Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

texting Sam all the way through.43

        And, yes, of course I feel guilty. Halfway through, I felt even worse when I texted Sam in

admiration:, How do you know all these words?, and he replied, I don’t. The internet does.

        The internet?

        For a moment I felt too shocked to reply. I thought he was thinking of the words, not

finding them on Scrabblewords.com or whatever.

        That’s CHEATING!!!! I typed.

        You already crossed that line, he texted back. What’s the difference? And then he added,

Flattered you thought I was a genius.

        Then, of course, I felt really stupid.

        And he had a point. Once you’ve started cheating, does it matter what your methods are?

         I know I’m storing up problems for the future. I know Sam Roxton won’t always be on

the end of my phone to feed me words. I know I couldn’t possibly repeat the feat. Which is why

I’m planning to retire from family Scrabble, as of tomorrow. It was a short, brilliant career. And

now it’s over.

         The only person who wasn’t entirely fulsome in his praise was Magnus, which was a bit

surprising. I mean, he said, “Well done,” along with everyone else—but he didn’t give me a

special hug or even ask me how come I knew all those words. And when Wanda said, “Magnus,

you didn’t tell us Poppy was so talented!” he flashed her this quick smile and said, “I told you,

Poppy’s brilliant at everything.” Which was nice—but kind of meaningless too.

         The thing is … he came in second.

         He can’t be jealous of me, surely?

         It’s about eleven now, and we’re back in my flat. I’m half-tempted to go and talk to

Magnus about it, but he’s disappeared off to do some preparation for a lecture on Symbols and

Symbolic Thought in Dante44 which he’s giving tomorrow. So instead I curl up on the sofa and

forward some emails which came in earlier for Sam.

         After a few I can’t help clicking my tongue with frustration. Half of these emails are

reminders and chasers. He still hasn’t replied about the conference accommodation at

Chiddingford Hotel, or the Fun Run, or the dentist. Or the new James & James bespoke suit

waiting for him to pick up at his convenience. How can you ignore new clothes?

         There are only a few people he ever seems to reply to immediately. One is a girl called

Vicks, who runs the PR department. She’s very businesslike and curt, just like him, and has been

consulting him about some press launch they’re doing together. She often cc’s Violet’s address,

but by the time I forward the email, Sam’s already replied to her. Another is a guy called

Malcolm, who asks Sam’s opinion about something nearly every hour. And, of course, Sir

Nicholas Murray, who’s clearly very senior and important and is doing some work for the

government at the moment.45 He and Sam get on incredibly well, if their emails are anything to

go by. They zing back and forth like conversation between old friends. I can’t really understand

half of what they’re saying—especially all the in-jokes—but the tone is obvious, and so is the

fact that Sam has more emails to and from Sir Nicholas than anybody else.

         Sam’s company is evidently some kind of consultancy. They tell companies how to run

their businesses and they do a lot of facilitating, whatever that is. I guess they’re like negotiators

or mediators or something. They must be pretty successful at it, because Sam seems very

popular. He’s been invited to three drinks parties this week alone and to a shooting event with a

private bank next weekend. And a girl called Blue has emailed for the third time, asking if he’d

like to attend a special reception to celebrate the merger of Johnson Ellison with Greene Retail.

It’s at the Savoy, with a jazz band and canapés and goody bags.

         And he still hasn’t replied. Still.

         I don’t understand him. If I’d been invited to something so amazing, I would have replied

instantly, Yes, please! Thank you so much! I can’t wait!. Whereas he hasn’t even

acknowledged it.

         Rolling my eyes, I forward every single email, then type him a text:

         Thx again for Scrabble! Have just sent on some new emails. Poppy

         A moment later my phone rings. It’s Sam.

         “Oh, hi—” I start.

         “OK, you’re a genius,” he interrupts. “I had a hunch Vivien would be working late. I

called her for a chat and mentioned the issues we discussed. It all came out. You were right.

We’re going to talk again tomorrow, but I think she’s staying.”

        “Oh,” I say, pleased. “Cool.”

        “No,” he says firmly. “Not only cool. Awesome. Incredible. Do you know how much

time and money and trouble you have saved me? I owe you, big-time.” He pauses. “Oh, and

you’re right, she hates being called Viv. So I owe you twice.”

        “No problem! Anytime.”

        “So … that’s all I had to say. I won’t keep you.”

        “Good night. Glad it all worked out.” As I ring off, I remember something and quickly

type a text.

        Have u booked dentist yet? U will get manky teeth!!!

        A few seconds later the phone bleeps with a reply:

        I’ll take my chances.

        Take his chances? Is he nuts? My aunt is a dental nurse, so I know what I’m talking

about.

        I search the Web for the most gross, revolting photo of decaying teeth I can find. They’re

all blackened and some have fallen out. I click on send/share and text it to him.

        The phone almost immediately bleeps with a reply:

        You made me spill my drink.

        I giggle and text back:

        Be afraid!!!!

        I nearly add: Willow won’t be impressed when your teeth fall out!!! But then I stop,

feeling awkward. You have to draw a line. Despite all the texting back and forth, I don’t know

this guy. And I certainly don’t know his fiancée.

        Although the truth is, I feel as though I do know her. And not in a good way.

        I’ve never come across anyone or anything like Willow before. She’s unbelievable. I

would say she’s sent twenty emails to Sam since I’ve had this phone. Each screwier than the last.

At least she’s given up sending messages addressed directly to Violet. But, still, she keeps cc’ing

her emails to the PA address, as though she wants to have as much chance of reaching Sam as

possible and doesn’t care who sees what.

        Why does she have to email her most private thoughts, anyway? Why can’t they just have

these conversations in bed, like normal people?

        This evening she was going on about this dream she’d had about him last night, and how

she felt suffocated but ignored all at the same time, and did he realize how toxic he was? Did he

realize how he was CORRODING HER SPIRIT????

        I always type a reply to her now; I can’t help it. This time I put: Do you realize how toxic

YOU are, Willow the Witch?

        And then deleted it. Naturally.

        The most frustrating thing is that I never get to see Sam’s replies. There’s no

back-and-forth correspondence; she always starts a fresh email. Sometimes they’re

friendly—like yesterday she sent one that just said, You’re a really, really special man, you know

that, Sam? Which was quite sweet. But nine out of ten are whinging. I can’t help feeling sorry

for him.

        Anyway. His life. His fiancée. Whatever.

        “Sweetheart!” Magnus comes into the room, interrupting my thoughts.

        “Oh, hi!” I quickly turn off. “Finished your work?”

        “Don’t let me disturb you.” He nods at the phone. “Chatting to the girls?”

        I give a noncommittal smile and slip the phone into my pocket.

        I know, I know, I know. This is bad. Keeping a secret from Magnus. Not telling him

about the ring or the phone or any of it. But how can I start now? Where would I begin? And

maybe I’d regret it. What if I confess all and cause a huge rift and half an hour later the ring turns

up and I needn’t have said anything?

        “You know me!” I say at last, and give a little laugh. “What did you talk to your parents

about tonight?” I quickly move on to the subject I really want to find out about—i.e., what do his

parents think of me and have they changed their mind?

        “Oh, my parents.” He makes an impatient gesture and sinks down on the sofa. He’s

tapping his fingers on the arm, and his eyes are distant.

        “You OK?” I say cautiously.

        “I’m great.” He turns to me and the clouds fall away from his eyes. Suddenly he’s

focused. “Remember when we first met?”

        “Yes.” I smile back. “Of course I do.”

        He starts stroking my leg. “I arrived at that place expecting the battle-ax. But there you

were.”

        I wish he wouldn’t always call Ruby a battle-ax. She’s not. She’s gorgeous and lovely

and sexy; her arms are just a teeny bit meaty. But I hide my squirm of irritation and keep

smiling.

        “You were like an angel in that white uniform. I’ve never seen anything more sexy in my

life.” His hand is moving farther up my leg with intent. “I wanted you, right there, right then.”

        Magnus loves telling this story, and I love hearing it.

        “And I wanted you.” I lean over and gently bite his earlobe. “The minute I saw you.”

        “I know you did. I could tell.” He pulls my top aside and starts to nuzzle my bare

shoulder. “Hey, Poppy, let’s get back in to that room one day,” he whispers. “That’s the best sex

I’ve ever had. You, in that white uniform, up on that couch, with that massage oil … Jesus …

”46 He starts tugging at my skirt and we both tumble off the sofa onto the carpet. And as my

phone bleeps with another text, I barely notice.

        It’s not until much later on, when we’re getting ready for bed and I’m rubbing in body

lotion,47 that Magnus lands his bombshell.

        “Oh, Mum called earlier.” His speech is muffled with toothpaste. “About the skin guy.”

        “What?”

        He spits out and wipes his mouth. “Paul. Our neighbor. He’s coming to the wedding

rehearsal to look at your hand.”

        “What?” My hand clenches automatically and I squirt body lotion across the bathroom.

        “Mum says you can’t be too careful with burns, and I think she’s right.”

        “She didn’t have to do that!” I’m trying not to sound panicky.

        “Sweets.” He kisses my head. “It’s all fixed up.”

        He heads out of the bathroom and I stare at my reflection. My happy postsex glow has

gone. I’m back to the black hole of dread. What do I do? I can’t keep dodging forever.

        I don’t have a burned hand. I don’t have an engagement ring. I don’t have an

encyclopedic knowledge of Scrabble words. I’m a total phony.

        “Poppy?” Magnus appears meaningfully at the bathroom door. I know he wants to get to

sleep because he’s got to go to Brighton early tomorrow. He’s writing a book with a professor

there and they keep having disagreements which require emergency meetings.

        “Coming.”

         I follow him to bed and curl up in his arms and give a pretty good impersonation of

someone falling peacefully off to sleep. But inside I’m churning. Every time I try to switch off, a

million thoughts come crowding back in. If I call off Paul the dermatologist, will Wanda be

suspicious? Could I mock up a burn on my hand? What if I just told Magnus everything right

now?

         I try to picture this last scenario. I know it’s the most sensible. It’s the one the agony

aunts would recommend. Wake him up and tell him.

         But I can’t. I can’t. And not only because Magnus is always totally ratty if he gets woken

up in the night. He’d be so shocked. His parents would always think of me as the girl who lost

the heirloom ring. It’d define me forevermore. It’d cast a pall over everything.

         And the point is, they don’t have to know. This doesn’t have to come out. Mrs. Fairfax

might call anytime. If I can just hold out till then …

         I want to get the ring back and quietly slip it on my finger and noone is any the wiser.

That’s what I want.

         I glance at the clock—2:45 am—then at Magnus, breathing peacefully, and feel a surge

of irrational resentment. It’s OK for him.

         Abruptly, I swing my legs out from under the covers and reach for a dressing gown. I’ll

go and have a cup of herbal tea, like they recommend in magazine articles on insomnia, along

with writing down all your problems on a piece of paper.48

         My phone is charging in the kitchen, and as I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, I idly click

through all the messages, methodically forwarding on Sam’s. There’s a text from a new patient

of mine who’s just had surgery on his anterior cruciate ligament and is finding it hard going, and

I send a quick, reassuring text back, saying I’ll try to fit him in for a session tomorrow.49 I’m

pouring hot water on a chamomile and vanilla tea bag when a text bleeps, making me start.

         What are you doing up so late?

         It’s Sam. Who else? I settle down with my tea and take a sip, then text back:

         Can’t sleep. What are YOU doing up so late?

         Waiting to speak to a guy in LA. Why can’t you sleep?

         My life ends tomorrow.

         OK, that might be overstating it a tad, but right now that’s how it feels.

         I can see how that might keep you up. Why does it end?

         If he really wants to know, I’ll tell him. Sipping my tea, I fill five texts with the story of

how the ring was found but then lost again. And how Paul the dermatologist wants to look at my

hand. And how the Tavishes are being snippy enough about the ring already, and they don’t even

know it’s lost. And how it’s all closing in on me. And how I feel like a gambler who needs just

one more spin on the roulette wheel and everything might come good, but I’m out of chips.

         I’ve been typing so furiously, my shoulders are aching. I rotate them a few times, take a

few gulps of tea, and am wondering about cracking open the biscuits, when a new text arrives.

         I owe you one.

         I read the words and shrug. OK. He owes me. So what? A moment later a second text

arrives.

         I could get you a chip.

         I stare at the screen, baffled. He does know the chip thing is a metaphor, doesn’t he? He’s

not talking about a real poker chip?

         Or a french fry?

         The usual daytime traffic hum is absent, making the room abnormally silent, save for an

occasional judder from the fridge. I blink at the screen in the artificial light, then rub my tired

eyes, wondering if I should turn off the phone and go to bed.

        What do you mean?

        His reply comes back almost immediately, as though he realized his last text sounded

odd.

        Have jeweler friend. Makes replicas for TV. Very realistic. Would buy you time.

        A fake ring?

        I think I must be really, really thick. Because that had never even occurred to me.

        43 Haven’t both Antony and Wanda ever invigilated exams as part of their jobs? Just

saying.

        44 The first time Magnus told me his specialism was symbols, I thought he meant

cymbals. The ones you clash. Not that I’ve ever admitted that to him.

        45 Not that I’ve been prying or anything. But you can’t help glancing at things as you

forward them and noticing references to the PM and Number 10.

        46 OK. Busted. I didn’t tell the absolute full truth in my disciplinary hearing.

        Here’s the thing: I know I was totally unprofessional. I know I should be struck off. The

physiotherapy ethics booklet practically starts, Don’t have sex with your patient on the couch,

whatever you do.

        But what I say is: If you do something wrong yet it doesn’t actually hurt anybody and

nobody knows, should you be punished and lose your whole career? Isn’t there a bigger picture?

        Plus, we did it only once. And it was really quick. (Not in a bad way. Just in a quick

way.)

        And Ruby once used the offices for a party and propped all the fire doors back, which is

totally against health and safety. So. Nobody’s perfect.

        47 This is part of my prewedding regimem, which consists of daily exfoliation, daily

lotion, weekly face mask, hair mask, eye mask, a hundred sit-ups every day, and meditation to

keep calm. I’ve got as far as the body lotion. And tonight I’m rather hampered by my bandaged

hand.

        48 What, for your boyfriend to find?

        49 I don’t give my number out to all my patients. Just long-term patients, emergencies,

and the ones who look like they need support. This guy is one of those types who says he’s

absolutely fine and then you see he’s white with pain. I had to insist he should call me whenever

he wanted and repeat it to his wife, otherwise he would have nobly struggled on.

6

         OK. A fake ring is a bad idea. There are a million reasons why. Such as:

1. It’s dishonest.2. It probably won’t look convincing.3. It’s unethical.50 Nevertheless, here I

am at Hatton Garden at ten the following morning, sauntering along, trying to hide the fact that

my eyes are on stalks. I’ve never been to Hatton Garden before; I didn’t even know it existed. A

whole street of jewelers?

         There are more diamonds here than I’ve seen in my lifetime. Signs everywhere are

boasting best prices, highest carats, superb value, and bespoke design. Obviously this is

engagement ring city. Couples are wandering along and girls are pointing through the windows

and the men are smiling but all look slightly sick whenever their girlfriends turn away.

         I’ve never even been into a jewelry shop. Not a grown-up, proper one like these. The

only jewelry I’ve ever had has come from markets and Topshop, places like that. My parents

gave me a pair of pearl studs for my thirteenth birthday, but I didn’t go into the shop with them.

Jewelry shops have been places I’ve walked past, thinking they’re for other people. But now,

since I’m here, I can’t help having a good old look.

         Who would buy a brooch made out of yellow diamonds in the shape of a spider for

£12,500? It’s a mystery to me, like who buys those revolting sofas with swirly arms they

advertise on the telly.

         Sam’s friend’s shop is called Mark Spencer Designs and thankfully doesn’t have any

yellow spiders. Instead, it has lots of diamonds set in platinum bands and a sign saying Free

champagne for engaged couples. Make your ring-choosing experience a special one. There’s

nothing about replicas or fakes, and I start to feel nervous. What if Sam misunderstood? What if

I end up buying a real emerald ring out of embarrassment and have to spend the rest of my life

paying it off?

         And where is Sam, anyway? He promised to pop along and introduce me to his friend.

Apparently he works just round the corner—though he didn’t reveal exactly where. I turn and

survey the street. It’s kind of weird that we’ve never met properly, face-to-face.

         There’s a man with dark hair walking briskly on the other side of the road, and for a brief

moment I think perhaps that’s him, but then a deep voice says, “Poppy?”

         I turn—and, of course, that’s him: the guy with the dark rumpled hair striding toward me.

He’s taller than I remember from my glimpse of him in the hotel lobby but has the same

distinctive thick eyebrows and deep-set eyes. He’s wearing a dark suit and immaculate white

shirt and a charcoal tie. He flashes me a brief smile, and I notice that his teeth are very white and

even.

         Well. They won’t be for much longer if he doesn’t go to the dentist.

         “Hi. Poppy.” As he approaches he hesitates, then extends a hand. “Good to meet you

properly.”

         “Hi.” I smile awkwardly back and we shake hands. He has a nice handshake. Warm and

positive.

         “So, Vivien’s definitely staying with us.” He tilts his head. “Thanks again for your

insight.”

         “No problem!” I shrug. “It was nothing.”

         “Seriously. I appreciate it.”

         This is odd, talking face-to-face. I’m distracted by seeing the contours of his brow and his

hair rippling in the breeze. It was easier by text. I wonder if he feels the same way.

         “So.” He gestures at the jewelry shop. “Shall we?”

         This shop is seriously cool and expensive. I wonder if he and Willow came and chose

their ring here. They must have. I’m almost tempted to ask him—but somehow I can’t quite

bring myself to mention her. It’s too embarrassing. I know far too much about them.

         Most couples, you meet at the pub or at their house. You talk about anodyne

stuff—Holidays, hobbies, Jamie Oliver recipes. Only gradually do you venture on to personal

stuff. But with these two, I feel as if I’ve been pitched straight into some fly-on-the-wall

documentary and they don’t even know it. I found an old email last night from Willow which

just said, Do you know how much PAIN you have caused me, Sam? Quite apart from all the

fucking BRAZILIANS??

         Which is something I really wish I hadn’t read. If I ever meet her, that’s the only thing

I’m going to be able to think about. Brazilians.

         Sam has pressed the buzzer and is ushering me into the smart, dimly lit shop. At once a

girl in a dove-gray suit comes up.

         “Hello, may I help?” She has a soft, honeylike voice, which completely suits the muted

décor of the shop.

         “We’re here to see Mark,” Sam says. “It’s Sam Roxton.”

         “That’s right.” Another girl in dove-gray nods. “He’s waiting for you. Take them

through, Martha.”

         “May I get you a glass of champagne?” says Martha, giving me a knowing smile as we

walk along. “Sir? Champagne?”

         “No, thanks,” says Sam.

         “Me neither,” I chime in.

         “Are you sure?” She twinkles at me. “It’s a big moment for the two of you. Just a little

glass to take off the nerves?”

         Oh my God! She thinks we’re an engaged couple. I glance at Sam for help—but he’s

typing something on his phone. And there’s no way I’m launching into the story of losing my

priceless heirloom ring in front of a bunch of strangers and hearing all the gasps of horror.

         “I’m fine, honestly.” I smile awkwardly. “It’s not—I mean, we’re not—”

         “That’s a wonderful watch, sir!” Martha’s attention has been distracted. “Is that vintage

Cartier? I haven’t seen one quite like it.”

         “Thanks.” Sam nods. “Got it at auction in Paris.”

         Now that I notice it, Sam’s watch is quite amazing. It’s got an old leather strap, and the

dull gold dial has the patina of another age. And he got it in Paris. That’s pretty cool.

         “Goodness.” As we walk, Martha takes my arm and leans in, lowering her voice,

girl-to-girl. “He has exquisite taste. Lucky you! You can’t say the same of all the men who come

in here. Some of them go for absolute horrors. But a man who buys himself vintage Cartier has

got to be on the right track!”

         This is painful. What do I say?

         “Er … right,” I mumble, staring at the floor.

         “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you,” says Martha charmingly. “Please let me

know if you change your mind about the champagne. Have a wonderful session with Mark!” She

ushers us into a large back room with a concrete floor, lined with metal-fronted cabinets. A guy

in jeans and rimless specs gets up from a trestle table and greets Sam warmly.

         “Sam! Been too long!”

         “Mark! How are you doing?” Sam claps Mark on the back, then steps aside. “This is

Poppy.”

         “Good to meet you, Poppy.” Mark shakes my hand. “So, I understand you need a replica

ring.”

         I feel an immediate lurch of paranoia and guilt. Did he have to say it out loud like that,

for anyone to hear?

         “Very temporarily.” I keep my voice almost to a whisper. “Just while I find the real thing.

Which I will, really, really soon.”

         “Understood.” He nods. “Useful to have a replica anyway. We do a lot of replacements

for travel and so forth. Normally we only make replicas of jewelry we’ve designed ourselves, but

we can make the odd exception for friends.” Mark winks at Sam. “Although we do try to be a

little discreet about it. Don’t want to undermine our core business.”

         “Yes!” I say quickly. “Of course. I want to be discreet too. Very much so.”

         “Do you have a picture? A photo?”

         “Here.” I haul out a photo which I printed off my computer this morning. It’s of Magnus

and me at the restaurant where he proposed. We got the couple at the next table to take a picture

of us, and I’m holding up my left hand proudly, with the ring clearly visible. I look absolutely

giddy—which, to be fair, is how I was feeling.

         Both men stare at it in silence.

         “So, that’s the guy you’re marrying,” says Sam at last. “The Scrabble fiend.”

         “Yes.”

         There’s something in his tone which makes me feel defensive. I have no idea why.

         “His name’s Magnus,” I add.

         “Isn’t he the academic?” Sam’s frowning at the photo. “Had the TV series?”

         “Yes.” I feel a flash of pride. “Exactly.”

         “That’s a four-carat emerald, I’d guess?” Mark Spencer looks up from squinting at the

photo.

         “Maybe,” I say helplessly. “I don’t know.”

         “You don’t know how many carats your engagement ring is?”

         Both men shoot me an odd look.

         “What?” I feel myself flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I’d lose it.”

         “That’s very sweet,” says Mark with a wry little smile. “Most girls have it down to the

nearest decimal. Then they round up.”

         “Oh. Well.” I shrug to cover my embarrassment. “It’s a family ring. We didn’t really talk

about it.”

         “We have a lot of mounts in stock. Let me look… .” Mark pushes his chair away and

starts searching through the metal drawers.

         “He still doesn’t know you’ve lost it?” Sam jerks a thumb at the picture of Magnus.

         “Not yet.” I bite my lip. “I’m hoping it’ll turn up and … ”

         “He’ll never have to know you lost it,” Sam finishes for me. “You’ll keep the secret safe

till your deathbed.”

         I look away, feeling twingey with guilt. I don’t like this. I don’t like having secrets from

Magnus. I don’t like being the kind of person who has assignations behind her fiancé’s back. But

there’s no other way.

         “So, I’m still getting Violet’s emails on this.” I gesture at him with the phone, to distract

myself. “I thought the tech people were sorting it out.”

         “So did I.”

         “Well, you’ve got some new ones. You’ve been asked about the Fun Run four times

now.”

         “Hmm.” He barely nods.

         “Aren’t you going to answer? And what about your hotel room for this conference in

Hampshire? Do you need it for one night or two?”

         “I’ll see. Not sure yet.” Sam seems so unmoved, I feel a stab of frustration.

         “Don’t you answer your emails?”

         “I prioritize.” He calmly taps at his screen.

         “Ooh, it’s Lindsay Cooper’s birthday!” Now I’m reading a round-robin email. “Lindsay

in marketing. Do you want to say happy birthday to her?”

         “No, I do not.” He sounds so adamant, I feel a bit affronted.

        “What’s wrong with saying happy birthday to a colleague?”

        “I don’t know her.”

        “Yes, you do! You work with her.”

        “I work with two hundred forty-three people.”

        “But isn’t she the girl who came up with that website strategy document the other day?” I

say, suddenly remembering an old email correspondence. “Weren’t you all really pleased?”

        “Yes,” he says blankly. “What’s that got to do with this?”

        God, he’s stubborn. Giving up on Lindsay’s birthday, I scroll down to the next email.

        “Peter has finalized the Air France deal. He wants to give you his full report on Monday

straight after the team meeting. Is that OK?”

        “Fine.” Sam barely glances up. “Just forward it. Thanks.”

        If I forward it, he’ll let it sit there all day without answering.

        “Why don’t I reply?” I offer. “Since you’re here and I’ve got the email open? It’ll only

take a minute.”

        “Oh.” He seems surprised. “Thanks. Just say, Yes.”

        Yes. I carefully type. “Anything else?”

        “Put Sam.”

        I stare at the screen, dissatisfied. Yes. Sam. It looks so bare. So curt.

        “What about adding something like, Well done?” I suggest. “Or You did it! Yay! Or just

Best wishes and thanks for everything>”

        Sam looks unimpressed. “Yes, Sam will be plenty.”

        “Typical,” I mutter under my breath. Except perhaps it wasn’t quite as submerged under

my breath as I’d intended, because Sam looks up.

        “Excuse me?”

        I know I should bite my tongue. But I’m so frustrated I can’t stop myself.

        “You’re so abrupt! Your emails are so short! They’re awful!”

        There’s a long pause. Sam looks as astonished as if the chair had started to speak.

        “Sorry,” I add giving an awkward shrug. “But it’s true.”

        “OK,” says Sam at last. “Let’s just get things straight. In the first place, borrowing this

phone does not give you a license to read and critique my emails.” He hesitates. “In the second

place, short is good.”

        I’m already regretting having spoken. But I can’t back down now.

        “Not that short,” I retort. “And you ignore most people completely! It’s rude!”

        There. Said it.

        Sam is glowering at me. “Like I said, I prioritize. Now, since your ring situation is sorted,

maybe you’d like to hand the phone back and my emails won’t have to bother you anymore.” He

holds out his hand.

        Oh God. Is that why he’s helping me? So I’ll give the phone back?

        “No!” I clutch the phone. “I mean … please. I still need it. The hotel might phone me any

minute; Mrs. Fairfax will have this number … ”

        I know it’s irrational, but I feel like the moment I give this phone up, I’m saying goodbye

to any chance of finding the ring.

        I put it behind my back for good measure and gaze beseechingly at him.

        “Jesus,” Sam exhales. “This is ridiculous. I’m interviewing for a new PA this afternoon.

That’s a company phone. You can’t just keep it!”