I don’t know! It’s all wrong.”

         I’m breathing hard, trying to order my thoughts. How can he not be with Willow?

Everything’s different now. And it’s all his fault.80

         “We talked so much about everything.” I try to speak more calmly. “I mentioned Willow

several times and you never specified who she was. How could you be so secretive?”

         “I’m not secretive!” He gives a short laugh. “I would have explained who she was if the

subject had come up. It’s over. It doesn’t matter.”

         “Of course it matters!”

         “Why?”

         I want to scream with frustration. How can he ask why? Isn’t it obvious?

         “Because … because … she behaves as though you’re together.” And suddenly I realize

this is what’s upsetting me the most. “She behaves as though she has every right to rant at you.

That’s why I never doubted you were engaged. What’s that all about?”

         Sam flinches as though with irritation but says nothing.

         “She cc’s your PA! She blurts everything out in public emails! It’s bizarre!”

         “Willow’s always been … an exhibitionist. She likes an audience.” He sounds reluctant

to get into this. “She doesn’t have the same boundaries as other people—”

         “Too right she doesn’t! Do you know how possessive she is? I overheard her talking at

the office.” A loudspeaker starts broadcasting announcements about upcoming stations, but I

raise my voice over the noise. “You know she bitches about you to all the girls at the office? She

told them you’re just going through a bad patch and you need to wake up or you’re going to

realize what you’re about to lose—i.e., her.”

         “We’re not going through a bad patch.” I hear a flash of real anger in his voice. “We’re

over.”

         “Does she know that?”

         “She knows.”

         “Are you sure? Are you totally positive that she realizes?”

         “Of course.” He sounds impatient.

         “It’s not ‘Of course’! How exactly did you break up? Did you sit down and have a proper

talk with her?”

         There’s silence. Sam’s not meeting my eye. He so did not sit down and have a proper talk

with her. I know it. He probably sent her a brief text, saying, Over. Sam.

         “Well, you need to tell her to stop all this ridiculous emailing. Don’t you?” I try to get his

attention. “Sam?”

         He’s checking his phone again. Typical. He doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to talk

about it, he doesn’t want to engage—

         A thought strikes me. Oh my God, of course.

         “Sam, do you ever actually reply to Willow’s emails?”

         He doesn’t, does he? Suddenly it’s all clear. That’s why she starts a fresh one each time.

It’s like she’s pinning messages to a blank wall.

         “So if you never reply, how does she know what you really think?” I raise my voice still

further over the speaker. “Oh, wait, she doesn’t! That’s why she’s so deluded about everything!

That’s why she thinks you still somehow belong to her!”

         Sam isn’t even meeting my eye.

         “God, you are a stubborn fuck!” I yell in exasperation, just as the announcement stops.

         OK. Obviously I wouldn’t have spoken so loudly if I’d realized that was about to happen.

Obviously I wouldn’t have used the f-word. So that mother with her children sitting three rows

away can stop shooting me evil looks as though I’m personally corrupting them.

         “You really are!” I continue in a furious undertone. “You can’t just blank Willow out and

think she’ll go away. You can’t press ignore forever. She won’t go away, Sam. Take it from me.

You need to talk to her and explain exactly what the situation is, and what is wrong with all this,

and—”

         “Look, leave it.” Sam sounds irate. “If she wants to send pointless emails, she can send

pointless emails. It doesn’t bother me.”

         “But it’s toxic! It’s bad! It shouldn’t happen!”

         “You don’t know anything about it,” he snaps. I think I’ve pressed a nerve.

         And by the way, that’s a joke. I don’t know anything about it?

         “I know all about it!” I contradict him. “I’ve been dealing with your in-box, remember?

Mr. Blank, No Reply, Ignore Everything and Everyone.”

         Sam glares at me. “Just because I don’t reply to every email with sixty-five bloody

smiley faces… .”

         He is not turning this against me. What’s better, smiley faces or denial?

         “Well, you don’t reply to anyone,” I retort scathingly. “Not even your own dad!”

         “What?” He sounds scandalised. “What the hell are you going on about now?”

         “I read his email,” I say defiantly. “About how he wants to talk to you and he wishes

you’d come and visit him in Hampshire and he’s got something to tell you. He said you and he

hadn’t talked for ages and he missed the old days. And you didn’t even answer him. You’re

heartless.”

        Sam throws his head back in a roar of laughter. “Oh, Poppy. You really don’t know what

you’re talking about.”

        “I think I do.”

        “I think you don’t.”

        “I think you’ll find I have a little more insight into your own life than you do.”

        I glare at him mutinously. Now I hope Sam’s dad did get my email. Wait till Sam arrives

at the Chiddingford Hotel and finds his father there, all dressed up and hopeful with a rose in his

buttonhole. Then maybe he won’t be so flippant.

        Sam has picked up our phone and is reading the text again.

        “I’m not engaged,” he says, his brows knitted. “I don’t have a fiancée.”

        “Yes, I got that, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “You just have a psychotic ex who thinks she

still owns you even though you broke up two months ago—”

        “No, no.” He shakes his head. “You’re not following. The two of us are effectively

sharing this phone right now, yes?”

        “Yes.” Where’s he going with this?

        “So this message could have been meant for either of us. I don’t have a fiancée, Poppy.”

He raises his head, looking a little grim. “But you do.”

        I stare at him uncomprehendingly for a moment—then it’s as though something icy

trickles down my spine.

        “No. You mean—No. No. Don’t be stupid.” I grab the phone from him. “It says fiancée,

with an extra e.” I find the word and jab at it to prove my point. “See? It’s crystal clear. Fiancée,

feminine.”

        “Agreed.” He nods. “But there is no fiancée, feminine. She doesn’t exist. So … ”

        I stare back at him, feeling a little sick, rerunning the text in my mind with a different

spelling. Your fiancé has been unfaithful.

        No. It couldn’t be …

        Magnus would never—

        There’s a bleeping sound, and we both start. It’s the rest of the text coming in. I snatch up

the phone, read the entire thing through silently, then let it drop down on the table, my head

spinning.

        This can’t be happening. It can’t.

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

unfaithful. It’s someone you know. I’m sorry to do this to you so soon before your wedding,

Poppy. But you should know the truth. Your friend.

        I’m dimly aware of Sam picking up the phone and reading the text.

        “Some friend,” he says at last, sounding grave. “Whoever it is, they’re probably just

stirring. Probably no truth in it at all.”

        “Exactly.” I nod several times. “Exactly. I’m sure it’s made up. Someone trying to freak

me out for no good reason.”

        I’m trying to seem confident, but my trembling voice gives me away.

        “When’s the wedding?”

        “Saturday.”

        Saturday. Four days away and I get a text like that.

        “There isn’t anybody … ” Sam hesitates. “There’s no one you’d … suspect?”

        Annalise.

        It’s in my head before I even know I’m going to think it. Annalise and Magnus.

        “No. I mean … I don’t know.” I turn away, pressing my cheek to the train window.

        I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. Annalise is my friend. I know

she thought Magnus should have been hers, but surely …

        Annalise in her uniform, batting her eyelashes at Magnus. Her hands lingering on his

shoulders.

        No. Stop it. Stop it, Poppy.

        I bring my hands up to my face, screwing my fists into my eye sockets, wanting to rip my

own thoughts out. Why did whoever-it-is have to send that text? Why did I have to read it?

        It can’t be true. It can’t. It’s just scurrilous, hurtful, damaging, horrible …

        A tear has escaped from beneath my fists and snaked down my cheek to my chin. I don’t

know what to do. I don’t know how to tackle this. Do I call Magnus in Bruges? Do I interrupt his

stag do? But what if he’s innocent and he gets angry and the trust between us is ruined?

        “We’re going to be there in a few minutes.” Sam’s voice is low and wary. “Poppy, if

you’re not up for this I’ll totally understand—”

        “No. I am up for it.” I lower my fists, reach for a paper napkin, and blow my nose. “I’m

fine.”

        “You’re not fine.”

        “No. I’m not. But … what can I do?”

        “Text the bastard back. Write Give me a name.”

        I stare at him in slight admiration. That would never even have occurred to me.

        “OK.” I swallow hard, gathering my courage. “OK. I’ll do it.” As I reach for the phone, I

feel better already. At least I’m doing something. At last I’m not sitting here, wondering in

pointless agony. I finish the text, press send with a tiny surge of adrenaline, and slurp the last of

my tea. Come on, Unknown Number. Bring it on. Tell me what you’ve got.

        “Sent?” Sam has been watching me.

        “Yup. Now I’ll just have to wait and see what they say.”

        The train is pulling into Basingstoke, and passengers are heading for the doors. I dump

my cup in the litter bin, grab my bag, and stand up too.

        “That’s enough about my stupid problems.” I force myself to smile at Sam. “Come on.

Let’s go and sort yours.”

        78 I’ve read four chapters, to be truthful.

        79 I can say that because he’s my fiancé and I love him.

        80 I don’t quite know how. But I feel instinctively that it is.

12

        Chiddingford Hotel is large and impressive, with a beautiful main Georgian house at the

end of a long drive and some less lovely glass buildings half hidden behind a big hedge. But I

seem to be the only one appreciating it as we arrive. Sam isn’t in the best of moods. There was a

problem getting a cab, then we got stuck behind some sheep, and then the taxi driver got lost.

Sam has been texting furiously ever since we got into our taxi, and as we arrive, two men in

suits, whom I don’t recognize are waiting for us on the front steps.

        Sam thrusts some notes at the driver and opens the taxi door almost before it brakes.

“Poppy, excuse me a moment. Hi, guys … ”

         The three of them huddle on the gravel, and I get out more slowly. The taxi pulls away

and I look around at the manicured gardens. There are croquet lawns and topiary and even a little

chapel, which I bet is lovely for weddings. The place seems empty, and there’s a freshness to the

air which makes me shiver. Maybe I’m nervous. Maybe it’s delayed shock.

         Or maybe it’s standing here in the middle of nowhere, not knowing what the hell I’m

doing here, with my personal life about to collapse in ruins around me.

         I pull out my phone for companionship. The feel of it sitting in my hand comforts me a

little, but not enough. I read the Unknown Number text a few more times again, just to torture

myself, then compose a text to Magnus. After a few false starts I have it exactly right.

         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 all 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 mêlée. People are grabbing drinks from waiters and

greeting each other 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 [email protected],

cc’ed to [email protected], 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.WillowI 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.

        “Great. We’ll talk later.” Sam’s voice rises above the hubbub. “Poppy, few more people

I’d like you to meet.”

        “OK.” I snap to attention, thrusting my phone away. “Let’s do it.”

        We circulate around the rest of the room. Sam’s list is covered with ticks. I must have

listened to nearly every male voice in the company, and I haven’t heard anybody who sounds

anything like the guy on the phone. I’m even starting to wonder whether I’m remembering him

right. Or whether I hallucinated the whole thing.

        As we head along a carpeted corridor toward the open terrace doors, I can tell Sam is

low. I feel pretty low myself.

        “Sorry,” I mutter.

        “Not your fault.” He looks up and seems to clock my mood. “Poppy, seriously. I know

you’re doing your best.” His face crinkles for a moment. “Hey, and I’m sorry about Willow.”

        “Oh.” I brush it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

        We walk in silence for a few moments. I want to say something like, “Thanks for sticking

up for me,’ but I’m too awkward. I feel like I shouldn’t really have been inside that email

exchange.

        The terrace is covered in lanterns, and there are a few clusters of people but not nearly as

many as there were inside. I suppose it’s too cold. But it’s shame, because there’s actually quite a

nice partylike atmosphere out here. There’s a bar, and a couple of people are even dancing. On

the corner of the terrace, a guy holding a TV camera seems to be interviewing a pair of giggling

girls.

        “So, maybe we’ll strike lucky.” I try to sound upbeat.

        “Maybe.” Sam nods, but I can tell he’s given up.

        “What happens if we don’t find him out here?”

        “Then … we tried.” Sam’s face is taut, but for the briefest of moments his smile pops out.

“We tried.”

        “OK. Well, let’s do it.” I put on my best motivational

you-can-get-mobility-back-into-that-hip-joint voice. “Let’s try.”

        We head out and Sam launches into the same old routine.

        “Hi there, gang! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look

round. Poppy, this is James. James, why don’t you tell Poppy what your line is? And here’s

Brian, and this is Rhys.”

        It’s not James or Brian or Rhys. Or Martin or Nigel.

        Every name on Sam’s list is ticked off. I almost want to cry when I look at his face. At

last we step away from a group of interns who weren’t even on the list and can’t possibly be

Scottie.

        We’re done.

        “I’ll phone Vicks,” Sam says, his voice a little heavy. “Poppy, thanks for giving up your

time. It was a stupid plan.”

        “It wasn’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “It … could have worked.”

        Sam looks up and for a moment we just stand there.

        “You’re very kind,” he says at last.

        “Hi, Sam! Hi, guys!” A girl’s raised voice makes me flinch. Maybe I’m sensitive because

I’ve been listening more carefully to the way people speak—but this voice is setting my teeth on

edge. I turn to see a bubbly-looking girl with a pink scarf tied in her hair approaching us with the

TV camera guy, who has a dark crew cut and jeans.

        Uh-oh.

        “Hi, Amanda.” Sam nods. “What’s up?”