I've Got Your Number

  “So she gets thanks and appreciation and a zillion kisses, just for doing her job?”

  “I’m being nice!” I snap.

  “It’s not being nice,” he says firmly, “it’s being ridiculous. It’s a business transaction. Be businesslike.”

  “I love my hairdresser!” I say furiously. I take a spoonful of soup, forgetting how revolting it is, and quell a shudder.

  Sam’s still scrolling through my messages, as if he has every right to. I never should have let him get his hands on that phone. I should have wiped it myself.

  “Who’s Lucinda?”

  “My wedding planner,” I answer reluctantly.

  “That’s what I thought. Isn’t she supposed to be working for you? What is all this shit she’s laying on you?”

  For a moment I’m too flustered to reply. I butter myself a piece of baguette, then put it down without eating it.

  “She is working for me,” I say at last, avoiding his eye. “I mean, obviously I help out a little when she needs it….”

  “You’ve done the cars for her.” He’s counting off on his fingers incredulously. “You’ve organized the confetti, the buttonholes, the organist….”

  I can feel a flush creeping over my face. I know I’ve ended up doing more for Lucinda than I intended. But I’m not going to admit that to him.

  “I wanted to! It’s fine.”

  “And her tone’s pretty bossy, if you ask me.”

  “It’s only her manner. I don’t mind….” I’m trying to throw him off this path, but he’s relentless.

  “Why don’t you just tell her straight, ‘You’re working for me, cut out the attitude’?”

  “It’s not as simple as that, OK?” I feel on the back foot. “She’s not simply a wedding planner. She’s an old friend of the Tavishes.”

  “The Tavishes?” He shakes his head as though the name means nothing to him.

  “My future in-laws! The Tavishes. Professor Antony Tavish? Professor Wanda Brook-Tavish? Their parents are great friends and Lucinda’s part of that whole world, and she’s one of them and I can’t—” I break off and rub my nose. I’m not sure where I was going with that.

  Sam picks up a spoon, leans over, takes a sip of my soup, and winces.

  “Freezing. Thought so. Send it back.”

  “No, really.” I flash him an automatic smile. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not. Send it back.”

  “No! Look—it doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry anyway.”

  Sam is gazing at me, shaking his head. “You are a big surprise, you know that? This is a big surprise.” He taps the phone.

  “What?”

  “You’re pretty insecure for someone who’s so feisty on the outside.”

  “I’m not!” I retort, rattled.

  “Not insecure? Or not feisty?”

  “I—” I’m too confused to answer. “I dunno. Stop it. Leave me alone.”

  “You talk about the Tavishes as if they’re God.”

  “Well, of course I do! They’re in a different league—”

  I’m cut off midstream by a man’s voice.

  “Sam! My main man!” It’s Justin, clapping Sam on the back. He’s wearing a black suit, black tie, and dark glasses. He looks like one of the Men in Black. “Steak baguette again?”

  “You know me too well.” Sam gets to his feet and taps a passing waiter. “Excuse me, could we have a fresh soup for my guest? This one’s cold. Did you meet Poppy the other night? Poppy, Justin Cole.”

  “Enchante.” Justin nods at me, and I catch a waft of Fahrenheit aftershave.

  “Hi.” I manage to smile politely, but I still feel stirred up inside. I need to tell Sam how wrong he is. About everything.

  “How was the meeting with P&G?” Sam’s saying to Justin.

  “Good! Very good! Although of course they miss you on the team, Sam.” He makes a reproving gesture with his finger.

  “I’m sure they don’t.”

  “You know this man is the star of our company?” Justin says to me, gesturing at Sam. “Sir Nicholas’s heir apparent. ‘One day, dear boy, all this will be yours.’ “

  “Now, that’s just bullshit,” Sam says pleasantly.

  “Of course it is.”

  There’s a beat of silence. They’re smiling at each other—but it’s a bit more like animals baring teeth.

  “So, I’ll see you around,” says Justin at length. “Going to the conference tonight?”

  “Tomorrow, in fact,” Sam replies. “Lot of stuff to catch up on here.”

  “Fair enough. Well, we’ll toast you tonight.” Justin raises his hand at me, then walks away.

  “Sorry about that,” says Sam to me. “This restaurant is just impossible at lunchtime. But it’s the closest that’s any good.”

  I’ve been distracted from my churning thoughts by Justin Cole. He really is a prick.

  “You know, I heard Justin talking about you last night,” I say in a low voice, and lean across the table. “He called you a stubborn fuck.”

  Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I expect he did.”

  A fresh bowl of butternut squash soup arrives in front of me, steaming hot, and suddenly I feel ravenous.

  “Thanks for doing that,” I say awkwardly to Sam.

  “My pleasure.” He tilts his head. “Bon appetit.”

  “So, why did he call you a stubborn fuck?” I take a spoonful of soup.

  “Oh, we disagree pretty fundamentally about how to run the company,” he says carelessly. “My camp had a recent victory, so his camp is feeling sore.”

  Camps? Victories? Are they all permanently at war?

  “What happened?”

  God, this soup is good. I’m ladling it down as though I haven’t eaten for weeks.

  “You’re really interested?” He appears to be amused.

  “Yes! Of course!”

  “A member of personnel left the company. For the better, in my opinion. But not in Justin’s.” He takes a bite of baguette and reaches for his water.

  That’s it? That’s all he’s going to tell me? A member of personnel left the company?

  “You mean John Gregson?” I suddenly remember my Google search.

  “What?” He looks taken aback. “How do you know about John Gregson?”

  “Daily Mail online, of course.” I roll my eyes. What does he think, that he works in a secret, private bubble?

  “Oh. I see.” Sam seems to digest this. “Well … no. That was something different.”

  “Who was this one, then? C’mon,” I wheedle as he hesitates. “You can tell me. I’m best friends with Sir Nicholas Murray, you know. We have drinks at the Savoy together. We’re like this.” I cross my fingers, and Sam gives a reluctant snort of laughter.

  “OK. I don’t suppose it’s any great secret.” He hesitates and lowers his voice. “It was a guy called Ed Exton. Finance director. The truth is, he was fired. Turned out he’d been defrauding the company for a while. Nick wouldn’t press charges, but that was a big mistake. Now Ed’s suing for wrongful dismissal.”

  “Yes!” I nearly squeak. “I knew it! And that’s why he was worse for wear in the Groucho.”

  Sam gives a short, incredulous laugh. “You know about that. Of course you do.”

  “And … Justin was angry when Ed was fired?” I’m trying to get this clear.

  “Justin was gunning for Ed to take over as CEO, with himself as right-hand man,” says Sam wryly. “So, yes, you could say he was fairly angry.”

  “CEO?” I say in astonishment. “But … what about Sir Nicholas?”

  “Oh, they would have ousted Nick if they’d got enough support,” says Sam matter-of-factly. “There’s a faction in this company that’s more interested in creaming off short-term profits and dressing in Paul Smith than anything else. Nick’s all about playing the long game. Not always the most popular position.”

  I finish my soup, digesting all this. Honestly, these office politics ar
e all so complicated. How does anyone get any work done? It’s bad enough when Annalise has one of her hissy fits about whose turn it is to buy the coffee and we all get distracted and forget to write up our reports.

  If I worked at White Globe Consulting, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I would spend all day texting the other people in the office, asking them what was going on today and had they heard anything new and what did they think was going to happen.

  Hmm. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not in an office job.

  “I can’t believe Sir Nicholas Murray used to live in Balham,” I say, suddenly remembering. “I mean, Balham!”

  “Nick hasn’t always been grand, by any means.” Sam shoots me a curious look. “Didn’t you come across his background story during your little Googlefest? He was an orphan. Brought up in a children’s home. Everything he’s got, he’s worked his socks off for. Not a snobbish bone in his body. Not like some of these pretentious tossers trying to get rid of him.” He scowls and stuffs a bundle of rocket into his mouth.

  “Fabian Taylor must be in Justin’s camp,” I observe thoughtfully. “He’s so sarcastic with you. I always wondered why.” I look up to see Sam regarding me with a lowered, furrowed brow.

  “Poppy, be honest. How many of my emails have you read?”

  I can’t believe he’s asking that.

  “All of them, of course. What did you think?” His expression is so funny, I get the giggles. “The minute I got my hands on that phone, I started snooping on you. Emails from colleagues, emails from Willow …” I can’t resist throwing out the name casually to see if he bites.

  Sure enough, he blanks the reference completely. It’s as though the name Willow means nothing to him.

  But this is our farewell lunch. It’s my last chance. I’m going to perservere.

  “So, does Willow work on a different floor from you?” I say conversationally.

  “Same floor.”

  “Oh, right. And … you two met through work?”

  He just nods. This is like getting blood out of a stone.

  A waiter comes to clear my bowl and we order coffees. As the waiter moves away, I see Sam studying me thoughtfully. I’m about to ask another question about Willow, but he gets in first.

  “Poppy, slight change of subject. Can I say something to you? As a friend?”

  “Are we friends?” I reply dubiously.

  “A disinterested spectator, then.”

  Great. First of all, he’s dodging the Willow conversation. Secondly, what now? A speech on why you shouldn’t steal phones? Another lecture on being businesslike in emails?

  “What is it?” I can’t help rolling my eyes. “Fire away.”

  He picks up a teaspoon, as though marshaling his thoughts, then puts it down.

  “I know this is none of my business. I haven’t been married. I haven’t met your fiance. I don’t know the situation.”

  As he speaks, blood creeps into my face. I don’t know why.

  “No,” I say. “You don’t. So—”

  He presses on without listening to me.

  “But it seems to me you can’t—you shouldn’t—go into a marriage feeling inferior in any way.”

  For a moment I’m too stunned to respond. I’m groping for reactions. Shout? Slap him? Stalk out?

  “OK, listen,” I manage at last. My throat is tight, but I’m trying to sound poised. “First of all, you don’t know me, like you said. Second of all, I don’t feel inferior—”

  “You do. It’s obvious from everything you say. And it’s baffling to me. Look at you. You’re a professional. You’re successful. You’re …” He hesitates. “You’re attractive. Why should you feel the Tavishes are in a ‘different league’ from you?”

  Is he being deliberately obtuse?

  “Because they’re, like, major famous people! They’re all geniuses and they’ll all end up being knighted, and my uncle’s just a normal dentist from Taunton—” I break off, breathing hard.

  Great. Now I’ve walked straight into it.

  “What about your dad?”

  Here goes. He asked for it.

  “He’s dead,” I say bluntly. “Both my parents are dead. Car crash ten years ago.” I lean back in my chair, waiting for the awkward pause.

  It can go so many different ways. Silence. Hand over mouth. Gasp.76 Exclamation. Awkward change of subject. Morbid curiosity. Story about bigger, more gruesome crash that friend of friend’s aunt was in.

  One girl I told actually burst into tears right then and there. I had to watch her sobbing and find her a tissue.

  But … it’s weird. This time doesn’t seem to be awkward. Sam hasn’t looked away. He hasn’t cleared his throat or gasped or changed the subject.

  “Both at once?” he says at last, in a more gentle voice.

  “My mother straightaway. My father the day after.” I flash him a brittle smile. “Never got to say goodbye to him, though. He was pretty much gone at the … at the time.”

  Smiling is actually the only way to get through these conversations, I’ve learned.

  A waiter arrives with our coffees, and for a moment the conversation’s on hold. But as soon as he’s moved away, the same mood is back. The same expression on Sam’s face.

  “I’m very, very sorry.”

  “No need to be!” I say in my standard upbeat voice. “It all worked out. We moved in with my uncle and aunt; he’s a dentist, she’s a dental nurse. They looked after us, my little brothers and me. So … it’s all good. All good.”

  I can feel his eyes on me. I look one way and then the other, dodging them. I stir my cappuccino, a little too fast, and take a gulp.

  “That explains a lot,” says Sam at last.

  I can’t bear his sympathy. I can’t bear anyone’s sympathy.

  “It does not,” I say tightly. “It does not. It happened years ago and it’s over and I’m a grown-up and I’ve dealt with it, OK? So you’re wrong. It doesn’t explain anything.”

  Sam puts down his espresso cup, picks up his amaretto biscuit, and unwraps it unhurriedly.

  “I meant it explains why you’re obsessed with teeth.”

  “Oh.”

  Touche.

  I give him a reluctant smile. “Yes, I suppose I am fairly familiar with dental care.”

  Sam crunches into his biscuit and I take another gulp of cappuccino. After a minute or two it seems as if we’ve moved on, and I’m wondering if we should get the bill, when Sam suddenly says, “My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a lot of nights talking with him. Lot of nights.” He pauses. “I know what it’s like. You don’t just get over it. And it doesn’t make any difference if you’re supposedly a grown-up. And it never goes away.”

  He wasn’t supposed to come back to the subject. We’d moved on. Most people gallop off to something else with relief.

  “Well, I did get over it,” I say brightly. “And it did go away. So.”

  Sam nods as though my words don’t surprise him. “Yes, that’s what he said. To other people. I know. You have to.” He pauses. “Hard to keep up the facade, though.”

  Smile. Keep smiling. Don’t meet his eyes.

  But somehow I can’t help it, I do.

  And my eyes are suddenly hot. Shit. Shit. This hasn’t happened for years. Years.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter fiercely, glaring at the table.

  “Like what?” Sam sounds alarmed.

  “Like you understand.” I swallow. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

  I take a deep breath and a sip of water. Idiot, Poppy. Get a grip. I haven’t let myself be taken off guard like that since … I can’t even remember when.

  “I’m sorry,” says Sam, in a low voice. “I didn’t mean—”

  “No! It’s fine, but let’s move on. Shall we get the bill?”

  “Sure.” He summons a waiter, and I take out my lip gloss, and after about two minutes I feel back to normal.

  I try to pay for lunch, but Sam p
oint-blank refuses, so we compromise on going Dutch. After the waiter’s taken our money and wiped away the crumbs, I look at him across the empty table.

  “Well.” Slowly, I slide the phone across the table to him. “Here you are. Thanks. Nice knowing you and everything.”

  Sam doesn’t even look at it. He’s gazing at me with the sort of kind, concerned expression that makes me prickle all over and want to throw things. If he says anything more about my parents, I’ll just walk. I’ll go.

  “I was wondering,” he says at last. “Out of interest, have you ever learned any methods of confrontation?”

  “What?” I laugh out loud with surprise. “Of course not. I don’t want to confront anybody.”

  Sam spreads his hands. “There you go. There’s your problem.”

  “I don’t have a problem! You’re the one with a problem. At least I’m nice,” I can’t help saying pointedly. “You’re … miserable.”

  Sam roars with laughter, and I flush. OK, maybe miserable was the wrong word.

  “I’m fine.” I reach for my bag. “I don’t need any help.”

  “Come on. Don’t be a coward.”

  “I’m not a coward!” I retort in outrage.

  “If you can give it out, you can take it,” he says cheerfully.

  “When you read my texts, you saw a curt, miserable git. And you told me so. Maybe you’re right.” He pauses. “But you know what I saw when I read yours?”

  “No.” I scowl at him. “And I don’t want to know.”

  “I saw a girl who races to help others but doesn’t help herself. And right now you need to help yourself. No one should walk up the aisle feeling inferior or in a different league or trying to be something they’re not. I don’t know exactly who your issues are with, but …”

  He picks up the phone, clicks a button, and turns the screen to face me.

  Fuck.

  It’s my list. The list I wrote in the church.

  THINGS TO DO BEFORE WEDDING

  1. Become expert on Greek philosophy.

  2. Memorize Robert Burns poems.

  3. Learn long Scrabble words.

  4. Remember: am HYPOCHONDRIAC.

  5. Beef stroganoff. Get to like. (Hypnosis?)

  I feel drenched in embarrassment. This is why people shouldn’t share phones.