Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "
Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella
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Aha. So Violet’s his personal assistant. This makes sense. And she walked out on him!
Well, I’m not surprised, he’s so bossy.
“Anyway, doesn’t matter,” he interrupts himself. “Point is, I’m on the stairs, floor nine,
the lift jammed, I’ll be downstairs in less than three minutes, and you have to keep Yuichi
Yamasaki there till I arrive. Whoever the hell you are.”
What a nerve.
“Or what?” I retort.
“Or else a year of careful negotiation goes down the tubes because of one ridiculous
misunderstanding. The biggest deal of the year falls apart. A team of twenty people lose their
jobs.” His voice is relentless. “Senior managers, secretaries, the whole gang. Just because I can’t
get down there fast enough and the one person who could help won’t.”
Oh, bloody hell.
“All right!” I say furiously. “I’ll do my best. What’s his name again?”
“Yamasaki.”
“Wait!” I raise my voice, running forward across the lobby. “Please! Mr. Yamasaki?
Could you wait a minute?”
Mr. Yamasaki turns questioningly, and a couple of flunkies move forward, flanking him
protectively. He has a broad face, still creased in anger, and a wide, bullish neck, around which
he’s draping a silk scarf. I get the sense he’s not into idle chitchat.
I have no idea what to say next. I don’t speak Japanese, I don’t know anything about
Japanese business or Japanese culture. Apart from sushi. But I can’t exactly go up to him and say
“Sushi!” out of the blue. It would be like going up to a top American businessman and saying
“T-bone steak!”
“I’m … a huge fan,” I improvise. “Of your work. Could I have your autograph?”
He looks puzzled, and one of his colleagues whispers a translation into his ear.
Immediately, his brow clears and he bows to me.
Cautiously, I bow back, and he snaps his fingers, barking an instruction. A moment later,
a beautiful leather folder has been opened in front of him, and he’s writing something elaborate
in Japanese.
“Is he still there?” The stranger’s voice suddenly emanates from the phone.
“Yes,” I mutter into it. “Just about. Where are you?” I shoot a bright smile at Mr.
Yamasaki.
“Fifth floor. Keep him there. Whatever it takes.”
Mr. Yamasaki hands me his piece of paper, caps his pen, bows again, and makes to walk
off.
“Wait!” I cry desperately. “Could I … show you something?”
“Mr. Yamasaki is very busy.” One of his colleagues, wearing steel glasses and the
whitest shirt I’ve ever seen, turns back. “Kindly contact our office.”
They’re heading away again. What do I do now? I can’t ask for another autograph. I can’t
rugby-tackle him. I need to attract his attention somehow.
“I have a special announcement to make!” I exclaim, hurrying after them. “I am a singing
telegram! I bear a message from all Mr. Yamasaki’s many fans. It would be a great discourtesy
to them if you were to refuse me.”
The word discourtesy seems to have stopped them in their tracks. They’re frowning and
exchanging confused glances.
“A singing telegram?” says the man in steel glasses suspiciously.
“Like a Gorilla Gram?” I offer. “Only singing.”
I’m not sure that’s made things any clearer.
The interpreter murmurs furiously in Mr. Yamasaki’s ear and after a moment looks at me.
“You may present.”
Mr. Yamasaki turns and all his colleagues follow suit, folding their arms expectantly and
lining up in a row. Around the lobby I can see a few interested glances from other groups of
businesspeople.
“Where are you?” I murmur desperately into the phone.
“Third floor,” comes the man’s voice after a moment. “Half a minute. Don’t lose him.”
“Begin,” the man in steel spectacles says pointedly.
Some people nearby have turned to watch. Oh God. How did I get myself into this?
Number one, I can’t sing. Number two, what do I sing to a Japanese businessman I’ve never met
before? Number three, why did I say singing telegram?
But if I don’t do something soon, twenty people might lose their jobs.
I make a deep bow, to spin out some more time, and all the Japanese bow back.
“Begin,” repeats the man in steel spectacles, his eyes glinting ominously.
I take a deep breath. Come on. It doesn’t matter what I do. I only have to last half a
minute. Then I can run away and they’ll never see me again.
“Mr. Yamasaki … ” I begin cautiously, to the tune of “Single Ladies.” “Mr. Yamasaki.
Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.” I shimmy my hips and shoulders at him, just like Beyoncé.11
“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.”
Actually, this is quite easy. I don’t need any lyrics—I can keep singing “Mr. Yamasaki”
over and over. After a few moments, some of the Japanese even start singing along and clapping
Mr. Yamasaki on the back.
“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki. Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.” I lift my finger and
waggle it at him with a wink. “Ooh-ooh-ooh … ooh-ooh-ooh … ”
This song is ridiculously catchy. All the Japanese are singing now, apart from Mr.
Yamasaki, who’s standing there, looking delighted. Some nearby delegates have joined in with
the singing, and I can hear one of them saying, “Is this a flash mob thing?”
“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki … Where are you?” I mutter into the
phone, still beaming brightly.
“Watching.”
“What?” My head jerks up and I sweep the lobby.
Suddenly my gaze fixes on a man standing alone, about thirty yards away. He’s wearing
a dark suit and has thick black rumpled hair and is holding a phone to his ear. Even from this
distance I can see that he’s laughing.
“How long have you been there?” I demand furiously.
“Just arrived. Didn’t want to interrupt. Great job, by the way,” he adds. “I think you won
Yamasaki round to the cause, right there.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “Glad I could help. He’s all yours.” I bow to Mr. Yamasaki
with a flourish, then turn on my heel and head swiftly toward the exit, ignoring the disappointed
cries of the Japanese. I’ve got more important stuff to worry about than arrogant strangers and
their stupid business deals.
“Wait!” The man’s voice follows me through the receiver. “That phone. It’s my PA’s.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have thrown it away, then,” I retort, pushing the glass doors open.
“Finders keepers.”
There are twelve tube stops from Knightsbridge to Magnus’s parents’ house in North
London, and as soon as I resurface from the underground I check the phone. It’s flashing with
new messages—about ten texts and twenty emails—but there are only five texts for me and none
with news about the ring. One’s from the police, and my heart leaps with hope—but it’s only to
confirm that I’ve filed a report and asking if I want a visit from a victim support officer.
The rest are all text messages and emails for Violet. As I scroll down them, I notice that
Sam features in the subject heading of quite a few of the emails. Feeling like Poirot again, I
check back on the numbers called function and, sure enough, the last number that called this
phone was Sam Mobile. So that’s him. Violet’s boss. Dark-rumpled-hair guy. And to prove it,
her email address is [email protected].
Just out of the mildest curiosity, I click on one of the emails. It’s from
[email protected], and the subject is Re: Dinner?
Thanks, Violet. I’d appreciate you not mentioning any of this to Sam. I feel a little embarrassed
now! Ooh. What’s she embarrassed about? Before I can stop myself, I’ve scrolled down to read
the previous email, which was sent yesterday.
Actually, Jenna, you should know something: Sam’s engaged.Best, Violet He’s engaged.
Interesting. As I read the words over again, I feel a strange little reaction inside which I can’t
quite place—surprise?
Although why should I be surprised? I don’t even know the guy.
OK, now I have to know the whole story. Why is Jenna embarrassed? What happened? I
scroll down still farther past a couple more exchanges, and at last find a long introductory email
from Jenna, who clearly met this Sam Roxton at a business function, got the hots for him, and
invited him to dinner two weeks ago, but he hasn’t returned her calls.
… tried again yesterday … maybe using the wrong number … someone told me he is notorious
and that his PA is always the best route to contact him … very sorry to bother you … possibly
just let me know either way …Poor woman. I feel quite indignant on her behalf. Why
didn’t he reply? How hard is it to send a quick email saying, no, thanks? And then it turns out
he’s engaged, for God’s sake.
Anyway. Whatever. I suddenly realize I’m snooping in someone else’s in-box when I
have a lot of other, more important things to be thinking about. Priorities, Poppy. I need to buy
some wine for Magnus’s parents. And a welcome-home card—And, if I don’t track down the
ring in the next twenty minutes—some gloves.
Disaster. Disaster. It turns out they don’t sell gloves in April. The only ones I could find
were from the back room in Accessorize. Old Christmas stock, available only in a small.
I cannot believe I’m seriously planning to greet my prospective in-laws in too-tight red
woolly reindeer gloves. With tassels.
But I have no choice. It’s that or walk in bare-handed.
As I start the long climb up the hill to Magnus’s parents’ house, I’m starting to feel really
sick. It’s not just the ring. It’s the whole scary prospective in-laws thing. I turn the corner—and
all the windows of the house are alight. They’re home.
I’ve never known a house which suits a family as much as the Tavishes’ does. It’s older
and grander than any of the others in the street and looks down on them from its superior
position. There are yew trees and a monkey puzzle in the garden. The bricks are covered in ivy,
and the windows still have their original 1835 wooden frames. Inside, there’s William Morris
wallpaper dating from the 1960s, and the floorboards are covered with Turkish carpets.
Except you can’t actually see the carpets, because they’re mostly covered in old
documents and manuscripts which no one ever bothers to clear up. No one’s big on tidying in the
Tavish family. I once found a fossilized boiled egg in a spare-room bed, still in its egg cup, with
a desiccated toast soldier. It must have been about a year old.
And everywhere, all over the house, are books. Stacked up three deep on shelves, piled
on the floor, and on the side of every lime-stained bath. Antony writes books, Wanda writes
books, Magnus writes books, and his elder brother, Conrad, writes books. Even Conrad’s wife,
Margot, writes books.12
Which is great. I mean, it’s a wonderful thing, all these genius intellectuals in one family.
But it does make you feel just the teensiest, weensiest bit inadequate.
Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m pretty intelligent. You know, for a normal person who
went to school and college and got a job and everything. But these aren’t normal people; they’re
in a different league. They have superbrains. They’re the academic version of The Incredibles.13
I’ve met his parents only a few times, when they flew back to London for a week for Antony to
give some big important lecture, but it was enough to show me. While Antony was lecturing
about political theory, Wanda was presenting a paper on feminist Judaism to a think tank, and
then they both appeared on The Culture Show, taking opposing views on a documentary about
the influence of the Renaissance.14 So that was the backdrop to our meeting. No pressure or
anything.
I’ve been introduced to quite a few different boyfriends’ parents over the years, but hands
down this was the worst experience, ever. We’d just shaken hands and made a bit of small talk
and I was telling Wanda quite proudly where I’d been to college, when Antony looked up over
his half-moon glasses, with those bright, cold eyes of his, and said, “A degree in physiotherapy.
How amusing.” I felt instantly crushed. I didn’t know what to say. In fact, I was so flustered I
left the room to go to the loo.15
After that, of course, I froze. Those three days were sheer misery. The more intellectual
the conversation became, the more tongue-tied and awkward I was. My second-worst moment:
pronouncing Proust wrong and everyone exchanging looks.16 My very worst moment: watching
University Challenge all together in the drawing room, when a section on bones came on. My
subject! I studied this! I know all the Latin names and everything! But as I was drawing breath to
answer the first question, Antony had already given the correct answer. I was quicker next
time—but he still beat me. The whole thing was like a race, and he won. Then, at the end, he
looked over at me and inquired, “Do they not teach anatomy at physiotherapy school, Poppy?”
and I was mortified.
Magnus says he loves me, not my brain, and that I’ve got to ignore his parents. And
Natasha said, think of the rock and the Hampstead house and the villa in Tuscany. Which is
Natasha for you. Whereas my own approach has been as follows: Just don’t think about them.
It’s been fine. They’ve been safely in Chicago, thousands of miles away.
But now they’re back.
Oh God. And I’m still a bit shaky on Proust. (Proost? Prost?) And I didn’t revise the
Latin names for bones. And I’m wearing red woolly reindeer gloves in April. With tassels.
My legs are shaking as I ring the bell. Actually shaking. I feel like the scarecrow in The
Wizard of Oz. Any minute I’ll collapse on the path and Wanda will torch me for losing the ring.
Stop, Poppy. It’s fine. No one will suspect anything, My story is, I burned my hand.
That’s my story.
“Hi, Poppy!”
“Felix! Hi!”
I’m so relieved it’s Felix at the door, my greeting comes out in a shaky gasp.
Felix is the baby of the family—only seventeen and still at school. In fact, Magnus has
been living in the house with him while his parents have been away, as kind of babysitter, and I
moved in after we got engaged. Not that Felix needs a babysitter. He’s completely
self-contained, reads all the time, and you never even know he’s in the house. I once tried to give
him a friendly little “drugs chat.” He politely corrected me on every single fact, then said he’d
noticed I drank above the recommended guidelines of Red Bull and did I think I might have an
addiction? That was the last time I tried to act the older sister.
Anyway. That’s all come to an end, now that Antony and Wanda are returning from the
States. I’ve moved back to my flat and we’ve started looking for places to rent. Magnus was all
for staying here. He thought we could continue using the spare bedroom and bathroom on the top
floor, and wouldn’t it be convenient, as he could carry on using his father’s library?
Is he nuts? There is no way I am living under the same roof as the Tavishes.
I follow Felix into the kitchen, where Magnus is lounging on a kitchen chair, gesturing at
a page of typescript, and saying, “I think your argument goes wrong here. Second paragraph.”
However Magnus sits, whatever he does, he somehow manages to looks elegant. His
suede-brogued feet are up on a chair, he’s halfway through a cigarette,17 and his tawny hair is
thrown back off his brow like a waterfall.
The Tavishes all have the same coloring, like a family of foxes. Even Wanda hennas her
hair. But Magnus is the best-looking of all, and I’m not just saying that because I’m marrying
him. His skin is freckled but tans easily too, and his red-brown hair is like something out of a
hair ad. That’s why he keeps it long.18 He’s actually quite vain about it.
Plus, although he’s an academic, he’s not some fusty guy who sits inside reading books
all day. He skis really well, and he’s going to teach me too. That’s how we met, in fact. He’d
sprained his wrist skiing and he came in for physio after his doctor recommended us. He was
supposed to be seeing Annalise, but she switched him for one of her regulars and he ended up
coming to me instead. The next week he asked me out on a date, and after a month he proposed.
A month!19
Now Magnus looks up and his face brightens. “Sweetheart! How’s my beautiful girl?
Come here.” He beckons me over for a kiss, then frames my face in his hands, like he always
does.
“Hi!” I force a smile. “So, are your parents here? How was their flight? I can’t wait to see
them.”
I’m trying to sound as keen as I can, even though my legs are wanting to run away, out
the door and down the hill.
“Didn’t you get my text?” Magnus seems puzzled.
“What text? Oh.” I suddenly realize. “Of course. I lost my phone. I’ve got a new number.
I’ll give it to you.”
“You lost your phone?” Magnus stares at me. “What happened?”
“Nothing!” I say brightly. “Just … lost it and had to get a new one. No biggie. No
drama.”
I’ve decided on a general policy that the less I say to Magnus right now, the better. I
don’t want to get into any discussions as to why I might be clinging desperately to some random
phone I found in a bin.
“So, what did your text say?” I quickly add, trying to move the conversation on.
“My parents’ plane was diverted. They had to go to Manchester. Won’t be back till
tomorrow.”
Diverted?
Manchester?
Oh my God. I’m safe! I’m reprieved! My legs can stop wobbling! I want to sing the
“Hallelujah” chorus. Ma-an-chester! Ma-an-chester!
“God, how awful.” I’m trying hard to twist my face into a disappointed expression. “Poor
them. Manchester. That’s miles away! I was really looking forward to seeing them too. What a
pain.”
I think I sound pretty convincing. Felix shoots me an odd look, but Magnus has already
picked up the typescript again. He hasn’t commented on my gloves. Nor has Felix.
Maybe I can relax a notch.
“So … er … guys.” I survey the room. “What about the kitchen?”
Magnus and Felix said they were going to clear up this afternoon, but the place is a bomb
site. There are takeaway boxes on the kitchen table and a stack of books on top of the hob and
even one in a saucepan. “Your parents will be back tomorrow. Shouldn’t we do something?”
Magnus looks unmoved. “They won’t care.”
It’s all very well for him to say that. But I’m the daughter-in-law (nearly) who’s been
living here and will get the blame.
Magnus and Felix have begun talking about some footnote,20 so I head over to the hob
and start a quick tidy-up. I don’t dare remove my gloves, but the guys aren’t giving me the
slightest glance, thankfully. At least I know the rest of the house is OK. I went over the whole
place yesterday, replaced all the old manky bottles of bubble bath and got a new blind for the
bathroom. Best of all, I tracked down some anemones for Wanda’s study. Everyone knows she
loves anemones. She’s even written an article about “anemones in literature”. (Which is typical
of this family—you can’t just enjoy something, you have to become a top academic expert on it.)
Magnus and Felix are still engrossed as I finish. The house is tidy. No one’s asked me
about the ring. I’ll quit while I’m ahead.
“So, I’ll head home,” I say casually, and drop a kiss on Magnus’s head. “You stay here,
keep Felix company. Say welcome home to your parents from me.”
“Stay the night!” Magnus sweeps an arm round my waist and pulls me back. “They’ll
want to see you!”
“No, you welcome them. I’ll catch up tomorrow.” I smile brightly, to distract attention
from the fact that I’m edging toward the door, my hands behind my back. “Plenty of time.”
“I don’t blame you,” says Felix, looking up for the first time since I’ve arrived at the
house.
“Sorry?” I say, a bit puzzled. “Don’t blame me for what?”
“Not sticking around.” He shrugs. “I think you’re being remarkably sanguine, given their
reaction. I’ve been meaning to say so for weeks. You must be a very good person, Poppy.”
What’s he talking about?
“I don’t know—what do you mean?” I turn to Magnus for help.
“It’s nothing,” he says, too quickly. But Felix is staring at his older brother, a light
dawning in his eyes.
“Oh my God. Didn’t you tell her?”
“Felix, shut up.”
“You didn’t, did you? That’s not exactly fair, is it, Mag?”
“Tell me what?” I’m turning from face to face. “What?”
“It’s nothing.” Magnus sounds rattled. “Just … ” He finally meets my eyes. “OK. My
parents weren’t exactly wild to hear we’re engaged. That’s all.”
For a moment I don’t know how to react. I stare at him dumbly, trying to process what I
heard.
“But you said … ” I don’t quite trust my voice. “You said they were thrilled. You said
they were excited!”
“They will be thrilled,” he says crossly. “When they see sense.”
They will be?
My whole world is wobbling. It was bad enough when I thought Magnus’s parents were
intimidating geniuses. But all this time they’ve been against us getting married?
“You told me they said they couldn’t imagine a sweeter, more charming
daughter-in-law.” I’m trembling all over by now. “You said they sent me special love from
Chicago! Was all that lies?”
“I didn’t want to upset you!” Magnus glares at Felix. “Look, it’s no big deal. They’ll
come round. They simply think it’s all a bit fast… . They don’t know you properly… . They’re
idiots,” he ends with a scowl. “I told them so.”
“You had a row with your parents?” I stare at him, dismayed. “Why didn’t you tell me
any of this?”
“It wasn’t a row,” he says defensively. “It was more … a falling-out.”
A falling-out? A falling-out?
“A falling-out is worse than a row!” I wail in horror. “It’s a million times worse! Oh God,
I wish you’d told me … What am I going to do? How can I face them?”
I knew it. The professors don’t think I’m good enough. I’m like that girl in the opera who
relinquishes her lover because she’s too unsuitable and then gets TB and dies, and good thing
too, since she was so inferior and stupid. She probably couldn’t pronounce Proust either.
“Poppy, calm down!” Magnus says irritably. He gets to his feet and takes me firmly by
the shoulders. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. It’s family nonsense and it’s got nothing to
do with us. I love you. We’re getting married. I’m going to do this and I’m going to see it
through whatever anyone else says, whether it’s my parents or my friends or anyone else. This is
about us.” His voice is so firm, I start to relax. “And, anyway, as soon as my parents spend some
time with you, they’ll come round. I know it.”
I can’t help giving a reluctant smile.
“That’s my beautiful girl.” Magnus gives me a tight hug and I clasp him back, trying as
hard as I can to believe him.
As he draws away, his gaze falls on my hands and he frowns, looking puzzled. “Sweets
… why are you wearing gloves?”
I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. I really am.
The whole ring debacle nearly came out. It would have, if it weren’t for Felix. I was
halfway through my ludicrous, stumbling hand-burning excuse, expecting Magnus to become
suspicious at any moment, when Felix yawned and said, “Shall we go to the pub?” and Magnus
suddenly remembered an email he had to send first and everyone forgot about my gloves.
And I chose that opportunity to leave. Very quickly.
Now I’m sitting on the bus, staring out into the dark night, feeling cold inside. I’ve lost
the ring. The Tavishes don’t want me to marry Magnus. My mobile is gone. I feel like all my
security blankets have been snatched, all at once.
The phone in my pocket starts to emit Beyoncé again, and I haul it out without any great
hope.
Sure enough, it’s not any of my friends calling to say “Found it!” Nor the police, nor the
hotel concierge. It’s him. Sam Roxton.
“You ran off,” he says with no preamble. “I need that phone back. Where are you?”
Charming. Not “Thank you so much for helping me with my Japanese business deal.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “Anytime.”
“Oh.” He sounds momentarily discomfited. “Right. Thanks. I owe you one. Now, how
are you going to get that phone back to me? You could drop it round at the office or I could send
a bike. Where are you?”
I’m silent. I’m not going to get it back to him. I need this number.
“Hello?”
“Hi.” I clutch the phone more tightly and swallow hard. “The thing is, I need to borrow
this phone. Just for a bit.”
“Oh Christ.” I can hear him exhale. “Look, I’m afraid it’s not available for ‘borrowing.’
It’s company property, and I need it back. Or by ‘borrowing’ do you actually mean ‘stealing’?
Because, believe me, I can track you down, and I’m not paying you a hundred pounds for the
pleasure.”
Is that what he thinks? That I’m after money? That I’m some kind of phone-napper?
“I don’t want to steal it!” I exclaim indignantly. “I only need it for a few days. I’ve given
the number out to everyone, and it’s a real emergency—”
“You did what?” He sounds baffled. “Why would you do that?”
“I lost my engagement ring.” I can hardly bear to say it out loud. “It’s really old and
valuable. And then my phone was nicked, and I was absolutely desperate, and then I passed this
litter bin and there it was. In the bin,” I add for emphasis. “Your PA just chucked it away. Once
an item lands in the bin, it belongs to the public, you know. Anyone can claim it.”
“Bullshit,” he retorts. “Who told you that?”
“It’s … it’s common knowledge.” I try to sound robust. “Anyway, why did your PA walk
out and chuck her phone away? Not much of a PA, if you ask me.”
“No. Not much of a PA. More of a friend’s daughter who never should have never been
given the job. She’s been in the job three weeks. Apparently landed a modeling contract at
exactly midday today. By one minute past, she’d left. She didn’t even bother telling me she was
going.” He sounds pretty pissed off. “Listen, Miss—what’s your name?”
“Wyatt. Poppy Wyatt.”
“Well, enough kidding around, Poppy. I’m sorry about your ring. I hope it turns up. But
this phone isn’t some fun accessory you can purloin for your own ends. This is a company phone
with business messages coming in all the time. Emails. Important stuff. My PA runs my life. I
need those messages.”
“I’ll forward them.” I hastily cut him off. “I’ll forward everything. How about that?”
“What the—” He mutters something under his breath. “OK. You win. I’ll buy you a new
phone. Give me your address, I’ll bike it over—”
“I need this one,” I say stubbornly. “I need this number.”
“For Christ’s—”
“My plan can work!” My words tumble out in a rush. “Everything that comes in, I’ll send
to you straightaway. You won’t know the difference! I mean, you’d have to do that anyway,
wouldn’t you? If you’ve lost your PA, then what good is a PA’s phone? This way is better. Plus
you owe me one for stopping Mr. Yamasaki,” I can’t help pointing out. “You just said so
yourself.”
“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it—”
“You won’t miss anything, I promise!” I cut off his irritable snarl. “I’ll forward every
single message. Look, I’ll show you, just give me two secs … ”
I ring off, scroll down all the messages that have arrived in the phone since this morning,
and quickly forward them one by one to Sam’s mobile number. My fingers are working like
lightning.
Text from Vicks Myers: forwarded. Text from Sir Nicholas Murray: forwarded. It’s a
matter of seconds to forward them all on. And the emails can all go to
Email from HR Department: forwarded. Email from Tania Phelps: forwarded. Email
from Dad—
I hesitate a moment. I need to be careful here. Is this Violet’s dad or Sam’s dad? The
name at the top of the email is [email protected], which doesn’t really help.
Telling myself it’s all in a good cause, I scroll down to have a quick look.
Dear Sam,It’s been a long time. I think of you often, wondering what you’re up to, and would
love to chat sometime. Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re
a busy fellow.If you are ever in the neighborhood, you know you can always stop by. There is a
little matter I’d like to raise with you—quite exciting, actually—but as I say, no hurry.Yours
ever,
Dad As I get to the end I feel a bit shocked. I know this guy is a stranger and this is none of
my business. But honestly. You’d think he could reply to his own father’s phone messages. How
hard is it to spare half an hour for a chat? And his dad sounds so sweet and humble. Poor old
man, having to email his own son’s PA. I feel like replying to him myself. I feel like visiting
him, in his little cottage.21
Anyway. Whatever. Not my life. I press forward and the email goes zooming off, with all
the others. A moment later Beyoncé starts singing. It’s Sam again.
“When exactly did Sir Nicholas Murray text Violet?” he says abruptly.
“Er … ” I peer at the phone. “About four hours ago.” The first few words of the text are
displayed on the screen, so there’s no great harm in clicking on it and reading the rest, is there?
Not that it’s very interesting.
Violet, please ask Sam to call me. His phone is switched off. Best, Nicholas.
“Shit. Shit.” Sam’s silent for a moment. “OK, if he texts again, you let me know
