I've Got Your Number

  How did Vicks react?

  I look at Vicks and flinch.

  She looks like she wants to eat someone alive.

  “White Globe Consulting has been a major influence on business for the last three decades,” a voice-over is saying on-screen, accompanied by a long-lens shot of the White Globe Consulting building.

  My thumbs are so full of adrenaline the text almost writes itself.

  Did you do this?

  I did this.

  You contacted ITN yourself?

  Correct.

  Thought the techies didn’t find any proof. What happened?!

  They didn’t.

  I swallow hard, trying to get my head round this. I know nothing about PR. I’m a physiotherapist, for God’s sake. But even I’d say that you don’t phone up ITN with a story of a smear without something to back it up.

  How

  As I start typing, I realize I don’t even know how to frame the question, so I send it as it is. There’s silence for a little while—then a two page text arrives in my phone.

  I blink at it in amazement. This is the longest text Sam has ever sent me, by approximately 2,000 percent.

  I went on the record. I stand by what I said. Tomorrow I give them an exclusive interview about original memo, directors washing hands of Nick, everything. It’s a stitch-up. Corporate spin has gone too far. The true story needs to be out there. Wanted Malcolm to join me but he won’t. He has three kids. Can’t risk it. So it’s just me.

  My head is buzzing. Sam’s put himself on the line. He’s turned into a whistle-blower. I can’t believe he’s done something so extreme. But at the same time … I can.

  That’s a pretty big deal.

  I have no idea what else to type. I’m in a state of shock.

  Someone had to have the guts to stand by Nick.

  I stare at his words, my brow crinkled, thinking this through.

  Doesn’t prove anything, though, surely? It’s only your word.

  A moment later he replies:

  Raises question mark over story. That’s enough. Where are you now?

  In conference hall.

  Anyone know you’re texting me?

  Vicks is talking volubly to some guy while holding a phone to her ear. She happens to look my way, and I don’t know if it’s my expression, but her eyes narrow a smidgen. She glances at my phone, then at my face again. I feel a dart of apprehension.

  Don’t think so. Yet.

  Can you get away without anyone noticing?

  I count to three, then casually scan the room as though I’m interested in the light fittings. Vicks is in my peripheral vision. Now she’s gazing straight at me. I lower my phone out of sight and text:

  Where are you exactly?

  Outside.

  Doesn’t help much.

  All I’ve got. No idea where I am.

  A moment later another one arrives:

  It’s dark, if that’s a clue. Grass underfoot.

  Are you in big trouble?

  There’s no reply. I guess that’s a yes.

  OK. I won’t look at Vicks. I will simply yawn, scratch my nose—yes, good, unconcerned—turn on my heel, and move behind this group of people. Then I’ll duck down behind this big fat pillar.

  Now I’ll peek out.

  Vicks is looking around with a frustrated expression. People are trying to get her attention, but she’s batting them away. I can almost see the calculation in her eyes—how much brain space does she allocate the strange girl who might know something but might also be a red herring?

  Within five seconds I’m in the corridor. Ten seconds, through the deserted lobby, avoiding the eye of the disconsolate-looking barman. He’ll be getting enough business in a minute. Fifteen seconds, I’m outside, ignoring the doorman, running over the gravel drive, round the corner, until grass is underfoot and I feel as though I’ve got away.

  I walk slowly, waiting for my breath to return. I’m still in shock over what’s just happened.

  Are you going to lose your job over this?

  Another silence. I walk a little more, adjusting to the night sky, the cool air with a little breeze, the soft grass. The hotel is a good four hundred yards away by now, and I start to unwind.

  Maybe.

  He sounds quite relaxed about the fact. If a one-word text can sound relaxed.86

  I’m outside now. Where should I head?

  God knows. I went out back of hotel and walked into oblivion.

  That’s what I’m doing now.

  So we’ll meet.

  You never said your mum had died.

  I’ve typed it and pressed send before I can stop myself. I stare at the screen, cringing at my own crassness. I can’t believe I said that. Of all the times. Like this is going to be his priority right now.

  No. I never did.

  I’ve reached the edge of what seems to be a croquet lawn. There’s a wooded area ahead. Is that where he is? I’m about to ask him, when another text bleeps into my phone.

  I just get tired of telling people. The awkward pause. You know?

  I blink at the screen. I can’t believe someone else knows about the awkward pause.

  I understand.

  I should have told you.

  There’s no way I’m guilt-tripping him over this. That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I wanted him to feel. As quickly as I can, I type a reply:

  No. No should. Never any should. That’s my rule.

  That’s your rule for life?

  Rule for life? That’s not exactly what I meant. But I like the idea that he thinks I have a rule for life.

  No, my rule for life is …

  I pause, trying to think. A rule for life. That’s quite a huge one. I can think of quite a few good rules, but for life …

  On tenterhooks here.

  Stop it, I’m thinking.

  Then, suddenly, inspiration hits. Confidently, I type:

  If it’s in a bin it’s public property.

  There’s silence, then the phone bleeps again with his reply:

  I stare in disbelief. A smiley face. Sam Roxton typed a smiley face! A moment later he sends a follow-up.

  I know. I don’t believe it either.

  I laugh out loud, then shiver as a breeze hits my shoulders. This is all very well. But I’m standing in a field in Hampshire with no coat and no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. Come on, Poppy. Focus. There’s no moon, and all the stars must be hidden behind clouds. I can hardly see to type.

  Where ARE you? In the wood? Can’t see a thing.

  Through the wood. Other side. I’ll meet you.

  Cautiously, I start picking my way through the trees, cursing as a bramble catches my leg. There are probably stinging nettles and snake pits. There are probably man traps. I reach for my phone, trying to text and avoid brambles at the same time.

  My new rule for life. Don’t go into spooky dark woods on your own.

  There’s silence a moment—then my phone bleeps.

  You’re not on your own.

  I clutch the phone more tightly. It’s true; with him on the other end, I do feel secure. I walk on a bit more, nearly tripping over a tree root, wondering where the moon’s got to. Waxing, I suppose. Or waning. Whichever.

  Look for me. I’m coming.

  I peer at his text in disbelief. Look for him? How can I look for him?

  It’s pitch-black, hadn’t you noticed?

  My phone. Look for the light. Don’t call out. Someone might hear.

  I peer into the gloom. I can’t see anything at all except the dark shadows of trees and looming mounds of bramble bushes. Still, I guess the worst that can happen is I fall off a sudden cliff and break all my limbs. I take another few steps forward, listening to my own padding footsteps, breathing in the musky, damp air.

  OK?

  Still here.

  I’ve reached a tiny clearing and I hesitate, biting my lip. Before I go on, I want to say the things I won’t be able to when I see him
. I’ll be too embarrassed. It’s different by text.

  Just wanted to say I think you’ve done an amazing thing. Putting yourself on the line like that.

  It had to be done.

  That’s typical of him to brush it off.

  No. It didn’t. But you did it.

  I wait a little while, feeling the breeze on my face and listening to an owl hooting above me somewhere—but he doesn’t reply. I don’t care, I’m going to press on. I have to say these things, because I have a feeling no one else will.

  You could have taken an easier path.

  Of course.

  But you didn’t.

  That’s my rule for life.

  And with no warning I feel a hotness behind my eyes. I have no idea why. I don’t know why I suddenly feel affected. I want to type I admire you, but I can’t bring myself to. Not even by text. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, I type:

  I understand you.

  Of course you do. You’d do the same.

  I stare at the screen, discomfited. Me? What have I got to do with it?

  I wouldn’t.

  I’ve got to know you pretty well, Poppy Wyatt. You would.

  I don’t know what to say, so I start moving through the wood again, into what seems even blacker darkness. My hand is wrapped round the phone so tightly I’m going to get a cramp. But somehow I can’t loosen my fingers. I feel as though the harder I grip, the more I’m connected to Sam. I feel as though I’m holding his hand.

  And I don’t want to let go. I don’t want this to end. Even though I’m stumbling and cold and in the middle of nowhere. We’re in a place that we won’t ever be again.

  On impulse, I type:

  I’m glad it was your phone I picked up.

  A moment later his reply comes:

  So am I.

  I feel a tiny glow inside. Maybe he’s just being polite. But I don’t think so.

  It’s been good. Weird but good.

  Weird but good would sum it up, yes.

  He sent another smiley face! I don’t believe it!

  What’s happened to the man formerly known as Sam Roxton?

  He’s broadening his horizons. Which reminds me, where have all your kisses gone?

  I peer at my phone, surprised at myself.

  Dunno. You’ve cured me.

  I’ve never sent kisses to Sam, it occurs to me. Not once. Strange. Well, I can make up for that now. I’m almost giggling as I press the X button down firmly.

  Xxxxxxxx

  A moment later his reply arrives:

  Xxxxxxxxxx

  Ha! With a snuffle of laughter, I type an even longer row of kisses.

  Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

  Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

  xxx xxx xxx

  I see you.

  I peer through the gloom again, but he must have better eyesight than I do, because I can’t see anything.

  Really?

  Coming.

  I lean forward, craning my neck, squinting for a glimpse of light, but there’s nothing. He must have seen some other light.

  Can’t see you.

  I’m coming.

  You’re nowhere near.

  Yes I am. Coming.

  And then suddenly I hear his footsteps approaching. He’s behind me, thirty feet away, at a guess. No wonder I couldn’t see him.

  I should turn. Right now I should turn. This is the moment that it would be natural to swivel round and greet him. Call out a hello; wave my phone in the air.

  But my feet are rooted to the spot. I can’t bring myself to move. Because as soon as I do, it will be time to be polite and matter-of-fact and back to normal. And I can’t bear that. I want to stay here. In the place where we can say anything to each other. In the magic spell.

  Sam pauses, right behind me. There’s an unbearable fragile beat as I wait for him to shatter the quiet. But it’s as though he feels the same way. He says nothing. All I can hear is the gentle sound of his breathing. Slowly, his arms wrap round me from behind. I close my eyes and lean back against his chest, feeling unreal.

  I’m standing in a wood with Sam and his arms are around me and they really shouldn’t be. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going with this.

  Except … I do. Of course I do. Because as his hands gently cup my waist, I don’t make a sound. As he swivels me around to face him, I don’t make a sound. And as his stubble rasps my face, I don’t make a sound. I don’t need to. We’re still talking. Every touch he makes, every imprint of his skin is like another word, another thought, a continuation of our conversation. And we’re not done yet. Not yet.

  I don’t know how long we’re there. Five minutes, maybe. Ten minutes.

  But the moment can’t last forever, and it doesn’t. The bubble doesn’t so much burst as evaporate, leaving us back in the real world. Realizing our arms are round each other; awkwardly stepping apart; feeling the chill night air rush between us. I look away, clearing my throat, rubbing his touch off my skin.

  “So, shall we—”

  “Yes.”

  As we pad through the woods, neither of us speaks. I can’t believe what just happened. Already it seems like a dream. Something impossible.

  It was in the forest. No one saw it or heard it. So did it actually happen?87

  Sam’s phone is buzzing and this time he takes it to his ear.

  “Hi, Vicks.”

  And just like that, it’s over. At the edge of the wood I can see a posse of people striding over the grass toward us. And the aftermath begins. I must be a little dazed from our encounter, because I can’t engage with any of this. I’m aware of Vicks and Robbie and Mark all raising their voices, and Sam staying calm, and Vicks getting near to tears, which seems a bit unlikely for her, and talk of trains and cars and emergency press briefings and then Mark saying, “It’s Sir Nicholas for you, Sam,” and everyone moving back a step, almost respectfully, as Sam takes the call.

  And then suddenly the cars are here to take everyone back to London, and we’re heading out to the drive and Vicks is bossing everyone around and everyone’s going to regroup at 7:00 a.m. at the office.

  I’ve been allotted to a car with Sam. As I get in, Vicks leans in and says, “Thanks, Poppy.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

  “It’s OK,” I say, just in case she’s not. “And … I’m sorry. About—”

  “Yup,” she says tightly.

  And then the car moves off. Sam is texting intently, a deep frown on his face. I don’t dare make a sound. I check my phone for a message from Magnus, but there’s nothing. So I drop it down on the seat and stare out the window, letting the streetlamps blur into a stream of light, wondering where the hell I’m going.

  I didn’t even know I’d fallen asleep.

  But somehow my head is on Sam’s chest and he’s saying, “Poppy? Poppy?” Suddenly I wake up properly, and my neck is cricked and I’m looking out of a car window at a funny angle.

  “Oh.” I scramble to a sitting position, wincing as my head spins. “Sorry. God. You should have—”

  “No problem. Is this your address?”

  I peer blearily out the window. We’re in Balham. We’re outside my block of flats. I glance at my watch. It’s gone midnight.

  “Yes,” I say in disbelief. “This is me. How did you—”

  Sam nods at my phone, still on the car seat. “Your address was in there.”

  “Oh. Right.” I can hardly complain about him invading my privacy.

  “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “No. Of course. That’s fine.” I nod. “Thanks.”

  Sam picks up the phone and seems about to hand it to me—then he hesitates.

  “I read your messages, Poppy. All of them.”

  “Oh.” I clear my throat, unsure how to react. “Wow. Well. That’s … that’s a bit much, don’t you think? I mean, I know I read your emails, but you didn??
?t need to—”

  “It’s Lucinda.”

  “What?” I stare at him dumbly.

  “For my money, Lucinda’s your girl.”

  Lucinda?

  “But what—Why?”

  “She’s been lying to you. Consistently. She couldn’t have been in all the places she says she has at the times she’s said. It’s not physically possible.”

  “Actually … I noticed that too,” I admit. “I thought she was trying to bill me for more hours or something.”

  “Does she bill by the hour?”

  I rub my nose, feeling stupid. In fact, she doesn’t. It’s an all-inclusive fee.

  “Have you ever noticed that Magnus and Lucinda inevitably text you within ten minutes of each other?”

  Slowly, I shake my head. Why would I notice that? I get zillions of texts every day, from all kinds of people. And, anyway, how did he notice?