I've Got Your Number

  “Give it.”

  He’s implacable. In fact, he looks quite scary.

  On the other hand … he can’t force it off me, can he? Not without causing a scene, which I’m sensing is the last thing he wants to do.

  “Look, I know you’re angry.” I try to sound as grovelly as possible. “I can understand that. But wouldn’t you like me to forward all your emails on first? And give it back tomorrow when I’ve tied up all the loose ends? Please?”

  At least that’ll give me a chance to make a note of some of my messages.

  Sam is breathing hard through his nose. I can tell he’s realizing he doesn’t have a choice.

  “You don’t send a single further email,” he snaps at last, dropping his hand.

  “OK,” I say humbly.

  “You detail for me a list of the emails you did send.”

  “OK.”

  “You hand the phone back tomorrow and that is the last I ever hear from you.”

  “Shall I come to the office?”

  “No!” He almost recoils at the idea. “We’ll meet at lunchtime. I’ll text you.”

  “OK.” I heave a sigh, feeling quite downcast by now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your life.”

  I was half-hoping Sam might say something nice, like, “Don’t worry, you didn’t,” or “Never mind, you meant well.” But he doesn’t. He looks as merciless as ever.

  “Is there anything else I should know about?” he asks curtly. “Be honest, please. Any more foreign trips you’ve signed me up to? Company initiatives you’ve started in my name? Inappropriate poetry you’ve written on my behalf?”

  “No!” I say nervously. “That’s it. I’m sure.”

  “You realize how much havoc you’ve caused?”

  “I know.” I gulp.

  “You realize how many embarrassing situations you’ve put me in?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” I say desperately. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I didn’t mean to create trouble. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

  “A favor?” He stares at me incredulously. “A favor?”

  “Hey, Sam.” A breathy voice interrupts us, and I get a waft of perfume. I turn to see a girl in her late twenties, wearing skyscraper heels and lots of makeup. Her red hair is tonged into curls and her dress is really low-cut. I mean, I can practically see her navel. “Excuse me, could I have a quick moment with Sam?” She shoots me an antagonistic glance.

  “Oh! Er … sure.” I move away a few steps, but not so far that I can’t just about hear them.

  “So. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” She’s gazing up at Sam and batting her false eyelashes.71 “In your office. I’ll be there.”

  Sam looks perplexed. “Do we have an appointment?”

  “That’s the way you want to play it?” She gives a soft, sexy laugh and swooshes her hair, like actresses do on those American TV drama series set in beautiful kitchens. “I can play it any way you like.” She lowers her voice to a throaty whisper. “If you know what I mean, Sam.”

  “I’m sorry, Lindsay….” Sam frowns, obviously at a loss.

  Lindsay? I nearly spill my drink down my dress. This girl is Lindsay?

  Oh no. Oh no, oh no. This isn’t good. I knew I should have canceled out Sam’s kisses. I knew that winky face meant something. I’m almost hopping with alarm. Can I warn Sam? Should I somehow semaphore to him?

  “I knew,” she’s murmuring now. “The first time I saw you, Sam, I knew there was a special vibe between us. You’re hot.”

  Sam looks disconcerted. “Well … thanks, I guess. But, Lindsay, this really isn’t—”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I can be very discreet.” She runs a lacquered nail gently down his shirt. “I’d almost given up on you, you know that?”

  Sam takes a step backward, looking alarmed. “Lindsay—”

  “All this time, no signs—then out of the blue you start contacting me.” She opens her eyes wide. “Wishing me happy birthday, complimenting my work—I knew what that was really about. And then tonight …” Lindsay moves close to Sam, speaking even more breathily. “You have no idea what it did to me, seeing your email. Mmmm. Bad boy.”

  “Email?” echoes Sam. He slowly turns his head to meet my agonized gaze.

  I should have run. While I had the chance. I should have run.

  66 Where did he get that? Why has nobody offered me a shot?

  67 He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to the left.

  68 Doesn’t everyone want to go to Iceland? Why would you say no to Iceland?

  69 So not that polite.

  70 OK, I know it’s not brilliant. In my defense, I chose it in a hurry from some e-card site, and the picture was really good. It was a line drawing of an empty dog basket, and it nearly made me cry.

  71 What is the etiquette when someone’s false eyelash is coming off a bit at the edge? Tell them or politely ignore?

  I am the sorriest sorry person there ever was.

  I really screwed up. I can see that now. I’ve caused Sam a whole load of work and aggro and I’ve abused his trust and been a complete pain in the neck.

  Today was supposed to be a fun day. A weddingy day. I’ve got a whole load of days booked off work for last-minute wedding preparation—and what am I doing instead? Trying to think of all the different words for sorry that I can.

  As I arrive for lunch, I’m wearing a suitably penitent gray T-shirt and denim-skirt combo. We’re meeting at a restaurant round the corner from his office, and the first thing I see when I walk in is a group of girls I remember from the Savoy last night, clustered at a circular table. I’m sure they wouldn’t recognize me, but I duck hurriedly past anyway.

  Sam described this as “a second office cafeteria” on the phone. Some cafeteria. There are steel tables and taupe linen-covered chairs and one of those cool menus where everything’s in lowercase and each dish is described in the minimal amount of words.72 There aren’t even any pound signs.73 No wonder Sam likes it.

  I’ve ordered some water and am trying to decide between soup and salad, when Sam appears at the door. Immediately, all the girls start waving him over, and after a moment’s hesitation, he joins them. I can’t hear all the conversation, but I catch the odd word: amazing idea … excited … so supportive. Everyone’s smiling and looking positive, even Sam.

  Eventually he makes his excuses and heads over toward me.

  “Hi. You made it.” No smile for me, I notice.

  “Yes. Nice restaurant. Thanks for meeting me. I really appreciate it.” I’m trying to be as mollifying as possible.

  “I practically live here.” He shrugs. “Everyone at WGC does.”

  “So … here’s a list of all the emails I sent in your name.” I want to get this over straightaway. As I hand the sheet over, I can’t help wincing. It looks such a lot, written down. “And I’ve forwarded everything.”

  A waiter interrupts me with a jug of water and a “Welcome back, sir,” to Sam, and then beckons over a waitress with the bread basket. As they leave, Sam folds my sheet and pockets it without comment. Thank God. I thought he was going to go through it item by item, like a headmaster.

  “Those girls are from your company, aren’t they?” I nod at the circular table. “What were they talking about?”

  There’s a pause as Sam pours himself some water—then he looks up. “They were talking about your project, as it happens.”

  I stare at him. “My project? You mean my email about ideas?”

  “Yes. It’s gone down well in admin.”

  “Wow!” I let myself bask in this thought for a moment. “So … not everyone reacted badly.”

  “Not everyone, no.”

  “Has anyone come up with any good ideas for the company?”

  “As it happens … yes,” he says grudgingly. “Some interesting thoughts have emerged.”

  “Wow! Great!”

  “Though I still have several
people convinced there’s a conspiracy theory to sack everyone and one threatening legal action.”

  “Oh.” I feel chastened. “Right. Sorry about that.”

  “Hello.” A cheerful girl in a green apron approaches. “May I explain the menu?74 We have a butternut squash soup today, made with an organic chicken stock….”

  She goes through each item and, needless to say, I stop concentrating immediately. So by the end I have no idea what’s available except butternut squash soup.

  “Butternut squash soup, please.” I smile.

  “Steak baguette, rare, and a green salad. Thanks.” I don’t think Sam was listening either. He checks something on his phone and frowns, and I feel a pang of guilt. I must have increased his workload a ton with all this.

  “I just want to say, I’m really, really sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry about the e-card. I’m sorry about Guatemala. I got carried away. I know I’ve caused you a lot of grief, and if I can help in any way I will. I mean … shall I send some emails for you?”

  “No!” Sam sounds like he’s been scalded. “Thank you,” he adds more calmly. “You’ve done enough.”

  “So, how are you managing?” I venture. “I mean, processing everyone’s ideas.”

  “Jane’s taken charge for now. She’s sending out my brush-off email.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Your brush-off email? What’s that?”

  “You know the sort of thing. Sam is delighted to have received your email. He’ll get back to you as soon as he possibly can. Meanwhile, thanks for your interest. Translation: Don’t expect to hear from me anytime soon.” He raises his eyebrows. “You must have a brush-off email. They come in pretty useful for fending off unwanted advances too.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say, a little offended. “I never want to brush people off. I answer them!”

  “OK, that explains a lot.” He tears off a chunk of bread and chews it. “If I’d known that, I never would have agreed to share a phone.”

  “Well, you don’t have to anymore.”

  “Thank God. Where is it?”

  I rummage in my bag, take the phone out, and put it on the table between us.

  “What the hell is that?” Sam exclaims, looking horrified.

  “What?” I follow his gaze, puzzled, then realize. There were some diamante phone stickers in the Marie Curie goody bag, and I stuck them on the phone the other day.

  “Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes at his expression. “They come off.”

  “They’d better.” He still seems stunned by the sight of it. Honestly. Doesn’t anyone at his company bother to decorate their phone?

  Our food arrives, and for a while we’re distracted with pepper mills and mustard and some side dish of parsnip chips which they seem to think we ordered.

  “You in a hurry?” inquires Sam as he’s about to bite into his steak baguette.

  “No. I took a few days off to do wedding stuff, but actually it turns out there’s not a lot to do.”

  The truth is, I was a bit taken aback when I spoke to Lucinda this morning. I’d told her ages ago that I was taking a few days off to help with the wedding. I’d thought we could go and sort out some of the fun stuff together. But she basically said no, thanks. She had some long story about having to go see the florist in Northwood and needing to drop in at another client first and implied I’d be in the way.75 So I’ve had the morning off. I mean, I wasn’t about to go to work for the sake of it.

  As I sip my soup, I wait for Sam to volunteer some wedding talk of his own—but he doesn’t. Men just aren’t into it, are they?

  “Is your soup cold?” Sam suddenly focuses on my bowl. “If it’s cold, send it back.”

  It is a bit less than piping hot—but I really don’t feel like making a fuss.

  “It’s fine, thanks.” I flash him a smile and take another sip.

  The phone suddenly buzzes, and on reflex I pull it to me. It’s Lucinda, telling me she’s at the warehouse and could I please confirm that I want only four strands of gypsophila per bouquet?

  I have no idea. Why would I specify something like that? What does four strands look like, anyway?

  Yes, fine. Thanks so much, Lucinda, I really appreciate it! Not long now!!! Love, Poppy xxxxx

  There’s a new email from Willow, too, but I can’t bring myself to read it in front of Sam. I forward it quickly and put the phone down.

  “There was a message from Willow just now.”

  “Uh-uh.” He nods with an off-putting frown.

  I’m dying to find out more about her. But how do I start without sounding unnatural?

  I can’t even ask, “How did you meet?” because I already know, from one of her email rants. They met at her job interview for White Globe Consulting. Sam was on the panel, and he asked her some tricky question about her CV and she should have known THEN that he was going to fuck her life up. She should have stood up and WALKED AWAY. Because does he think a six-figure salary is what her life is about? Does he think everyone’s like him? Doesn’t he realize that to build a life together you have to KNOW WHAT THE BUILDING BLOCKS ARE, Sam????

  Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I have honestly given up reading to the end.

  “Haven’t you got yourself a new phone yet?” says Sam, raising his eyebrows.

  “I’m going to the shop this afternoon.” It’ll be a real hassle, starting afresh with a new phone, but there’s not much I can do about it. Except …

  “In fact, I was wondering,” I add casually. “You don’t want to sell it, do you?”

  “A company phone, full of business emails?” He gives an incredulous laugh. “Are you nuts? I was mad letting you have access to it in the first place. Not that I had a choice, Ms. Light-fingers. I should have set the police on you.”

  “I’m not a thief!” I retort, stung. “I didn’t steal it. I found it in a bin.”

  “You should have handed it in.” He shrugs. “You know it and I know it.”

  “It was common property! It was fair game!”

  ” ‘Fair game’? You want to tell that to the judge? If I drop my wallet and it falls momentarily into a bin, does that give Joe Bloggs the right to steal it?”

  I can’t tell if he’s winding me up or not, so I take a drink of water, avoiding the issue. I’m turning the phone around and around in my hand, not wanting to relinquish it. I’ve got used to this phone now. I like the feel of it. I’ve even got used to sharing my in-box.

  “So, what will happen to it?” At last I look up. “The phone, I mean.”

  “Jane will forward everything of any relevance to her account. Then it’ll get wiped. Inside and out.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  The idea of all my messages being wiped makes me want to whimper. But there’s nothing I can do. This was the deal. It was only a loan. Like he said, it’s not my phone.

  I put it down again, about two inches from my bowl.

  “I’ll let you know my new number as soon as I get it,” I say. “If I get any texts or messages—”

  “I’ll forward them.” He nods. “Or, rather, my new PA will do it.”

  “When does she start?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Great!” I smile a little wanly and take a sip of my soup, which really is the wrong side of tepid.

  “She is great,” he says with enthusiasm. “Her name is Lizzy; she’s very bright.” He starts to attack his green salad. “Now. While we’re here, you have to tell me. What was the deal with Lindsay? What the hell did you write to her?”

  “Oh. That.” I feel warm with embarrassment. “I think she misunderstood the situation because … Well. It was nothing, really. I just complimented her and then I put some kisses from you. At the end of an email.”

  Sam puts his fork down. “You added kisses to an email of mine? A business email?” He looks almost more scandalized by this than by anything else.

  “I didn’t mean to!” I say defensively. “They just slipped out. I always put kisses o
n emails. It’s friendly.”

  “Oh. I see.” He raises his eyes to heaven. “You’re one of those ridiculous people.”

  “It’s not ridiculous,” I retort. “It’s being nice.”

  “Let me see.” He reaches for the phone.

  “Stop it!” I say in horror. “What are you doing?”

  I make a swipe, but it’s too late. He’s got the phone and he’s scrolling through all the messages and emails. As he reads, he lifts an eyebrow, then frowns, then gives a sudden laugh.

  “What are you looking at?” I try to sound frosty. “You should respect my confidentiality.”

  He totally ignores me. Does he have no idea of privacy? What’s he reading, anyway? It could be anything.

  I take another sip of soup, but it’s so cold I can’t face any more. As I look up, Sam’s still reading my messages avidly. This is hideous. I feel like he’s rifling through my underwear drawer.

  “Now you know what it’s like, having someone else critiquing your emails,” he says, glancing up.

  “There’s nothing to critique,” I say, a little haughtily. “Unlike you, I’m charming and polite and don’t brush people off with two words.”

  “You call it charming. I call it something else.”

  “Whatever.” I roll my eyes. Of course he doesn’t want to admit I have superior communication skills.

  Sam reads another email, shaking his head, then looks up and surveys me silently.

  “What?” I say, nettled. “What is it?”

  “Are you so scared people will hate you?”

  “What?” I stare at him, not knowing how to react. “What are you talking about?”

  He gestures at the phone. “Your emails are like one big cry. Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, please like me, please like me!”

  “What?” I feel like he’s slapped me round the face. “That’s absolute … crap.”

  “Take this one: Hi, Sue! Can I possibly change my wedding updo consultation to a later time, like five p.m.? It’s with Louis. Let me know. But if not, no worries. Thanks so much! I really appreciate it! Hope all is well. Love, Poppy xxxxxxxxxx Who’s Sue? Your oldest, dearest friend?”

  “She’s the receptionist at my hairdresser.” I glare at him.