Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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        “We’re filming all the conference guests,” she says cheerfully. “Just a little shout-out, say

hi, we’ll show it at the gala dinner.”

        The TV camera is pointing in my face, and I flinch. I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t

do a “little shout-out.”

        “Anything you like,” Amanda prompts me. “A personal message, a joke … ” She

consults her list, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what department you’re in… .”

        “Poppy’s a guest,” says Sam.

        “Oh!” The girl’s brow clears. “Lovely! Tell you what, since you’re a special guest, why

don’t you do our Q and A interview? What do you think, Ryan? Do you know Ryan?” she adds

to Sam. “He’s on an internship from the LSE for six months. He’s been doing all our

promotional filming. Hey, Ryan, get a close-up. Poppy’s a special guest!”

        What? I’m not a “special guest.” I want to escape, but somehow I feel pinned to the spot

by the TV camera.

        “Just introduce yourself and Ryan will ask the questions!” says the girl brightly. “So, tell

us your name.”

        “Hi,” I say reluctantly to the camera. “I’m … Poppy.” This is so stupid. What am I going

to say to a conference of strangers?

        Maybe I’ll do a shout-out to Willow.

        Hey, Willow the Witch. You know how you think I’m ‘parading around’ with your

boyfriend? Well, here’s the news flash. He’s not your boyfriend anymore.

        The thought makes me snort, and Amanda gives me an encouraging smile.

        “That’s right! Enjoy yourself. Ryan, do you want to start the Q and A?”

        “Sure. So, Poppy, what do you think of the conference so far?”

        The high-pitched, reedy voice which comes from behind the camera hits my ears like a

twenty-volt shock.

        It’s him.

        That’s the voice I heard down the phone. This person talking to me now. This guy, with a

crew cut and a camera on his shoulder. This is him.

        “Having fun?” he prompts me, and my brain explodes with recognition again. The

memory of his voice on the phone is running through my head like a TV sports replay.

        It’s Scottie. It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike.

        “Which was your favorite speech of the conference?”

        “She didn’t go to any of the speeches,” interjects Sam.

        “Oh. OK.”

        No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself. Adiós, Santa Claus.

        “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the drinks party?”

        It’s Scottie.

        This is Scottie. No question.

        “Are you all right?” He leans round the camera, looking impatient. “You can talk. We’re

rolling.”

        I stare at his thin, intelligent face, my heart thumping, willing myself not to give anything

away. I feel like a rabbit being mesmerized by a snake.

        “It’s OK, Poppy.” Sam steps forward, looking sympathetic. “Don’t worry. A lot of people

get stage fright.”

        “No!” I manage. “It’s not—It’s—”

        I stare up at him helplessly. My voice won’t work. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams

where you can’t shout out that you’re being murdered.

        “Guys, I don’t think she’s up for it,” Sam’s saying. “Could you … ” He gestures with his

hand.

        “Sorry!” Amanda puts a hand over her mouth. “Didn’t mean to freak you out! Have a

good evening!” They head off to accost another group of people, and I stare after them,

transfixed.

        “Poor old Poppy.” Sam smiles ruefully. “Just what you needed. Sorry about that, it’s a

new thing they’re doing at the conferences, although I can’t see what it adds—”

        “Shut up.” Somehow I cut him off, although I can still barely speak. “Shut up, shut up.”

        Sam looks astonished. I move closer to him and reach up on tiptoe until my mouth is

touching his ear, his hair brushing against my skin. I inhale, breathing in his warmth and smell,

then murmur, as quietly as a breath, “That’s him.”

        We stay outside for another twenty minutes. Sam has a long telephone conversation with

Sir Nicholas—none of which I can hear—then a brief, brusque call with Mark, of which I catch

bits and pieces as he strides around, his hand to his head: Well, company policy can fuck itself…

. the minute Vicks gets here …

        It’s clear that tension levels are rising. I thought Sam would be happy that I’d helped, but

he looks even more grim than before. He ends the call by snapping, “Whose side are you on,

anyway? Jesus, Mark.”

        “So … what are you going to do?” I say timidly as he rings off.

        “Ryan’s company email is being searched. But he’s sharp. He won’t have used the

company system. He’ll have set it all up by phone or with some private email account.”

        “What, then?

        “That’s the debate.” Sam screws up his face in frustration. “Trouble is, we don’t have

time for a discussion on protocol. We don’t have time to consult our lawyers. If it were me—”

        “You’d have him arrested, all his personal property confiscated, and a lie-detector test

forcibly conducted,” I can’t help saying. “In a dark cellar somewhere.”

        A reluctant smile passes across Sam’s face. “Something like that.”

        “How’s Sir Nicholas?” I venture.

         “Acting chipper. You can imagine. He keeps his chin up. But he feels it far more than

he’s letting on.” Sam’s face twists briefly and he hunches his arms round his chest.

         “You do too,” I say gently, and Sam looks up in a startled movement, as though I’ve

caught him out.

         “I suppose I do,” he says after a long pause. “Nick and I go back a long time. He’s a good

guy. He’s done some remarkable things over his lifetime. But if this smear gets out

unchallenged, it’ll be the only thing the wider world ever remembers about him. It’ll be the same

headline over and over, till he dies. Sir Nicholas Murray, suspected of corruption. He doesn’t

deserve that. He especially doesn’t deserve to be stitched up by his own board.”

         There’s a somber moment, then Sam visibly pulls himself together. “Anyway. Come on.

They’re waiting for us. Vicks is nearly here.”

         We head back, past a group of girls clustered round a table, past an ornamental garden,

toward the huge double doors leading into the hotel. My phone has been buzzing and I quietly

take it out to check my in-box, just to see if Magnus has replied—

         I blink at the screen. I don’t believe it. I give a tiny involuntary whimper, and Sam shoots

me an odd look.

         There’s a brand-new email right at the top of my in-box and I click on it, desperately

hoping it won’t say what I’m dreading—

         Shit. Shit.

         I stare at it in dismay. What am I going to do? We’re nearly at the hotel. I have to speak. I

have to tell him.

         “Um, Sam.” My voice is a bit strangled. “Um, stop a minute.”

         “What?” He halts with a preoccupied frown, and my stomach lurches with nerves.

         OK. Here’s the thing. In my defense, if I’d known Sam was going to be mired in a

massive, urgent crisis involving leaked memos and senior government advisers and ITN News, I

wouldn’t have sent that email to his father. Of course I wouldn’t.

         But I didn’t know. And I did send the email. And now …

         “What’s up?” Sam looks impatient.

         Where on earth do I start? How do I soften him up?

         “Please don’t get angry,” I throw out as a preemptive sally, even though it feels a bit like

chucking an ice cube into the path of a forest fire.

         “About what?” There’s an ominous tone to Sam’s voice.

         “The thing is … ” I clear my throat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I can see

that you may not view it exactly that way… .”

         “What on earth are you—” He breaks off, his face suddenly clearing with appalled

understanding. “Oh, Jesus. No. Please don’t say you’ve been telling your friends about this—”

         “No!” I say in horror. “Of course not!”

         “Then what?”

         I feel slightly emboldened by his wrong suspicions. At least I haven’t been blabbing

everything to my friends. At least I haven’t been selling my story to The Sun.

         “It’s a family thing. It’s about your dad.”

         Sam’s eyes widen sharply, but he says nothing.

         “I just felt bad that you and he weren’t in contact. So I emailed him back. He’s desperate

to see you, Sam. He wants to reach out! You never go down to Hampshire, you never see him—”

         “For God’s sake,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I really don’t have time for this.”

         “You don’t have time for your own father?” His words sting me. “You know what, Mr.

Big Shot, maybe your priorities are a little screwed. I know you’re busy, I know this crisis is

important, but—”

         “Poppy, stop right there. You’re making a big mistake.”

         He looks so impassive, I feel a surge of outrage. How dare he be so sure of himself all the

time?

         “Maybe you’re the one who’s making a big mistake!” The words burst out before I can

stop them. “Maybe you’re the one who’s letting your life pass by without engaging in it! Maybe

Willow’s right!”

         “Excuse me?” Sam looks thunderous at the mention of Willow.

         “You’re going to miss out! You’re going to miss out on relationships which could give

you so much, because you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to listen… .”

         Sam glances around, looking embarrassed. “Poppy, cool it,” he mutters. “You’re getting

too emotional.”

         “Well, you’re staying too calm!” I feel like exploding. “You’re too stoic!” An image

suddenly comes to me of those Roman senators, all waiting in the arena to be massacred. “You

know something, Sam? You’re turning into stone.”

         “Stone?” He gives a burst of laughter.

         “Yes, stone. You’ll wake up one day and you’ll be a statue, but you won’t know it.

You’ll be trapped inside yourself.” My voice is wobbling; I’m not sure why. It’s nothing to me

whether he turns into a statue or not.

         Sam is eyeing me warily.

         “Poppy, I“ve no idea what you’re talking about. But we have to put this on pause. I have

stuff I need to do.” His phone buzzes and he lifts it to his ear. “Hey, Vicks. You made it. OK, on

my way.”

         “I know you’re dealing with a crisis.” I grab his arm fiercely. “But there’s an old man

waiting to hear from you, Sam. Longing to hear from you. For only five minutes. And you know

what? I envy you.”

         Sam exhales sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Poppy, you’ve got this all wrong.”

         “Have I?” I stare up at him, feeling all my buried emotions starting to bubble. “I just wish

I had your chance. To see my dad. You don’t know how lucky you are. That’s all.”

         A tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away brusquely.

         Sam is silent. He puts his phone away and faces me square-on. When he speaks, his voice

is gentle.

         “Listen, Poppy. I can understand how you feel. I don’t mean to trivialize family

relationships. I have a very good relationship with my father, and I see him whenever I can. But

it’s not that easy, bearing in mind that he lives in Hong Kong.”

         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: [email protected].

        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 halfdad?”

        “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.

        “Maybe Sam will know someone who wants to sell them,” I say encouragingly.

“Someone with children.”

        “Maybe.” David raises his eyes lugubriously from his drink. “Tell me something. Does

Sam still blame me for flooding his house?”

        “He hasn’t mentioned it,” I say honestly.

        “Well, maybe the damage wasn’t as bad as it looked. Bloody Albanian fish tanks.” David

looks downcast. “Absolute tat. And the fish weren’t much better. Word of advice, Poppy: Steer

clear of fish.”

        I have an urge to giggle and bite my lip hard.

        “OK.” I nod as seriously as I can. “I’ll remember that.”

        He polishes off the last taco chip, exhales noisily, and looks around the lobby. Uh-oh. He

seems to be getting restless. I can’t let him go wandering around.

        “So, what was Sam like at college?” I ask, to spin out the conversation a little more.

        “Highflier.” David looks a little grouchy. “You know the type. Rowed for the college.

Always knew he’d end up doing well. Went off the rails a bit in his second year. Got in a bit of

trouble. But that was understandable.”

        “How come?” I frown, not following,

        “Well, you know.” David shrugs. “After his mum died.”

        I freeze, my glass halfway to my lips. What did he just say?

        “I’m sorry.” I’m trying—not very well—to conceal my shock. “Did you say Sam’s

mother died?”

        “Didn’t you know?” David seems surprised. “Beginning of the second year. Heart

disease, I think it was. She’d not been well, but no one was expecting her to peg it so soon. Sam

took it badly, poor bloke. Though I always say to him, you’re welcome to my old lady, any time

you want … ”

        I’m not listening. My head is buzzing with confusion. He said it was a friend of his. I

know he did. I can hear him now: My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a

lot of nights talking with him. Lot of nights… . And it never goes away… .

        “Poppy?” David is waving his hand in front of my face. “You all right?”

        “Yes!” I try to smile. “Sorry. I’m just … I thought it was a friend of his who lost his

mother. Not Sam himself. I must have got confused. Silly me. Um, do you want another

whiskey?”

        David doesn’t reply to my offer. He’s silent awhile, then shoots me an appraising look,

cradling his empty drink in his hands. His fleshy thumbs are tracing a pattern on the glass, and I

watch them, mesmerized.

        “You weren’t confused,” he says at last. “Sam didn’t tell you, did he? He said it was a

friend.”

        I stare at him, taken aback. I’d written this guy off as a boorish moron. But he’s totally

nailed it.

        “Yes,” I admit at last. “He did. How did you know?”

        “He’s private like that, Sam.” David nods. “When it happened—the death—he didn’t tell

anyone at college for days. Only his two closest friends.”

        “Right.” I hesitate doubtfully. “Is that … you?”

        “Me!” David gives a short, rueful laugh. “No, not me. I’m not in the inner sanctum. It’s

Tim and Andrew. They’re his right-hand men. All rowed in the same boat together. Know

them?”

        I shake my head.

        “Joined at the hip, even now, those three guys are. Tim’s over at Merrill Lynch;

Andrew’s a barrister in some chambers or other. And of course Sam’s pretty close to his brother,

Josh,” David adds. “He’s two years older. Used to come and visit. Sorted Sam out when things

went wrong for him. Spoke to his tutors. He’s a good guy.”

        I didn’t know Sam had a brother either. As I sit there, digesting all this, I feel a bit

chastened. I’ve never even heard of Tim or Andrew or Josh. But then, why would I have heard of

them? They probably text Sam directly. They’re probably in touch like normal people. In private.

Not like Willow the Witch and old friends trying to hustle some money.

        All this time I’ve thought I could see Sam’s entire life. But it wasn’t his entire life, was

it? It was one in-box. And I judged him on it.

        He has friends. He has a life. He has a relationship with his family. He has a whole load

of stuff I have no idea about. I was an idiot if I thought I’d got to know the whole story. I know a

single chapter. That’s all.

        I take a swig of wine, numbing the strange wistfulness that suddenly washes over me. I’ll

never know all of Sam’s other chapters. He’ll never tell me and I’ll never ask. We’ll part ways

and I’ll just have the impression I’ve already got. The version of him that lives in his PA’s

in-box.

        I wonder what impression he’ll have of me. Oh God. Better not go there.

        The thought makes me snort with laughter, and David eyes me curiously.

        “Funny girl, aren’t you?”

        “Am I?” My phone buzzes and I pull it to me, not caring if I’m rude. It’s telling me I