Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

have a voice mail from Magnus.

        Magnus?

        I missed a call from Magnus?

        Abruptly my thoughts swoop away from Sam, away from David and this place, to the rest

of my life. Magnus. Wedding. Anonymous text. Your fiancée has been unfaithful… . Jumbled

thoughts pile into my brain all at once, as though they’ve been clamoring at the door. I leap to

my feet, pressing voice mail, jabbing at the keys, impatient and nervous all at once. Although

what am I expecting? A confession? A rebuttal? Why would Magnus have any idea that I

received an anonymous message?

        “Hey, Pops!” Magnus’s distinctive voice is muffled by a background thump of music.

“Could you call Professor Wilson and remind her I’m away? Thanks, sweets. Number’s on my

desk. Ciao! Having a great time!”

        I listen to it twice over for clues, even though I have no idea what kind of clues I’m

hoping to glean.83 As I ring off, my stomach is churning. I can’t bear it. I don’t want this. If I’d

never got that text message, I’d be happy now. I’d be looking forward to my wedding and

thinking about the honeymoon and practicing my new signature. I’d be happy.

        I’ve run out of conversational gambits, so I kick off my shoes, draw my feet up onto the

bench, and hug my knees morosely. I’m aware that around us, in the bar, the White Globe

Consulting employees have started to cluster. I can hear snatches of low, anxious conversation,

and I’ve caught the word memo a few times. The news must be seeping out. I glance at my

watch and feel a clench of alarm. It’s 9:40 p.m. Only twenty minutes till the ITN bulletin.

        For the millionth time I wonder what Vicks and Sam are up to. I wish I could help. I wish

I could do something. I feel powerless sitting out here—“OK!” A sharp female voice interrupts

my thoughts, and I look up to see Willow standing in front of me, glaring down. She’s changed

into a halter-neck evening dress, and even her shoulders are twitchy. “I’m going to ask you this

straight, and I hope you’ll answer it straight. No games. No playing around. No little tricks.”

        She’s practically spitting the words at me. Honestly. What little tricks am I supposed to

have played?

        “Hello,” I say politely.

        The trouble is, I can’t see this woman without remembering all her screwy capital-letter

emails. It’s as though they’re emblazoned on her face.

        “Who are you?” she bristles at me. “Just tell me that. Who are you? And if you won’t tell

me, then believe me—”

        “I’m Poppy,” I interrupt.

        “ ‘Poppy.’ ” She sounds deeply suspicious, as though Poppy must be my invented

escort-agency name.

        “Have you met David?” I add politely. “He’s an old university friend of Sam’s.”

        “Oh.” At these words I can see interest flash across her features. “Hello, David, I’m

Willow.” Her gaze swivels to focus on him, and I swear I feel a cooling on my face.

        “Charmed, Willow. Friend of Sam’s, are you?”

        “I’m Willow.” She says it with slightly more emphasis.

        “Nice name.” He nods.

        “I’m Willow. Willow.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “Sam must have mentioned

me. Wi-llow.’

        David wrinkles his brow thoughtfully. “Don’t think so.”

        “But … ” She looks as though she’s going to expire with outrage. “I’m with him.”

        “Not right now you’re not, are you?” says David jovially—then shoots me a tiny wink.

        I’m actually warming to this David. Once you get past the bad shirt and the dodgy

investments, he’s OK.

        Willow looks incandescent. “This is just … The world is going insane,” she says, almost

to herself. “You don’t know me, but you know her?” She jerks a thumb at me.

        “I assumed she was Sam’s special lady,” says David innocently.

        “Her? You?”

        Willow’s eyeing me up and down in a disbelieving, supercilious sort of way that nettles

me.

        “Why not me?” I say robustly. “Why shouldn’t he be with me?”

        Willow says nothing for a moment, just blinks very fast. “So that’s it. He’s two-timing

me,” she murmurs at last, her voice throbbing with intensity. “The truth finally comes out. I

should have known it. It explains … a lot.” She exhales sharply, her fingers raking through her

hair. “So where do we go now?” She addresses some unknown audience. “Where the fuck do we

go now?”

        She’s a total fruit loop. I want to burst out laughing. Where does she think she is, acting

in her own private stage play? Who does she think is impressed by her performance?

        And she’s missed a crucial fact. How can Sam be two-timing her if she’s not his

girlfriend?

        On the other hand, as much as I’m enjoying winding her up, I don’t want to spread false

rumors.

        “I didn’t say I was with him,” I clarify. “I said, ‘Why shouldn’t he be with me?’ Are you

Sam’s girlfriend, then?”

        Willow flinches but doesn’t answer, I notice.

        “Who the hell are you?” She rounds on me again. “You appear in my life, I have no idea

who you are or where you came from … ”

        She’s playing to the gallery again. I wonder if she went to drama school and got chucked

out for being too melodramatic.84

        “It’s … complicated.”

        The word complicated seems to inflame Willow even more.

        “Oh, ‘complicated.’ ” She makes little jabby quote gestures. “ ‘Complicated.’ Wait a

minute.” Her eyes suddenly narrow to disbelieving slits as she surveys my outfit. “Is that Sam’s

shirt?”

        Ah. A-ha-ha. She’s really not going to like that. Maybe I won’t answer.

        “Is that Sam’s shirt? Tell me right now!” Her voice is so hectoring and abrasive, I flinch.

“Are you wearing Sam’s shirt? Tell me! Is that his shirt? Answer me!”

        “Mind your own Brazilian!” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Oops.

        OK. The trick when you’ve said something embarrassing by mistake is not to overreact.

Instead, keep your chin up and pretend nothing happened. Maybe Willow didn’t even notice

what I said. I’m sure she didn’t notice. Of course she didn’t.

        I dart a surreptitious look at her, and her eyes have widened so much, I think her eyeballs

might pop out. All right, so she did notice. And from David’s gleeful expression, it’s clear he did

too.

        “I mean … business,” I amend, clearing my throat. “Business.”

        Over David’s shoulder I suddenly see Vicks. She’s striding through the clusters of White

Globe Consulting employees, and her grim expression makes my stomach turn over. I glance at

my watch. Quarter to ten.

        “Vicks!” Willow has noticed her too. She blocks Vicks’s way, her arms folded

imperiously. “Where’s Sam? Someone said he was with you.”

        “Excuse me, Willow.” Vicks tries to get past.

        “Just tell me where Sam is!”

        “I have no idea, Willow!” Vicks snaps. “Can you get out of my way? I need to speak to

Poppy.”

        “Poppy? You need to speak to Poppy?” Willow looks as if she’s going to explode with

frustration. “Who is this fucking Poppy?”

        I almost feel sorry for Willow. Completely ignoring her, Vicks comes round to my seat,

bends down low, and mutters, “Do you know where Sam is?”

        “No.” I look at her in alarm. “What’s happened?”

        “Has he texted you? Anything?”

        “No!” I double-check my phone. “Nothing. I thought he was with you.”

        “He was.” Vicks does her eye-rubbing thing with the heels of her hands, and I resist the

temptation to grab her wrists.

        “What happened?”’ I lower my voice further. “Please, Vicks. I’ll be discreet. I swear.”

        There’s a beat of silence, then Vicks nods. “OK. We ran out of time. I guess you could

say Sam lost.”

        I feel a plunge of disappointment. After all that.

        “What did Sam say?”

        “Not a lot. He stormed out.”

        “What will happen to Sir Nicholas?” I speak as quietly as I can.

        Vicks doesn’t reply, but her head turns away as though she wants to escape that particular

thought.

        “I have to go,” she says abruptly. “Let me know if you hear from Sam. Please.”

        “OK.”

        I wait as Vicks walks away, then casually raise my head. Sure enough, Willow is fixated

on me, like a cobra.

        “So,” she says.

        “So.” I smile back pleasantly, just as Willow’s eyes land on my left hand. Her mouth

opens. For an instant she seems incapable of speech.

        “Who gave you that ring?” she utters at last.

        What bloody business is it of hers?

        “A girl called Lucinda,” I say, to wind her up. “I’d lost it, you see. She gave it back.”

        Willow draws breath and I swear she’s about to launch her fangs into me, when Vicks’s

voice comes blasting through the PA system at top volume.

        “I’m sorry to interrupt the party, but I have an important announcement to make. All

employees of White Globe Consulting, please make your way back into the main conference hall

immediately. That’s back into the main conference hall, immediately. Thank you.”

        There’s an outbreak of chatter around us, and all the clusters of people start moving

toward the double doors, some quickly refilling their glasses.

        “Looks like my cue to leave,” says David, getting to his feet. “You’ll be needing to go.

Give my regards to Sam.”

        “I’m not actually an employee,” I say, for accuracy’s sake. “But, yes, I do need to go.

Sorry about that.”

        “Really?” David shakes his head, looking mystified. “Then she’s got a point.” He jerks

his head at Willow. “You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and you don’t work for this company. Who the

hell are you and what have you got to do with Sam?”

        “Like I said.” I can’t help smiling at his quizzical expression. “It’s … complicated.”

        “I can believe it.” He raises his eyebrows, then produces a business card and presses it

into my hand. “Tell Sam. Exotic mini-pets. I’ve got a great opportunity for him.”

        “I’ll tell him.” I nod seriously. “Thanks.” I watch him disappear toward the exit, then

carefully put his card away for Sam.

        “So.” Willow looms in front of me again, arms folded. “Why don’t you start from the

beginning?”

        “Are you serious?” I can’t hide my exasperation. “Isn’t there something else you need to

be doing right now?” I gesture at the crowds surging into the conference room.

        “Oh, nice try.” She doesn’t even flicker. “I’m hardly going to make some tedious

corporate announcement my priority.”

        “Believe me, this tedious corporate announcement is one you’re going to want to hear.”

        “You know all about it, I suppose,” Willow shoots back sarcastically.

        “Yes.” I nod, suddenly feeling despondent. “I know all about it. And … I think I’m going

to get a drink.”

        I stalk away to the bar. I can see Willow in the mirror, and after a few seconds she turns

and heads toward the conference room, her expression mutinous. I feel drained just from talking

to her.

         No, I feel drained by the whole day. I order myself a large glass of wine, then slowly

walk toward the conference room. Vicks is standing on the stage, talking to a rapt, shocked

audience. Behind her, the massive screen is on silent TV.

         “ … as I say, we don’t know exactly what shape the report will take, but we have made

our response, and that’s the only thing we can do at the present time. Are there any questions?

Nihal?”

         “Where’s Sir Nicholas now?” comes Nihal’s voice from the crowd.

         “He’s in Berkshire. We’ll have to see what happens about the rest of the conference. As

soon as any decisions have been made, obviously you will all be informed.”

         I’m looking around at the faces. Justin is a few feet away from me, gazing up at Vicks in

a pantomime of shock and concern. Now he raises his hand.

         “Justin?” says Vicks reluctantly.

         “Vicks, bravo.” His smooth voice travels through the room. “I can only imagine how

difficult these last few hours have been for you. As a member of the senior management team,

I’d like to thank you for your sterling efforts. Whatever Sir Nicholas may or may not have said,

whatever the truth of the matter—and of course none of us can really know that—your loyalty to

the company is what we value. Well done, Vicks!” He leads a round of applause.

         Ooh. Snake. Clearly I’m not the only one to think this, because another hand shoots

straight up.

         “Malcolm!” says Vicks in plain relief.

         “I’d like to make it clear to all employees that Sir Nicholas did not make these remarks.”

Unfortunately, Malcolm’s voice is a bit rumbly and I’m not sure everyone can hear. “I received

the original memo he sent, and it was completely different—”

         “I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt you now,” Vicks chimes in. “The bulletin’s starting.

Volume up, please.”

         Where’s Sam? He should be here. He should be replying to Justin and crushing him. He

should be watching the bulletin. I just don’t get it.

         The familiar ITN News at Ten music begins, and the swirling graphics fill the massive

screen onstage. I’m feeling ridiculously nervous, even though it doesn’t have anything to do with

me. Maybe they won’t run the story, I keep thinking. You hear about items being bumped all the

time… .

         Big Ben’s chimes have begun. Any second they’ll start announcing the headlines. My

stomach clenches with nerves, and I take a swig of wine. Watching the news is a completely

different experience when it’s something to do with you. This is what prime ministers must feel

like all the time. God, I wouldn’t be them for anything. They must spend every evening hiding

behind the sofa, peering through their fingers.

         Bong! “Fresh attacks in the Middle East lead to fears of instability.” Bong! “House prices

make a surprise recovery—but will it last?” Bong! “A leaked memo casts doubts on the integrity

of a top government adviser.”

         There it is. They’re running it.

         There’s an almost eerie silence in the room. No one has gasped or even reacted. I think

everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for the full item. The Middle Eastern report has started

and there are pictures of gunfire in a dusty street, but I’m barely taking it in. I’ve pulled out my

phone and am texting Sam.

         Are you watching? Everyone is in conference room. P

        My phone remains silent. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he in here with everyone else?

        I stare fixedly at the screen as the footage changes to house-price graphs and an interview

with a family trying to move to Thaxted, wherever that is. I’m willing the presenters to speak

more quickly, to get through it. Never have I been less interested in house prices in my life.85

        And then both the first two items are done and we’re back in the studio and the

newsreader is saying, with her grave face on:

        “Tonight, doubts were cast on the integrity of Sir Nicholas Murray, the founder of White

Globe Consulting and government adviser. In a confidential memo obtained exclusively by ITN,

he refers to corrupt practices and the soliciting of bribes, apparently condoning them.”

        There are a few gasps and whispers around the room. I glance at Vicks. Her face is

amazingly composed as she watches the screen. I suppose she knew what to expect.

        “But in a new twist, within the last few minutes ITN has discovered that another staff

member at White Globe Consulting may in fact have written the words credited to Sir Nicholas,

something which official company sources deny all knowledge of. Our reporter Damian

Standforth asks: Is Sir Nicholas a villain—or the victim of a smear attempt?”

        “What?’ Vicks’s voice rips across the room. “What the fuck—”

        A babble has broken out, interspersed with “Shh!” and “Listen!” and “Shut up!”

Someone has ramped the sound to top volume. I stare at the screen, utterly confused.

        Did Sam find some proof? Did he pull it out of the bag? My phone bleeps and I yank it

from my pocket. It’s a text from Sam.

        How did Vicks react?

        I look at Vicks and flinch.

        She looks like she wants to eat someone alive.

        “White Globe Consulting has been a major influence on business for the last three

decades,” a voice-over is saying on-screen, accompanied by a long-lens shot of the White Globe

Consulting building.

        My thumbs are so full of adrenaline the text almost writes itself.

        Did you do this?

        I did this.

        You contacted ITN yourself?

        Correct.

        Thought the techies didn’t find any proof. What happened?!

        They didn’t.

        I swallow hard, trying to get my head round this. I know nothing about PR. I’m a

physiotherapist, for God’s sake. But even I’d say that you don’t phone up ITN with a story of a

smear without something to back it up.

        How

        As I start typing, I realize I don’t even know how to frame the question, so I send it as it

is. There’s silence for a little while—then a two page text arrives in my phone.

        I blink at it in amazement. This is the longest text Sam has ever sent me, by

approximately 2,000 percent.

        I went on the record. I stand by what I said. Tomorrow I give them an exclusive interview

about original memo, directors washing hands of Nick, everything. It’s a stitch-up. Corporate

spin has gone too far. The true story needs to be out there. Wanted Malcolm to join me but he

won’t. He has three kids. Can’t risk it. So it’s just me.

        My head is buzzing. Sam’s put himself on the line. He’s turned into a whistle-blower. I

can’t believe he’s done something so extreme. But at the same time … I can.

        That’s a pretty big deal.

        I have no idea what else to type. I’m in a state of shock.

        Someone had to have the guts to stand by Nick.

        I stare at his words, my brow crinkled, thinking this through.

        Doesn’t prove anything though, surely? It’s only your word.

        A moment later he replies:

        Raises question mark over story. That’s enough. Where are you now?

        In conference hall.

        Anyone know you’re texting me?

        Vicks is talking volubly to some guy while holding a phone to her ear. She happens to

look my way, and I don’t know if it’s my expression, but her eyes narrow a smidgen. She

glances at my phone, then at my face again. I feel a dart of apprehension.

        Don’t think so. Yet.

        Can you get away without anyone noticing?

        I count to three, then casually scan the room as though I’m interested in the light fittings.

Vicks is in my peripheral vision. Now she’s gazing straight at me. I lower my phone out of sight

and text:

        Where are you exactly?

        Outside.

        Doesn’t help much.

        All I’ve got. No idea where I am.

        A moment later another one arrives:

        It’s dark, if that’s a clue. Grass underfoot.

        Are you in big trouble?

        There’s no reply. I guess that’s a yes.

        OK. I won’t look at Vicks. I will simply yawn, scratch my nose—yes, good,

unconcerned—turn on my heel, and move behind this group of people. Then I’ll duck down

behind this big fat pillar.

        Now I’ll peek out.

        Vicks is looking around with a frustrated expression. People are trying to get her

attention, but she’s batting them away. I can almost see the calculation in her eyes—how much

brain space does she allocate the strange girl who might know something but might also be a red

herring?

        Within five seconds I’m in the corridor. Ten seconds, through the deserted lobby,

avoiding the eye of the disconsolate-looking barman. He’ll be getting enough business in a

minute. Fifteen seconds, I’m outside, ignoring the doorman, running over the gravel drive, round

the corner, until grass is underfoot and I feel as though I’ve got away.

        I walk slowly, waiting for my breath to return. I’m still in shock over what’s just

happened.

        Are you going to lose your job over this?

        Another silence. I walk a little more, adjusting to the night sky, the cool air with a little

breeze, the soft grass. The hotel is a good four hundred yards away by now, and I start to

unwind.

        Maybe.

        He sounds quite relaxed about the fact. If a one-word text can sound relaxed.86

        I’m outside now. Where should I head?

        God knows. I went out back of hotel and walked into oblivion.

        That’s what I’m doing now.

        So we’ll meet.

        You never said your mum had died.

        I’ve typed it and pressed send before I can stop myself. I stare at the screen, cringing at

my own crassness. I can’t believe I said that. Of all the times. Like this is going to be his priority

right now.

        No. I never did.

        I’ve reached the edge of what seems to be a croquet lawn. There’s a wooded area ahead.

Is that where he is? I’m about to ask him, when another text bleeps into my phone.

        I just get tired of telling people. The awkward pause. You know?

        I blink at the screen. I can’t believe someone else knows about the awkward pause.

        I understand.

        I should have told you.

        There’s no way I’m guilt-tripping him over this. That’s not what I meant. That’s not what

I wanted him to feel. As quickly as I can, I type a reply:

        No. No should. Never any should. That’s my rule.

        That’s your rule for life?

        Rule for life? That’s not exactly what I meant. But I like the idea that he thinks I have a

rule for life.

        No, my rule for life is …

        I pause, trying to think. A rule for life. That’s quite a huge one. I can think of quite a few

good rules, but for life …

        On tenterhooks here.

        Stop it, I’m thinking.

        Then, suddenly, inspiration hits. Confidently, I type:

        If it’s in a bin it’s public property.

        There’s silence, then the phone bleeps again with his reply:

        I stare in disbelief. A smiley face. Sam Roxton typed a smiley face! A moment later he

sends a follow-up.

        I know. I don’t believe it either.

        I laugh out loud, then shiver as a breeze hits my shoulders. This is all very well. But I’m

standing in a field in Hampshire with no coat and no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing.

Come on, Poppy. Focus. There’s no moon, and all the stars must be hidden behind clouds. I can

hardly see to type.

        Where ARE you? In the wood? Can’t see a thing.

        Through the wood. Other side. I’ll meet you.

        Cautiously, I start picking my way through the trees, cursing as a bramble catches my leg.

There are probably stinging nettles and snake pits. There are probably man traps. I reach for my

phone, trying to text and avoid brambles at the same time.

        My new rule for life. Don’t go into spooky dark woods on your own.

        There’s silence a moment—then my phone bleeps.

        You’re not on your own.

        I clutch the phone more tightly. It’s true; with him on the other end, I do feel secure. I

walk on a bit more, nearly tripping over a tree root, wondering where the moon’s got to. Waxing,

I suppose. Or waning. Whichever.

        Look for me. I’m coming.

        I peer at his text in disbelief. Look for him? How can I look for him?

        It’s pitch-black. Hadn’t you noticed?

        My phone. Look for the light. Don’t call out. Someone might hear.

        I peer into the gloom. I can’t see anything at all except the dark shadows of trees and

looming mounds of bramble bushes. Still, I guess the worst that can happen is I fall off a cliff

and break all my limbs. I take another few steps forward, listening to my own padding footsteps,

breathing in the musky, damp air.

        OK?

        Still here.

        I’ve reached a tiny clearing and I hesitate, biting my lip. Before I go on, I want to say the

things I won’t be able to when I see him. I’ll be too embarrassed. It’s different by text.

        Just wanted to say I think you’ve done an amazing thing. Putting yourself on the line like

that.

        It had to be done.

        That’s typical of him to brush it off.

        No. It didn’t. But you did it.

        I wait a little while, feeling the breeze on my face and listening to an owl hooting above

me somewhere—but he doesn’t reply. I don’t care, I’m going to press on. I have to say these

things, because I have a feeling no one else will.

        You could have taken an easier path.

        Of course.

        But you didn’t.

        That’s my rule for life.

        And with no warning I feel a hotness behind my eyes. I have no idea why. I don’t know

why I suddenly feel affected. I want to type I admire you, but I can’t bring myself to. Not even

by text. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, I type:

        I understand you.

        Of course you do. You’d do the same.

        I stare at the screen, discomfited. Me? What have I got to do with it?

        I wouldn’t.

        I’ve got to know you pretty well, Poppy Wyatt. You would.

        I don’t know what to say, so I start moving through the wood again, into what seems

even blacker darkness. My hand is wrapped round the phone so tightly I’m going to get a cramp.

But somehow I can’t loosen my fingers. I feel as though the harder I grip, the more I’m

connected to Sam. I feel as though I’m holding his hand.

        And I don’t want to let go. I don’t want this to end. Even though I’m stumbling and cold

and in the middle of nowhere. We’re in a place that we won’t ever be again.

        On impulse, I type:

        I’m glad it was your phone I picked up.

        A moment later his reply comes:

        So am I.

        I feel a tiny glow inside. Maybe he’s just being polite. But I don’t think so.

        It’s been good. Weird but good.

         Weird but good would sum it up, yes.

         He sent another smiley face! I don’t believe it!

         What’s happened to the man formerly known as Sam Roxton?

         He’s broadening his horizons. Which reminds me, where have all your kisses gone?

         I peer at my phone, surprised at myself.

         Dunno. You’ve cured me.

         I’ve never sent kisses to Sam, it occurs to me. Not once. Strange. Well, I can make up for

that now. I’m almost giggling as I press the X button down firmly.

         Xxxxxxxx

         A moment later his reply arrives:

         Xxxxxxxxxx

         Ha! With a snuffle of laughter, I type an even longer row of kisses.

         Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

         Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

         Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

         Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

               xxxxxxxxx

         I see you.

         I peer through the gloom again, but he must have better eyesight than I do, because I

can’t see anything.

         Really?

         Coming.

         I lean forward, craning my neck, squinting for a glimpse of light, but there’s nothing. He

must have seen some other light.

         Can’t see you.

         I’m coming.

         You’re nowhere near.

         Yes I am. Coming.

         And then suddenly I hear his footsteps approaching. He’s behind me, thirty feet away, at

a guess. No wonder I couldn’t see him.

         I should turn. Right now I should turn. This is the moment that it would be natural to

swivel round and greet him. Call out a hello; wave my phone in the air.

         But my feet are rooted to the spot. I can’t bring myself to move. Because as soon as I do,

it will be time to be polite and matter-of-fact and back to normal. And I can’t bear that. I want to

stay here. In the place where we can say anything to each other. In the magic spell.

         Sam pauses, right behind me. There’s an unbearable fragile beat as I wait for him to

shatter the quiet. But it’s as though he feels the same way. He says nothing. All I can hear is the

gentle sound of his breathing. Slowly, his arms wrap round me from behind. I close my eyes and

lean back against his chest, feeling unreal.

         I’m standing in a wood with Sam and his arms are around me and they really shouldn’t

be. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going with this.

         Except … I do. Of course I do. Because as his hands gently cup my waist, I don’t make a

sound. As he swivels me around to face him, I don’t make a sound. And as his stubble rasps my

face, I don’t make a sound. I don’t need to. We’re still talking. Every touch he makes, every

imprint of his skin is like another word, another thought, a continuation of our conversation. And

we’re not done yet. Not yet.

        I don’t know how long we’re there. Five minutes, maybe. Ten minutes.

        But the moment can’t last forever, and it doesn’t. The bubble doesn’t so much burst as

evaporate, leaving us back in the real world. Realizing our arms are round each other; awkwardly

stepping apart; feeling the chill night air rush between us. I look away, clearing my throat,

rubbing his touch off my skin.

        “So, shall we—”

        “Yes.”

        As we pad through the woods, neither of us speaks. I can’t believe what just happened.

Already it seems like a dream. Something impossible.

        It was in the forest. No one saw it or heard it. So did it actually happen?.87

        Sam’s phone is buzzing and this time he takes it to his ear.

        “Hi, Vicks.”

        And just like that, it’s over. At the edge of the wood I can see a posse of people striding

over the grass toward us. And the aftermath begins. I must be a little dazed from our encounter,

because I can’t engage with any of this. I’m aware of Vicks and Robbie and Mark all raising

their voices, and Sam staying calm, and Vicks getting near to tears, which seems a bit unlikely

for her, and talk of trains and cars and emergency press briefings and then Mark saying, “It’s Sir

Nicholas for you, Sam,” and everyone moving back a step, almost respectfully, as Sam takes the

call.

        And then suddenly the cars are here to take everyone back to London, and we’re heading

out to the drive and Vicks is bossing everyone around and everyone’s going to regroup at 7:00

a.m. at the office.

        I’ve been allotted to a car with Sam. As I get in, Vicks leans in and says, “Thanks,