I've Got Your Number

  “Sam, when exactly were you planning to tell me you had a fucking visitor in your bathroom, listening to our fucking confidential crisis? You do realize my job is to control the flow of information? Control it?”

  “Vicks, relax.”

  As they disappear from view, I sink down onto a chair, feeling a bit unreal. Yowzer. I have no idea what to do now. Should I stay? Should I go? Is the meeting with the CEO still going to happen?

  I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere—but after about twenty minutes of sitting there alone, I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I’ve leafed through a magazine full of words I don’t understand, and I’ve thought about getting myself a coffee (and decided against it). The CEO meeting must surely be off. Sam must be tied up. I’m gearing myself up to write him a note and leave, when a blond guy taps at the glass door. He looks about twenty-three and is holding a massive rolled-up piece of blue paper.

  “Hi,” he says shyly. “Are you Sam’s new PA?”

  “No. I’m just … er … helping him.”

  “Oh, OK.” He nods. “Well, it’s about the competition. The ideas competition?”

  Oh God. This again.

  “Yes?” I say encouragingly. “Do you want to leave Sam a message?”

  “I want this to get to him. It’s a visualization of the company? A restructuring exercise? It’s self-explanatory, but I’ve attached some notes.”

  He hands over the rolled-up paper, together with an exercise book full of writing.

  I already know there is no way Sam is going to look at any of this. I feel quite sorry for this guy.

  “OK! Well … I’ll make sure he sees it. Thanks!”

  As the blond guy heads off, I unroll a corner of the paper out of curiosity—and I don’t believe it. It’s a collage! Like I used to do when I was about five!

  I spread the whole thing out flat on the floor, anchoring the corners with chair legs. It’s in the design of a tree, with photos of staff stuck onto the branches. God only knows what it’s supposed to say about the structure of the company—I don’t care. What’s interesting for me is that under each photo is the person’s name. Which means I can finally put faces to all the people who have sent an email through Sam’s phone. This is riveting.

  Jane Ellis is a lot younger than I expected, and Malcolm is fatter, and Chris Davies turns out to be a woman. There’s Justin Cole … and there’s Lindsay Cooper … and there’s—

  My finger stops dead.

  Willow Harte.

  She’s nestling on a lower branch, smiling out cheerfully. Thin and dark-haired, with very arched black eyebrows. She’s quite pretty, I grudgingly admit, although not supermodel standard.

  And she works on the same floor as Sam. Which means …

  Oh, I’ve got to. Come on. I’ve got to have a quick peek at the psycho fiancee before I go.

  I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the floor. I have no idea if she’ll be in the open-plan area or have her own office. I’ll just have to wander round. If anyone stops me, I’ll be Sam’s new PA.

  I grab a few files as camouflage and cautiously venture out. A couple of people typing at their computers lift their heads and give me an uninterested glance. Skirting the edge of the floor, I glance through windows and peer at names on doors, trying to catch a glimpse of a girl with dark hair, listening out for a whiny, nasal voice. She has to have a whiny, nasal voice, surely. And lots of stupid, made-up allergies, and about ten therapists—

  I stop dead. That’s her! It’s Willow!

  She’s ten yards away. Sitting in one of the glass-doored offices. To be honest, I can’t see much of her except her profile and a hank of long hair hanging down the back of her chair and some long legs ending in black ballet pumps—but it’s definitely her. I feel as though I’ve stumbled on some mythological creature.

  As I approach, I start to tingle all over. I have a dreadful feeling I might suddenly giggle. This is so ridiculous. Spying on someone I’ve never met. I clutch my folders more tightly and edge forward a little more.

  There are two other women in the office with her, and they’re all drinking tea, and Willow is talking.

  Damn. She doesn’t have a whiny, nasal voice. In fact, it’s quite melodious and sane-sounding—except when you start listening to what she’s saying.

  “Of course this is all to get back at me,” she’s saying. “This whole exercise is one big Fuck You, Willow. You know it was actually my idea?”

  “No!” says one of the girls. “Really?”

  “Oh yes.” She turns her head briefly and I catch sight of a sorrowful, pitying smile. “New-idea generation is my thing. Sam ripped me off. I was planning to send out exactly the same email. Same words, everything. He probably saw it on my laptop one night.”

  I’m listening, completely stunned. Is she talking about my email? I want to burst in and say, “He couldn’t have ripped you off; he didn’t even send it!”

  “That’s the kind of move he pulls all the time,” she adds, and takes a sip of tea. “That’s how he’s made his career. No integrity.”

  OK, I’m completely fogged now. Either I’m all wrong about Sam or she’s all wrong about him, because in my opinion he’s the last person in the world you could imagine ripping somebody else off.

  “I just don’t know why he has to compete with me,” Willow’s saying. “What is that with men? What’s wrong with facing the world together? Side by side? What’s wrong with being a partnership? Or is that too … generous for him to get his stupid male head round?”

  “He wants control,” says one of the other girls, cracking a chocolate biscuit in half. “They all do. He’s never going to give you the credit you deserve in a million years.”

  “But can’t he see how perfect it would be if we could get it fucking right? If we could get beyond this crappy bad patch?” Willow sounds impassioned. “Working together, being together … the whole package … it could be sublime.” She breaks off and takes a gulp of tea. “The question is, how long do I give him? Because I can’t go on like this much longer.”

  “Have you talked it through?” says the third girl.

  “Please! You know Sam and ‘talking.’ ” She makes quote marks with her fingers.

  Well. I’m with her there.

  “It makes me sad.” She shakes her head. “Not for me, for him. He can’t see what’s in front of his face and he doesn’t know how to value what he has, and, you know what? He’s going to lose it. And then he’s going to want it, but it’ll be too late. Too late.” She bangs her teacup down. “Gone.”

  I’m suddenly gripped. I’m seeing this conversation in a new light. I’m realizing that Willow has more insight than I gave her credit for. Because, if truth be told, this is just what I feel about Sam and his father. Sam can’t see what he’s losing, and when he does it may be too late. OK, I know I don’t know the whole story between them. But I’ve seen the emails, I’ve got the idea—

  My thoughts stop abruptly in their tracks. Alarm bells have started to ring in my head. First distant, but now getting loud and clangy. Oh no, oh no, oh God.

  Sam’s father. April 24. That’s today. I’d completely forgotten. How could I be so stupid?

  Horror is rising up in me like chill water. Sam’s dad’s going to pitch up at the Chiddingford Hotel, expecting some lovely reunion. Today. He’s probably on his way already. He’ll be all excited. And Sam won’t even be there. He’s not going to the conference until tomorrow.

  Shiiiiit. I’ve really messed up. I’d forgotten all about it, what with all the other emergencies going on.

  What do I do? How do I solve this? I can’t tell Sam. He’ll go absolutely mad. And he’s so stressed anyway. Do I cancel the dad? Send a quick rain-check apology email? Or will that make everything even worse between them?

  There’s only one tiny ray of hope. Sam’s dad never sent any reply, which is why I forgot about it. So maybe he never even got the email. Maybe it’s all OK—

>   I suddenly realize I’m nodding emphatically, as though to persuade myself. One of the girls with Willow looks up and eyes me curiously. Oops.

  “Right!” I say out loud. “So … I’ll just … Good. Yes.” I hastily turn on my heel. If there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s being busted by Willow. I scurry to the safety of Sam’s office and am about to grab the phone to email Sam’s dad, when I see Sam and Vicks marching back toward the office, apparently in the middle of a blazing argument. They look a bit terrifying, and I find myself backing hastily into the bathroom.

  As they stride in, neither of them even notices me.

  “We cannot release this statement,” Sam is saying furiously. He crumples the piece of paper he’s holding and throws it in the bin. “It’s a travesty. You’re completely shafting Nick, you realize that?”

  “That’s not fair, Sam.” Vicks looks prickly. “I’d say it’s a reasonable and balanced official response. Nothing in our statement says he did or didn’t write the memo—”

  “But it should! You should be telling the world that he would never say these things in a million years! You know he wouldn’t!”

  “That’s for him to say in his own personal statement. What we cannot do is look as though we condone these kinds of practices—”

  “Hanging John Gregson out to dry was bad enough,” says Sam, his voice low, as though he’s trying to keep control of himself. “That never should have happened. He never should have lost his job. But Nick! Nick is everything to this company.”

  “Sam, we’re not hanging him out to dry. He’s going to release his own statement. He can say what he likes in that.”

  “Great,” says Sam sarcastically. “But meanwhile his own board won’t stand by him. What kind of vote of confidence is that? Remind me not to hire you to represent me if I’m ever in a spot.”

  Vicks flinches but says nothing. Her phone buzzes, but she presses ignore.

  “Sam—” She stops, then takes a deep breath and starts again. “You’re being idealistic. I know you admire Nick. We all do. But he’s not everything to this company. Not anymore.” She winces at Sam’s glare but carries on. “He’s one man. One brilliant, flawed, high-profile man. In his sixties.”

  “He’s our leader.” Sam sounds livid.

  “Bruce is our chairman.”

  “Nick founded this fucking company, if you remember.”

  “A long time ago, Sam. A very long time ago.”

  Sam exhales sharply and walks a few paces off, as though trying to calm himself. I’m watching, agog, not daring even to breathe.

  “So you side with them,” he says at last.

  “It’s not a question of siding. You know my affection for Nick.” She’s looking more and more uncomfortable. “But this is a modern business. Not some quirky family firm. We owe it to our backers, our clients, our staff—”

  “Jesus Christ, Vicks. Listen to yourself.”

  There’s a sharp silence. Neither of them is looking at the other. Vicks’s face is creased and troubled-looking. Sam’s hair is more rumpled than ever, and he looks absolutely furious.

  I feel a bit stunned by the intensity in the room. I always thought being in PR sounded like a fun job. I had no idea it was like this.

  “Vicks.” The unmistakable drawl of Justin Cole hits the air, and a moment later he’s in the room, wafting Fahrenheit and satisfaction. “Got this under control, have you?”

  “The lawyers are on it. We’re just drafting a press statement.” She gives him a tight smile.

  “Because, for the sake of the company, we need to be careful that none of the other directors are tainted with these unfortunate … views. You know what I’m saying?”

  “It’s all in hand, Justin.”

  From Vicks’s sharp tone, I’m guessing she doesn’t like Justin any more than Sam does.77

  “Great. Of course, very unfortunate for Sir Nicholas. Great shame.” Justin looks delighted. “Still, he is getting on now—”

  “He is not getting on.” Sam scowls at Justin. “You really are an arrogant little shit.”

  “Temper, temper!” Justin says pleasantly. “Oh, tell you what, Sam. Let’s send him an e-card.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Guys!” Vicks sounds close to the edge.

  I can totally understand now why Sam was talking about victories and camps. The aggression between these two is brutal. They’re like those stags who fight every fall until they wrench each other’s antlers off.

  Justin shakes his head pityingly—his expression changing briefly to surprise as he clocks me in the corner—then saunters out again.

  “That memo is a smear,” Sam says in a low, furious voice. “It’s planted. Justin Cole knows it and he’s behind it.”

  “What?” Vicks sounds at the end of her tether. “Sam Roxton, you do not go around saying things like that! You’ll sound like a conspiracy nutter.”

  “It was a Different. Fucking. Memo.” Sam sounds like he’s beyond exasperation with the whole world. “I saw the original version. Malcolm saw it. There was no talk of bribes. Now it’s disappeared from the whole computer system. No trace. Explain that and then call me a conspiracy nutter.”

  “I can’t explain it,” says Vicks after a pause. “And I’m not even going to try. I’m going to do my job.”

  “Someone did this. You know it. You’re playing right into their hands, Vicks. They’re smearing Nick and you’re letting them.”

  “No. No. Stop.” Vicks is shaking her head. “I’m not playing this game. I don’t get involved.” She walks over to the wastepaper basket, retrieves the crumpled statement, and spreads it out.

  “I can change a detail or two,” she says. “But I’ve spoken to Bruce and we have to go with this.” She holds out a pen. “You want to make any small amendments? Because Julian is on his way right now to approve it.”

  Sam ignores the pen.

  “What if we find the original memo? What if we can prove this one is a fake?”

  “Great!” There’s a sudden edge to her voice. “Then we release it, Nick’s integrity is saved, and we throw a party. Believe me, Sam, I would like nothing more than that. But we have to work with what we have. Which, right now, is a damaging memo we can’t explain away.” Vicks rubs her face, then screws her fists in her eyes. “This morning I was trying to cover up that embarrassment with the drunken post-guy,” she mutters, almost to herself. “I was worried about that.”

  She really shouldn’t do that. She’s giving herself bags under her eyes.

  “When does the statement go out?” says Sam at length. All his tempestuous energy seems to have dissipated. His shoulders have slumped and he sounds so low I almost want to go and give him a hug.

  “That’s the one bright ray.” Vicks’s voice is softer now, as though she wants to treat him gently in his defeat. “They’re keeping it for the ten o’clock, so we have a good six hours or so to play with.”

  “A lot can happen in six hours,” I volunteer timidly, and both of them jump as though scalded.

  “She’s still here?”

  “Poppy.” Even Sam looks taken aback. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d still be here—”

  “She heard all that?” Vicks looks like she wants to hit someone. “Sam, are you out of your mind?”

  “I won’t say anything!” I say hurriedly. “Promise.”

  “OK.” Sam breathes out. “My mistake. Poppy, this isn’t your fault; I was the one who invited you. I’ll find someone to escort you out.” He leans his head out of his office door. “Stephanie? Borrow you a sec?”

  A few moments later a pleasant-looking girl with long blond hair arrives at the office.

  “Can you take our visitor down, sign her out, sort out the pass, all that?” says Sam. “Sorry, Poppy, I’d do it myself, but—”

  “No, no!” I say at once. “Of course. You’re tied up, I understand—”

  “The meeting!” says Sam, as though suddenly remembering. “Of course. Pop
py, I’m sorry. It was canceled. But it’ll be rearranged. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Great!” I muster a smile. “Thanks.”

  He won’t. But I don’t blame him.

  “I hope it all works out well for you,” I add. “And Sir Nicholas.”

  Vicks’s eyes are swiveling madly in her head. She’s obviously paranoid that I’m about to spill the beans.

  I don’t know what to do about Sam’s dad. I can’t possibly tell Sam now—he’ll explode from stress. I’ll just have to get a message to the hotel or something. And then bow out.

  Like maybe I should have done in the first place.

  “Well … thanks again.” I meet Sam’s eyes and feel a strange pang. This really is the last goodbye. “Here you are.” I proffer the phone.

  “No problem.” He takes it from me and puts it down on his desk. “Sorry about all this—”

  “No! I hope it all …” I nod several times, not daring to say any more in front of Stephanie.

  It’s going to be odd, not being in Sam’s life anymore. I’ll never know how any of it turns out. Maybe I’ll read about this memo in the papers. Maybe I’ll read an announcement about Sam and Willow in a wedding column.

  “Bye, then.” I turn and follow Stephanie down the corridor. A couple of people are walking along with overnight bags, and as we get into the lift they’re in mid-conversation about the hotel and how crap the minibar is.

  “So it’s your conference today,” I say politely as we arrive at the ground floor. “How come you’re not down there?”

  “Oh, we stagger it.” She ushers me out into the lobby. “A whole bunch of people are already there, and the second coach is leaving in a few minutes. I’ll be on that. Although actually tomorrow’s the main event. That’s when we have the gala dinner and Santa Claus’s speech. It’s usually quite fun.”

  “Santa Claus?” I can’t help laughing.

  “It’s what we call Sir Nicholas. You know, a silly in-house nickname. Sir Nick, St. Nick, Santa Claus—it’s a bit lame, I know.” She smiles. “If you can give me your security pass?”