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 Beyonce 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 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. I had to find out from one of the other PAs.” 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 on. And the emails can all go to samro xton@ white globe consulting. com.
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 david r452@ hotmail. com, 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 Beyonce 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 straightaway, OK? Ring me.”
I open my mouth automatically to say, “What about your dad? Why don’t you ever ring him?” Then I close it again. No, Poppy. Bad idea.
“Ooh, there was a phone message earlier,” I say, suddenly remembering. “About liposuction or something, I think. That wasn’t for you?”
“Liposuction?” he echoes incredulously. “Not that I’m aware of.”
He doesn’t need to sound so scoffing. I was only asking. It must have been for Violet. Not that she’s likely to need liposuction, if she’s off modeling.
“So … we’re on? We have a deal?”
For a while he doesn’t reply, and I have an image of him glowering at his cell phone. I don’t exactly get the feeling he’s relishing this arrangement. But then, what choice does he have?
“I’ll get the PA email address transferred back to my in-box,” he says grouchily, almost to himself. “I’ll speak to the tech guys tomorrow. But the texts will keep coming to you. If I miss any of them—”
“You won’t! Look, I know this isn’t ideal,” I say, trying to mollify him. “And I’m sorry. But I’m really desperate. All the hotel staff have this number … all the cleaners … it’s my only hope. Just for a couple of days. And I promise I’ll send every single message on. Brownie’s honor.”
“Brownie’s what?” He sounds mystified.
“Honor! Brownie Guides? Like Scouts? You hold up one hand and you make the sign and you swear an oath. Hang on, I’ll show you….” I disconnect the phone.
There’s a sheet of grimy mirror opposite me on the bus. I pose in front of it, holding the phone in one hand, making the Brownie sign with the other, and wearing my
best “I’m a sane person” smile. I take a picture and text it at once to Sam Mobile.
Five seconds later a text message pings back.
I could send this to the police and have you arrested.
I feel a little whoosh of relief. Could. That means he’s not going to. I text him back.
I really, really appreciate it. Thx
But there’s no reply.
7The Lion King. Natasha got free tickets. I thought it would be some lame kids’ thing, but it was brilliant.
8 Which I think you can.
9 I’ve never been quite sure what that means.
10 Maybe not a pervert, then.
11 OK, not just like Beyonce. Like me imitating Beyonce.
12 Not books with plots, by the way. Books with footnotes. Books about subjects, like history and anthropology and cultural relativism in Turkmenistan.
13 I wonder if they all take fish oil. I must remember to ask.
14 Don’t ask me. I listened really carefully and I still couldn’t work out how they disagreed. I don’t think the presenter could follow either.
15 Magnus said afterward he was joking. But it didn’t sound like a joke.
16 I’ve never even read any Proust. I don’t know why I had to bring him up.
17 I know. I’ve told him, a million times.
18 Not ponytail long, which would be gross. Just on the long side.
19 I don’t think Annalise’s ever forgiven me. In her head, if she hadn’t switched appointments, she’d be marrying him now.
20 You see? It’s all about the footnotes.
21 Assuming he lives in a little cottage. He sounds like he does. All alone, with maybe just a faithful dog for company.
The next morning I wake abruptly to see the phone flashing with a new text from the Berrow Hotel and feel so relieved I almost want to cry. They’ve found it! They’ve found it!
My fingers are fumbling as I unlock the phone, my mind galloping ahead. An early-morning cleaner found the ring clogging up a Hoover … discovered it in the ladies’ room … saw a glint on the carpet … now securely locked in the hotel safe …
Dear Guest,
Summer breaks, half price.
Please visit www.berrowhotellondon.co.uk for details.
Kind regards,
The Berrow Team
I sag back on the bed, leaden with disappointment. Not to mention anger at whoever put me on the mailing list. How could they do that? Are they trying to play with my neuroses?
At the same time, a nasty realization is turning around and around in my stomach. Another eight hours have passed since I lost the ring. The longer it’s not found—
What if—
I can’t even finish my thoughts. Abruptly, I get out of bed and pad through to the kitchen. I’ll make a cup of tea and send on some more messages to Sam Roxton. That’ll take my mind off things.
The phone has started buzzing again with texts and emails, so I turn on the kettle, perch on the window seat, and start scrolling through, trying desperately not to hope. Sure enough, every message is just some friend asking if I’ve found the ring yet and making suggestions like have you checked your handbag pockets?
There’s nothing from Magnus, even though I sent him a couple of texts last night, asking what else his parents had said about me and when was he planning to tell me, and how was I going to face them now, and was he ignoring me on purpose?22
At last I turn to Sam’s messages. He clearly hasn’t had the email function transferred yet, because there are about fifty, just from overnight and this morning. Crikey Moses, he was right. His PA evidently does handle his whole life.
There’s everything and everyone in here. His doctor, colleagues, charity requests, invitations … It’s like a mainline into the universe of Sam. I can see where he buys his shirts (Turnbull & Asser). I can see where he went to university (Durham). I can see the name of his plumber (Dean).
As I scroll down, I start to feel uncomfortable. I’ve never had so much access to someone else’s phone before. Not my friends’; not even Magnus’s. There are some things you just don’t share. I mean, Magnus has seen every inch of my body, including the dodgy bits, but I would never, ever let him near my phone.
Sam’s text messages are randomly mixed up with mine, which feels weird too. I scroll down two messages for me, then about six for Sam, then another for me. All side by side; all touching one another. I’ve never shared an in-box with anyone in my life. I didn’t expect it to feel so … intimate. It’s as if we’re suddenly sharing an underwear drawer or something.
Anyway. No big deal. It’s not for long.
I make my tea and fill a bowl with Shreddies. Then, as I munch, I slowly pick through the messages, working out which ones are for Sam and forwarding them on.
I’m not going to spy on him or anything. Obviously not. But I have to click on each message in order to forward it, and sometimes my fingers automatically press open by mistake and I catch a glimpse of the text. Just sometimes.
Clearly it’s not only his father who’s having a hard time getting in touch with him. He must be really, really bad at answering emails and texts, there are so many plaintive requests to Violet: Is this a good way to reach Sam? … Hi! Apologies for bothering you, but I have left several messages for Sam…. Hi, Violet, could you nudge Sam about an email I sent last week? I’ll reprise the main points here….
It’s not like I’m reading through every single email fully or anything. Or scrolling down to read all the previous correspondence. Or critiquing all his answers and rewriting them in my head. After all, it’s none of my business what he writes or doesn’t write. He can do what he likes. It’s a free country. My opinion is neither here nor there—
God, his replies are abrupt! It’s driving me nuts! Does everything have to be so short? Does he have to be so curt and unfriendly? As I clock yet another brief email, I can’t help exclaiming out loud, “Are you allergic to typing or something?”
It’s ridiculous. It’s like he’s determined to use the least possible words.
Yes, fine. Sam
Done. Sam
OK, Sam
Would it kill him to add Best wishes? Or a smiley face? Or say thank you?
And while I’m on the subject, why can’t he just reply to people? Poor Rachel Elwood is trying to organize an office Fun Run and has asked him twice now if he could lead a team. Why wouldn’t he want to do that? It’s fun, it’s healthy, it raises money for charity—what’s not to love?
Nor has he replied about accommodation for the company conference in Hampshire next week. It’s at the Chiddingford Hotel, which sounds amazing, and he’s booked into a suite, but he has to specify to someone called Lindy whether he’s still planning to come down late. And he hasn’t.
Worst of all, his dentist’s office has emailed him about scheduling a checkup four times. Four times.
I can’t help glancing back at the previous correspondence, and Violet’s obviously given up trying. Each time she’s made an appointment for him, he’s emailed her: Cancel it. S and once even, You have to be joking.
Does he want his teeth to rot?
By the time I’m leaving for work at eight-forty, a whole new series of emails has arrived. Obviously these people all start work at the crack of dawn. The top one, from Jon Mailer, is entitled What’s the story? That sounds quite intriguing, so as I’m walking along the street, I open it.
Sam,
Ran into Ed at the Groucho Club last night, looking worse for wear. All I’ll say is, don’t let him in the same room as Sir Nicholas anytime soon, will you?
Regards,
Jon
Ooh, now I want to know the story too. Who’s Ed, and why was he worse for wear at the Groucho Club?23
The second email is from someone called Willow, and as I click on it, my eyes are assaulted by capitals everywhere.
Violet,
Let’s be grown-ups about this. You’ve HEARD Sam and me fighting. There’s no point hidi
ng anything from you.
So, since Sam REFUSES to answer the email I sent half an hour ago, maybe you could be so kind as to print this attachment out and PUT IT ON HIS DESK SO HE READS IT?
Thanks so much.
Willow
I stare at the phone in shock, almost wanting to laugh. Willow must be his fiancee. Yowzer.
Her email address is will owhar te@ white globe consu lting. com. So she obviously works at White Globe Consulting, but she’s still emailing Sam? Isn’t that odd? Unless maybe they work on different floors. Fair enough. I once emailed Magnus from upstairs to ask him to make me a cup of tea.
I wonder what’s in the attachment.
My fingers hesitate as I pause at a pedestrian crossing. It would be wrong to read it. Very, very wrong. I mean, this isn’t some open email cc’ed to loads of people. This is a private document between two people in a relationship. I shouldn’t look at it. It was bad enough reading that email from his father.
But on the other hand … she wants it printed out, doesn’t she? And put on Sam’s desk, where anyone could read it if they walked by. And it’s not like I’m indiscreet. I won’t mention this to anyone; no one will ever even know I’ve seen it….
My fingers seem to have a life of their own. Already I’m clicking on the attachment. It takes me a moment to focus on the text, it’s so heavy with capital letters.
Sam