Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Poppy.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

        “It’s OK,” I say, just in case she’s not. “And … I’m sorry. About—”

        “Yup,” she says tightly.

        And then the car moves off. Sam is texting intently, a deep frown on his face. I don’t dare

make a sound. I check my phone for a message from Magnus, but there’s nothing. So I drop it

down on the seat and stare out the window, letting the streetlamps blur into a stream of light,

wondering where the hell I’m going.

        I didn’t even know I’d fallen asleep.

        But somehow my head is on Sam’s chest and he’s saying, “Poppy? Poppy?” Suddenly I

wake up properly, and my neck is cricked and I’m looking out of a car window at a funny angle.

        “Oh.” I scramble to a sitting position, wincing as my head spins. “Sorry. God. You

should have—”

        “No problem. Is this your address?”

        I peer blearily out the window. We’re in Balham. We’re outside my block of flats. I

glance at my watch. It’s gone midnight.

        “Yes,” I say in disbelief. “This is me. How did you—”

        Sam nods at my phone, still on the car seat. “Your address was in there.”

        “Oh. Right.” I can hardly complain about him invading my privacy.

        “I didn’t want to wake you.”

        “No. Of course. That’s fine.” I nod. “Thanks.”

        Sam picks up the phone and seems about to hand it to me—then he hesitates.

        “I read your messages, Poppy. All of them.”

        “Oh.” I clear my throat, unsure how to react. “Wow. Well. That’s … that’s a bit much,

don’t you think? I mean, I know I read your emails, but you didn’t need to—”

        “It’s Lucinda.”

        “What?” I stare at him dumbly.

        “For my money. Lucinda’s your girl.”

        Lucinda?

        “But what—Why?”

        “She’s been lying to you. Consistently. She couldn’t have been in all the places she says

she has at the times she’s said. It’s not physically possible.”

        “Actually … I noticed that too,” I admit. “I thought she was trying to bill me for more

hours or something.”

        “Does she bill by the hour?”

        I rub my nose, feeling stupid. In fact, she doesn’t. It’s an all–inclusive fee.

        “Have you ever noticed that Magnus and Lucinda inevitably texts you within ten minute

of each other?”

        Slowly, I shake my head. Why would I notice that? I get zillions of texts every day, from

all kinds of people. And, anyway, how did he notice?

        “I started off life as an analyst.” He looks a bit abashed. “This is my kind of thing.”

        “What’s your kind of thing?” I say, puzzled.

        Sam produces a piece of paper and I clap a hand over my mouth. I don’t believe it. He’s

drawn a chart. Times and dates. Calls. Texts. Emails. Has he been doing this while I’ve been

asleep?

        “I analyzed your messages. You’ll see what’s going on.”

        He analyzed my messages. How do you analyze messages?

        He hands me the paper and I blink at it.

        “What … ”

        “You see the correlation?”

        Correlation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It sounds like something from math

exams.

        “Um … ”

        “Take this date.” He points at the paper. “They both email at around six p.m. asking how

you’re doing, being chatty. Then at eight p.m. Magnus tells you he’s working late at the London

Library, and a few minutes later Lucinda tells you she’s working on garters for the bridesmaids

at a fashion warehouse in Shoreditch. At eight at night? Please.”

        I’m silent for a few moments. I remember that email about the garters now. It seemed a

bit odd, even at the time. But you can’t jump to conclusions from one weird email, surely?

        “Who asked you to analyze my messages, anyway?” I know I sound all prickly, but I

can’t help it. “Who said it was any of your business?”

        “No one. You were asleep.” He spreads his hands. “I’m sorry. I just started looking idly

and then a pattern built up.”

        “Two emails aren’t a pattern.”

        “It’s not only two.” He gestures at the paper. “Next day, Magnus has a special evening

seminar which he “forgot” to mention. Five minutes later, Lucinda tells you about a lace

workshop in Nottinghamshire. But she was in Fulham two hours earlier. Fulham to

Nottinghamshire? In the rush hour? That’s not real. My guess is it’s an alibi.”

        The word alibi makes me feel a bit cold.

        “Two days later, Magnus texts you, canceling your lunch date. A moment later, Lucinda

emails you, telling you she’s frantically busy till two p.m. She doesn’t give you any other reason

for emailing. Why would she need to let you know that she’s frantically busy over some random

lunchtime?”

          He looks up, waiting for a reply. Like I’ll have one.

          “I … I don’t know,” I say at last. “I don’t know.”

          As Sam continues, I knead my eyes briefly with my fists. I get why Vicks does this now.

It’s to block the world out, for just a second. Why didn’t I see this? Why didn’t I see any of this?

          Magnus and Lucinda. It’s like a bad joke. One of them’s supposed be organizing my

wedding. The other’s supposed to be in my wedding. To me.

          But wait. My head jerks with a thought. Who sent me the anonymous text? Sam’s theory

can’t be right, because someone must have sent that. It wouldn’t have been any of Magnus’s

friends, and I don’t know any of Lucinda’s friends, so who on earth …

          “Remember when Magnus told you he had to counsel some PhD student? And Lucinda

pulled out of your drinks meeting? She sent Clemency along instead? If you look at the timings

…”

          Sam’s still talking, but I can barely hear him. My heart has constricted. Of course.

Clemency.

          Clemency.

          Clemency is dyslexic. She would have spelled fiancé wrong. She would have been too

terrified of Lucinda to give her name. But she would have wanted me to know. If there was

something to know.

          My fingers are shaking as I grab my phone and find the text again. Now that I read it

over, I can hear the words in Clemency’s sweet, anxious voice. It feels like her. It sounds like

her.

          Clemency wouldn’t invent something like that. She must believe it’s true. She must have

seen something … heard something …

          I sag back against the car seat. My limbs are aching. I feel parched and worn out and a

little like I want to cry.

          “Anyway.” Sam seems to realize I’ve stopped listening. “I mean, it’s a theory, that’s all.”

He folds the paper up and I take it.

          “Thanks. Thanks for doing that.”

          “I … ” He shrugs, a bit awkward. “Like I said. It’s my thing.”

          For a while we’re both silent, although it feels like we’re still communicating. I feel as

though our thoughts are circling above our heads, interweaving, looping, meeting for a moment,

then diverging again. Him on his path, me on mine.

          “So.” I exhale at last. “I should let you go. It’s late. Thanks for—”

          “No,” he interrupts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Thank you.”

          I nod simply. I think both of us are probably too drained to get into long speeches.

          “It’s been … ”

          “Yes.”

          I look up and make the mistake of catching his eye, silvered in the light from the

streetlamp. And just for a moment I’m transported—

          No. Don’t, Poppy. It never happened. Don’t think about it. Blank it.

          “So. Um.” I reach for the door handle, trying to force myself into reality, into rationality.

“I still need to give you this phone back—”

          “You know what? Have it, Poppy. It’s yours.” He clasps my fingers over it and holds

them tight for a moment. “You earned it. And please don’t bother to forward anything else. As

from tomorrow all my emails will go to my new PA. Your work here is done.”

        “Well, thanks!” I open the door—then on impulse turn around. “Sam … I hope you’re

OK.”

        “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He flashes his wonder smile, and I suddenly feel

like hugging him tight. He’s about to lose his job and he can still smile like that. “I hope you’re

OK,” he adds. “I’m sorry about … it all.”

        “Oh, I’ll be OK!” I give a brittle laugh, even though I have no idea what I mean by this.

My husband-to-be is possibly shagging my wedding planner. In what sense will I be OK?

        The driver clears his throat, and I start. It’s the middle of the night. I’m sitting in a car on

the street. Come on, Poppy. Get with it. Move. The conversation has to end.

        So, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, I force myself to get out, bang the

door shut, and call, “Good night!” I head to my front door and open it, because I know

instinctively that Sam won’t drive away till he’s seen I’m safely in. Then I stand on the doorstep,

watching his car drive away.

        As it rounds the corner, I check my phone, half-hoping, half-expecting …

        But it’s dark and silent. It remains dark and silent. And for the first time in a long while, I

feel utterly alone.

        81 OK, he won’t get. I know.

        82 Not such a huge range, then.

        83 Magnus is doing it with Professor Wilson? No. Surely not. She has a beard.

        84 And, by the way, in what sense have I appeared in her life?

        85 And we’re not exactly starting from a high bar.

        86 I think it can. It’s all in the timing.

        87 Another one for Antony. Not.

13

        It’s in every single paper the next morning. Front-page news. I headed out to the

newsagents as soon as I was up and bought every newspaper they had.

        There are pictures of Sir Nicholas, pictures of the prime minister, pictures of Sam,

pictures of Ed Exton, even a picture of Vicks in the Mail. The headlines are full of corruption

and smear attempt and integrity. The memo is printed in full, everywhere, and there’s an official

quote from Number 10 about Sir Nicholas considering his position on the government

committee. There are even two different cartoons of Sir Nicholas holding bags labeled Happiness

and stuffed full of money.

        But Sam was right: There’s an air of confusion about it. Some journalists obviously think

Sir Nicholas did write the memo. Others obviously think he didn’t. One paper has run an

editorial about how Sir Nicholas is an arrogant bighead and of course he’s been taking bribes all

along; another has written that Sir Nicholas is known for his quiet integrity and it couldn’t

possibly be him. If Sam wanted to throw up a question mark over everything, he’s definitely

succeeded.

        I texted him this morning:

        You OK?

        But I got no reply. I guess he’s busy. To say the least.

        Meanwhile, I feel like a wreck. It took me hours to get to sleep last night, I was so

wired—but then I woke at six and sat bolt upright, already grabbing for my phone, my heart

racing. Magnus had texted four words:

        Having great time. M xxx

        Having a great time. What does that tell me? Nothing.

        He could be having a great time congratulating himself on how I have no idea about his

secret mistress. There again, he could be having a great time innocently looking forward to a life

of faithful monogamy, with no idea that Clemency somehow got the wrong end of the stick

about him and Lucinda.88 Or possibly he could be having a great time deciding that he’s never

going to be unfaithful again and regrets it hugely and will confess everything to me as soon as he

gets back.89

        I can’t cope. I need Magnus to be here, in this country, in this room. I need to ask him,

“Have you been unfaithful with Lucinda?” and see what he says, and then maybe we can move

forward and I can work out what I’m going to do. Until then, I feel like I’m in limbo.

        As I go to make another cup of tea, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror,

and I wince. My hair is a mess. My hands are covered with newsprint from reading all the

papers. My stomach is full of acid, and my skin looks drawn. So much for my bridal beauty

regimem. According to my plan, last night I was supposed to apply a hydration mask. I didn’t

even take my makeup off.

        I’d originally set today aside to do wedding preparation—but every time I even think

about it, my insides clench and I feel like crying or shouting at someone. (Well, Magnus.)

There’s no point just sitting here all day though. I have to go out. I have to do something. After a

few sips of tea, I decide to go in to work. I don’t have any appointments, but I’ve got some

admin I can catch up with. And at least it’ll force me to have a shower and get myself together.

        I’m the first to arrive, and I sit in the quiet calm, sorting through patient files, letting the

monotony of the job soothe me. Which lasts about five minutes before Angela slouches through

the door and clatters around, starting her computer and making coffee and turning on the

wall-mounted telly.

        “Do we have to?” I feel as if I’ve got a hangover, even though I hardly drank anything

last night, and I could do without this blaring in my ears. But Angela stares at me as though I’ve

violated some basic human right.

        “I always watch Daybreak.”

        It’s not worth arguing. I could always heft all the files into my appointment room, but I

don’t have the energy for that either, so I just hunch my shoulders and try to block the world out.

        “Parcel!” Angela dumps a Jiffy bag in front of me. “StarBlu. Is that your swimwear for

the honeymoon?”

        I stare at it blankly. I was a different person when I ordered that. I can remember myself

now, going online one lunchtime, picking out bikinis and wraps. Never in a million years did I

think that three days before the wedding I’d be sitting here, wondering if the whole thing should

go ahead at all.

        “ … and in today’s front-page story, we’re talking possible corruption at government

level.” The presenter’s voice attracts my attention. “Here in the studio, a man who has known Sir

Nicholas Murray for thirty years: Alan Smith-Reeves. Alan, this is a confusing business. What’s

your take?”

        “I know that guy,” Angela says self-importantly, as Alan Smith-Reeves starts talking.

“He used to work in the same building as my last job.”

         “Oh, right.” I nod politely, as a picture of Sam appears on the screen.

         I can’t look. Just the sight of him sends shooting pains through my chest, but I don’t even

know why. Is it because he’s in trouble? Is it because he’s the only other person who knows

about Magnus? Is it because last night I was standing in a wood with his arms around me and

now I’ll probably never see him again?

         “He’s quite good-looking,” says Angela, squinting at Sam critically. “Is he Sir Nicholas

Whatsit?”

         “No!” I say, more vehemently than I meant to. “Don’t be stupid!”

         “All right!” She scowls at me. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

         I can’t answer. I have to escape from all this. I get to my feet. “Want a coffee?”

         “I’m making one. Duh.” Angela shoots me an odd look. “Are you OK? What are you

doing here, anyway? Thought you had the day off.”

         “I wanted to get ahead with stuff.” I grab my denim jacket. “But maybe it was a bad

idea.”

         “Here she is!” The door bursts open and Ruby and Annalise bustle in. “We were just

talking about you!” says Ruby, looking surprised. “What are you doing here?”

         “I thought I’d do some admin. But I’m going.”

         “No, don’t go! Wait a sec.” Ruby grabs my shoulder, then turns to Annalise. “Now,

Annalise. Why don’t you say to Poppy what we were talking about? Then you won’t have to

write a letter.”

         Uh-oh. She’s wearing her headmistressy look. And Annalise’s looking shamefaced.

What’s going on?

         “I don’t want to say it.” Annalise bites her lip like a six-year-old. “I’ll write a letter.”

         “Say it. Then it’s done.” Ruby is eyeing Annalise with the kind of stern gaze that’s

impossible to ignore.

         “OK!” Annalise takes a breath, looking a little pink around the cheeks. “Poppy, I’m sorry

I behaved badly with Magnus the other day. It was wrong of me and I was just doing it to get

back at you.”

         “And?” prompts Ruby.

         “I’m sorry I’ve given you a hard time. Magnus is yours, not mine. He belongs with you,

not me. And I’m never going to mention the fact we switched appointments again,” she finishes

in a rush. “Promise.”

         She looks so discomfited, I feel quite touched. I can’t believe Ruby did that. They should

put her in charge at White Globe Consulting. She’d sort out Justin Cole in no time.

         “Well … thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

         “I truly am sorry, you know, Poppy.” Annalise twists her fingers, looking abject. “I don’t

want to spoil your wedding.”

         “Annalise, take it from me. You won’t spoil my wedding.” I smile, but to my horror I can

feel tears welling up in my eyes.

         If anything spoils my wedding it’ll be the fact that it was called off. It’ll be the fact that

Magnus didn’t really love me after all. It’ll be the fact that I was a completely stupid, deluded

fool …

         Oh God. I am going to cry.

         “Missus?” Ruby gives me a close look. “You OK?”

         “Fine!” I exclaim, blinking furiously.

         “Wedding stress,” says Annalise. “Oh my God, Poppy, are you turning into a bridezilla at

last? Go on! I’ll help. I’ll be a bridesmaidzilla. Let’s go and throw a hissy fit somewhere. That’ll

cheer you up.”

        I raise a half smile and wipe my eyes. I don’t know how to respond. Do I tell them about

Magnus? They’re my friends, after all, and I’m longing for someone to talk to.

        But then, what if it is all a mix-up? I haven’t heard anything further from Unknown

Number.90 The whole thing’s guesswork. I can’t start telling the world that Magnus has been

unfaithful, based on one anonymous text. And then have Annalise putting it on Facebook and

calling him a love rat and booing as we walk down the aisle.91

        “I’m just tired,” I say at last.

        “Slap-up breakfast!” exclaims Ruby. “That’s what you need.”

        “No!” I say in horror. “I won’t fit into my dress!”

        Assuming I’m still going to get married. I feel the rush of tears again. Preparing for a

wedding is stressful enough. Preparing for a wedding or possible last-minute breakup/cancelation

is going to turn my hair gray.

        “You will,” Ruby contradicts me. “Everyone knows brides lose two dress sizes before

their wedding. You’ve got a massive margin to play with there, girl. Use it! Pig out! You’ll never

be in this position again!”

        “Have you dropped two dress sizes?” asks Annalise, eyeing me a little resentfully. “You

can’t have.”

        “No,” I say gloomily. “Maybe half of one.”

        “Well, that qualifies you for a latte and a doughnut, at any rate,” says Ruby, heading for

the door. “Come on. Comfort food’s what you need. We’ve got half an hour. Let’s cram it in.”

        When Ruby gets an idea, she goes for it. She’s already striding along the pavement and

into the Costa two doors away. As Annalise and I push our way in, she’s heading up to the till.

        “Hello there!” she begins cheerfully. “I“d like three lattes, three doughnuts, three plain

croissants, three almond croissants—”

        “Ruby, stop!” I start giggling.

        “Three pains au chocolat—we’ll give them to the patients if we can’t finish them—three

apple muffins—”

        “Three tins of breath mints,” chimes in Annalise.

        “Breath mints?” Ruby turns to regard her scornfully. “Breath mints?”

        “And some cinnamon swirls,” Annalise adds hurriedly.

        “That’s more like it. Three cinnamon swirls … ”

        My phone rings in my pocket, and my stomach lurches. Oh God, who’s this? What if it’s

Magnus?

        What if it’s Sam?

        I haul it out, taking a step away from Ruby and Annalise, who are arguing about what

kind of cookies they should buy. As I see the screen, I feel a dreadful squeezing sensation inside.

It’s Unknown Number. Whoever-it-is has finally phoned me back.

        This is it. This is where I find out the truth. For good or for bad. I’m so petrified, my hand

is actually shaking as I press accept, and at first I can’t catch my breath to speak.

        “Hello?” a girl’s voice is saying down the line. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

        Is that Clemency? I can’t tell.

        “Hi,” I manage to utter at last. “Hello. This is Poppy speaking. Is this Clemency?”

        “No.” The girl sounds surprised.

        “Oh.” I swallow. “Right.”

          It’s not Clemency? Who is it, then? My mind is scampering around frantically. Who else

could have sent me that text? Does this mean Lucinda’s not involved after all? I can see Annalise

and Ruby eyeing me curiously from the register and I swing away.

          “So.” I try desperately to sound dignified and not at all like someone who’s about to be

totally humiliated and have to call their entire wedding off. “Was there something you wanted to

say to me?”

          “Yes. I’m urgently trying to get in touch with Sam Roxton.”

          Sam?

          The tension that’s been growing inside me breaks with a crash. It’s not Unknown

Number after all. At least, it’s Different Unknown Number. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or

relieved.

          “How did you get this number?” the girl is demanding. “Do you know Sam?”

          “Er … yes. Yes, I do.” I try to gather myself. “Sorry. I misunderstood for a moment. I

thought you were someone else. Can I take a message for Sam?”

          I say it automatically before I realize that I’m not forwarding things to Sam anymore.

Still, I can get a message to him, can’t I? Just for old times’ sake. Just to be helpful.

          “I’ve tried that.” She sounds quite high-handed. “You don’t understand. I need to speak

to him. Today. Now. It’s urgent.”

          “Oh. Well, I can give you his email address—”

          “That’s a joke.” She cuts me off impatiently. “Sam never reads emails. But, believe me,

this is important. I have to speak to him, as soon as possible. It’s about the phone, in fact. The

phone you’re holding right now.”

          What?

          I gape at the receiver, wondering if I’ve gone crazy. How does some strange girl know

what phone I’m holding?

          “Who are you?” I say in astonishment, and she heaves a sigh.

          “No one remembers who I am, do they? I worked for Sam. I’m Violet.”

          Thank God I didn’t eat the cinnamon swirls, is all I can say. Violet turns out to be about

ten feet tall, with skinny legs clad in frayed denim shorts and massive dark eyes with traces of

makeup around them.92 She looks like a cross between a giraffe and a bush baby.

          It turned out that she lives in Clapham and it would take her only about five minutes to

get here to see me. So here she is, in Costa, chomping on a chicken wrap and swigging a

smoothie. Ruby and Annalise have gone back to work, which is a good thing, because I couldn’t

cope with having to explain the whole saga to them. It’s all too surreal.

          As Violet has told me several times, if she hadn’t happened to be in London, between

jobs, and happened to see the headlines as she went to get a pint of milk, she would never have

known about the scandal. And if she hadn’t happened to have a brain in her head, she wouldn’t

have realized that she totally knew what had been going on the whole time. But are people

grateful? Do they want to hear? No. They’re all idiots.

          “My parents are on this stupid cruise,” she’s saying with disdain. “I tried to look in their

telephone book, but I don’t know who’s who, do I? So I tried ringing Sam’s line, then Nick’s

line … but I only got snotty PAs. No one would listen to me. But I need to tell someone.” She

bangs her hand on the table. “Because I know something was going on. I even sort of knew it at

the time? But Sam never listened to me? Do you find he never listens to you?” She focuses on

me with interest for the first time. “Who exactly are you, anyway? You said you’d been helping

him. What does that mean?”

        “It’s kind of complicated,” I say after a pause. “He was left in the lurch a bit.”

        “Oh, yeah?” She takes another bite of chicken wrap and regards me with interest. “How

come?”

        Has she forgotten?

        “Well … er … you left with no notice. Remember? You were supposed to be his PA?”

        “Riiiight.” She opens her eyes wide. “Yeah. That job didn’t really work out for me. And

the agency called and wanted me to get on a plane, so … “ Her brow wrinkles in thought as

though she’s considering this for the first time. “I guess he was a bit pissed off. But they’ve got

loads of staff. He’ll be all right.” She waves her hand airily. “So, do you work there?”

        “No.” How am I going to explain it? “I found this phone and borrowed it, and I got to

know Sam that way.”

        “I remember that phone. Yeah.” She peers at it, screwing up her nose. “I never answered

it.”

        I suppress a smile. She must have been the crappest PA in the world.

        “But that’s why I know something was going on.” She finishes off her chicken wrap with

a flourish. “Because of all the messages. On that.” She jabs a finger at it.

        OK. At last we’re getting to it.

        “Messages? What messages?”

        “It had all these voice mails on it. Not for Sam; for some guy called Ed. I didn’t know

what to do about them. So I listened to them and I wrote them down. And I didn’t like the sound

of them.”

        “Why not?” My heart starts to thud.

        “They were all from the same guy, about altering a document. How they were going to do

it. How long it would take. How much it would cost. That kind of thing. It didn’t sound right,

you know what I mean? But it didn’t exactly sound wrong either.” She crinkles her nose. “It just

sounded … weird.”

        My head is wheeling. I can’t take this in. Voice mails for Ed about the memo. On this

phone. This phone.

        “Did you tell Sam?”

        “I sent him an email and he said ignore them. But I didn’t want to ignore them. You

know what I mean? I had this instinct.” She swigs her smoothie. “Then I open the paper this

morning, and I see Sam talking about some memo and saying it must have been sexed up, and I

think, yes!” She bangs her hand on the table again. “That’s what was going on.”

        “How many voice mails were there in all?”

        “Four? Five?”

        “But there aren’t any voice mails on here now. At least, I haven’t found any.” I can

hardly bear to ask the question. “Did you … delete them?”

        “No!” She beams in triumph. “That’s the point! I saved them. At least, my boyfriend,

Aran, did. I was writing one out one night, and he was, like, ‘Babe, just save it to the server.’

And I was like, ‘How do I save a voice mail?’ So he came into the office and put them all on a

file. He can do amazing stuff, Aran,” she adds proudly. “He’s a model too, but he writes games

on the side.”

        “A file?” I’m not following. “So where’s the file now?”

        “It must still be there.” She shrugs. “On the PA’s computer. There’s an icon called voice

mails on the desktop.”

        An icon on the PA’s computer. Just outside Sam’s office. All the time, it was right there,

right in front of our face.

        “Will it still be there?” I feel a blast of panic. “Won’t it be deleted?”

        “Don’t know why it would be.” She shrugs. “Nothing was deleted when I arrived. There

was just a big old pile of crap I was supposed to wade through.”

        I almost want to laugh hysterically. All that panic. All that effort. We could have simply

gone to the computer outside Sam’s office.

        “Anyway, I’m going to the States tomorrow, and I had to tell someone, but it’s

impossible to get in touch with Sam at the moment.” She shakes her head. “I’ve tried emailing,

texting, phoning—I’m, like, if you only knew what I had to tell you … ”

        “Let me have a go,” I say after a pause, and type a text to Sam.

        Sam, you have to call me. Now. It’s about Sir Nicholas. Could be a help. Not a

time-waster. Believe me. Call at once. Please. Poppy.

        “Well, good luck with that.” Violet rolls her eyes. “Like I told you, he’s gone off radar.

His PA said he’s not responding to anybody. Not emailing, not answering calls—” She breaks

off as the tinny sound of Beyoncé comes through the air. Sam Mobile has already popped up on

the display.

        “OK.” Her eyes widen. “I’m impressed.”

        I press accept and lift the receiver to my ear. “Hi, Sam.”

        “Poppy.”

        His voice feels like a blast of sunshine in my ear. There’s so much I want to say. But I

can’t. Not now.

        Maybe not ever.

        “Listen,” I say. “Are you in your office? Go to your PA’s computer. Quickly.”

        There’s the briefest pause, then he says, “OK.”

        “Look on the desktop,” I instruct him. “Is there a file called Voice Mails?”

        There’s silence for a little while—then Sam’s voice comes down the phone.

        “Affirmative.”

        “OK!” My breath comes out in a whoosh. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it. “You need

to look after that file carefully. And now you need to speak to Violet.”

        “Violet?” He sounds taken aback. “You don’t mean Violet my flaky ex-PA?”

        “I’m with her now. Listen to her, Sam. Please.” I pass the phone over.

        “Hey, Sam,” says Violet easily. “Sorry about leaving you in the lurch and all that. But

you’ve had Poppy to help you out, yeah?”

        As she’s talking, I head up to the counter and buy myself another coffee, even though I’m

so wired I probably shouldn’t. Hearing Sam’s voice has thrown me. I immediately wanted to talk

to him about everything. I wanted to nestle up and hear what he had to say.

        But that’s impossible. Number one, because he’s mired in massive problems of his own.

Number two, because who is he? Not a friend. Not a colleague. Just some random guy who has

no place in my life. It’s over. The only place for us to go from here is goodbye.