I've Got Your Number

2

I blink a few times and look again—but it’s still there, half hidden amid a couple of discarded conference programs and a Starbucks cup. What’s a phone doing in a bin?

I look around to see if anyone’s watching me—then reach in gingerly and pull it out. It has a couple of drops of coffee on it, but otherwise it seems perfect. It’s a good one too. A Nokia. New.

Cautiously, I turn and survey the thronging lobby. Nobody’s paying me the slightest bit of attention. No one’s rushing up and exclaiming “There’s my phone!” And I’ve been walking around this area for the last ten minutes. Whoever threw this phone in here did it a while ago.

There’s a sticker on the back of the phone, with White Globe Consulting Group printed in tiny letters and a number. Did someone just chuck it away? Is it bust? I press the on switch and the screen glows. It seems in perfect working order to me.

A tiny voice in my head is telling me that I should hand it in. Take it up to the front desk and say, “Excuse me, I think someone’s lost this phone.” That’s what I should do. March up to the desk right now, like any responsible, civic member of society… .

My feet don’t move an inch. My hand tightens protectively round the phone. Thing is, I need a phone. I bet White Globe Consulting Group, whoever that is, has millions of phones. And it’s not like I found it on the floor or in the ladies’ room, is it? It was in a bin. Things in bins are rubbish. They’re fair game. They’ve been relinquished to the world. That’s the rule.

I peer into the bin again and glimpse a red cord, just like the ones round all the delegates’ necks. I check the concierge to make sure he’s not watching, then plunge my hand in again and pull out a conference pass. A mug shot of a stunningly pretty girl stares back at me, under which is printed: Violet Russell, White Globe Consulting Group.

I’m building up a pretty good theory now. I could be Poirot. This is Violet Russell’s phone and she threw it away. For … some reason or other.

Well, that’s her fault. Not mine.

The phone buzzes and I start. Shit! It’s alive. The ring tone begins at top volume—and it’s Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.” I quickly press ignore, but a moment later it starts up again, loud and unmistakable.

Isn’t there a bloody volume control on this thing? A couple of nearby businesswomen have turned to stare, and I’m so flustered that I jab at talk instead of ignore. The businesswomen are still watching me, so I press the phone to my ear and turn away.

“The person you have called is not available,” I say, trying to sound robotic. “Please leave a message.” That’ll get rid of whoever it is.

“Where the fuck are you?” A smooth, well-educated male voice starts speaking and I nearly squeak with astonishment. It worked! He thinks I’m a machine! “I’ve just been talking to Scottie. He has a contact who reckons he can do it. It’ll be like keyhole surgery. He’s good. There won’t be any trace.”

I don’t dare breathe. Or scratch my nose, which is suddenly incredibly itchy.

“OK,” the man is saying. “So, whatever else you do, be fucking careful.”

He rings off and I stare at the phone in astonishment. I never thought anyone would actually leave a message.

Now I feel a bit guilty. This is a genuine voice mail, and Violet’s missed it. I mean, it’s not my fault she threw her phone away, but even so … On impulse I scrabble in my bag for a pen and the only thing I’ve got to write on, which is an old theater program.7 I scribble down: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.

God alone knows what that’s all about. Liposuction, maybe? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, if I ever do meet this Violet girl, I’ll be able to pass it on.

Before the phone can ring again, I hurry to the concierge’s desk, which has miraculously cleared.

“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Me again. Has anyone found my ring?”

“May I please assure you, madam,” he says with a frosty smile, “that we would have let you know if we had found it. We do have your phone number—”

“No, you don’t!” I cut him off, almost triumphantly. “That’s the thing! The number I gave you is now … er … defunct. Out of use. Very much so.” The last thing I want is him calling hoody guy and mentioning a priceless emerald ring. “Please don’t call it. Can you use this number instead?” I carefully copy the phone number from the back of the White Globe Consulting phone. “In fact, just to be sure … can I test it?” I reach for the hotel landline phone and dial the printed number. A moment later Beyoncé starts blasting out of the mobile phone. OK. At last I can relax a little. I’ve got a number.

“Madam, was there anything else?”

The concierge is starting to look quite pissed off, and there’s a queue of people building behind me. So I thank him again and head to a nearby sofa, full of adrenaline. I have a phone and I have a plan.

It only takes me five minutes to write out my new mobile number on twenty separate pieces of hotel writing paper, with POPPY WYATT—EMERALD RING, PLEASE CALL!!!! in big capitals. To my annoyance, the doors to the ballroom are now locked (although I’m sure I can hear the cleaners inside), so I’m forced to roam around the hotel corridors, the tea room, the ladies’ rooms, and even the spa, handing my number out to every hotel worker I come across and explaining the story.

I call the police and dictate my new number to them. I text Ruby—whose mobile number I know by heart—saying:

Hi! Phone stolen. This is my new mobile number. Cn u pass to everyone? Any sign of ring???

Then I flop onto the sofa in exhaustion. I feel like I’ve been living in this bloody hotel all day. I should phone Magnus too and give him this number—but I can’t face it yet. I have this irrational conviction that he’ll be able to tell from my tone of voice that my ring is missing. He’ll sense my bare finger the minute I say, “Hi.”

Please come back, ring. Please, PLEASE come back… .

I’ve leaned back, closed my eyes, and am trying to send a telepathic message through the ether. So when Beyoncé starts up again, I give a startled jump. Maybe this is it! My ring! Someone found it! I don’t even check the screen before pressing talk and answering excitedly, “Hello?”

“Violet?” A man’s voice hits my ear. It’s not the man who called before; it’s a guy with a deeper voice. He sounds a bit bad-tempered, if you can tell that just from three syllables.8 He’s also breathing quite heavily, which means he’s either a pervert or doing some exercise. “Are you in the lobby? Is the Japanese contingent still there?”

In reflex, I look around. There are a whole bunch of Japanese people by the doors.

“Yes, they are,” I say. “But I’m not Violet. This isn’t Violet’s phone anymore. Sorry. Maybe you could spread the word that her number’s changed?”

I need to get Violet’s mates off my case. I can’t have them ringing me every five seconds.

“Excuse me, who is this?” the man demands. “Why are you answering this number? Where’s Violet?”

“I possess this phone,” I say, more confidently than I feel. Which is true. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.9

“You possess it? What the hell are you—Oh Jesus.” He swears a bit more, and I can hear distant footsteps. It sounds like he’s running downstairs.10 “Tell me, are they leaving?”

“The Japanese people?” I squint at the group. “Maybe. Can’t tell.”

“Is a short guy with them? Overweight? Thick hair?”

“You mean the man in the blue suit? Yes, he’s right in front of me. Looks pissed off. Now he’s putting on his mac.”

The squat Japanese man has been handed a Burberry by a colleague. He’s glowering as he puts it on, and a constant stream of angry Japanese is coming out of his mouth, as all his friends nod nervously.

“No!” The man’s exclamation down the phone takes me by surprise. “He can’t leave.”

“Well, he is. Sorry.”

“You have to stop him. Go up to him and stop him leaving the hotel. Go up to him now. Do whatever it takes.”

“What?” I stare at the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve never even met you—”

“Nor me you,” he rejoins. “Who are you, anyway? Are you a friend of Violet? Can you tell me exactly why she decided to quit her job halfway through the biggest conference of the year? Does she think I suddenly don’t need a PA anymore?”

Aha. So Violet’s his personal assistant. This makes sense. And she walked out on him! Well, I’m not surprised, he’s so bossy.

“Anyway, doesn’t matter,” he interrupts himself. “Point is, I’m on the stairs, floor nine, the lift jammed, I’ll be downstairs in less than three minutes, and you have to keep Yuichi Yamasaki there till I arrive. Whoever the hell you are.”

What a nerve.

“Or what?” I retort.

“Or else a year of careful negotiation goes down the tubes because of one ridiculous misunderstanding. The biggest deal of the year falls apart. A team of twenty people lose their jobs.” His voice is relentless. “Senior managers, secretaries, the whole gang. Just because I can’t get down there fast enough and the one person who could help won’t.”

Oh, bloody hell.

“All right!” I say furiously. “I’ll do my best. What’s his name again?”

“Yamasaki.”

“Wait!” I raise my voice, running forward across the lobby. “Please! Mr. Yamasaki? Could you wait a minute?”

Mr. Yamasaki turns questioningly, and a couple of flunkies move forward, flanking him protectively. He has a broad face, still creased in anger, and a wide, bullish neck, around which he’s draping a silk scarf. I get the sense he’s not into idle chitchat.

I have no idea what to say next. I don’t speak Japanese, I don’t know anything about Japanese business or Japanese culture. Apart from sushi. But I can’t exactly go up to him and say “Sushi!” out of the blue. It would be like going up to a top American businessman and saying “T-bone steak!”

“I’m … a huge fan,” I improvise. “Of your work. Could I have your autograph?”

He looks puzzled, and one of his colleagues whispers a translation into his ear. Immediately, his brow clears and he bows to me.

Cautiously, I bow back, and he snaps his fingers, barking an instruction. A moment later, a beautiful leather folder has been opened in front of him, and he’s writing something elaborate in Japanese.

“Is he still there?” The stranger’s voice suddenly emanates from the phone.

“Yes,” I mutter into it. “Just about. Where are you?” I shoot a bright smile at Mr. Yamasaki.

“Fifth floor. Keep him there. Whatever it takes.”

Mr. Yamasaki hands me his piece of paper, caps his pen, bows again, and makes to walk off.

“Wait!” I cry desperately. “Could I … show you something?”

“Mr. Yamasaki is very busy.” One of his colleagues, wearing steel glasses and the whitest shirt I’ve ever seen, turns back. “Kindly contact our office.”

They’re heading away again. What do I do now? I can’t ask for another autograph. I can’t rugby-tackle him. I need to attract his attention somehow.

“I have a special announcement to make!” I exclaim, hurrying after them. “I am a singing telegram! I bear a message from all Mr. Yamasaki’s many fans. It would be a great discourtesy to them if you were to refuse me.”

The word discourtesy seems to have stopped them in their tracks. They’re frowning and exchanging confused glances.

“A singing telegram?” says the man in steel glasses suspiciously.

“Like a Gorilla Gram?” I offer. “Only singing.”

I’m not sure that’s made things any clearer.

The interpreter murmurs furiously in Mr. Yamasaki’s ear and after a moment looks at me.

“You may present.”

Mr. Yamasaki turns and all his colleagues follow suit, folding their arms expectantly and lining up in a row. Around the lobby I can see a few interested glances from other groups of businesspeople.

“Where are you?” I murmur desperately into the phone.

“Third floor,” comes the man’s voice after a moment. “Half a minute. Don’t lose him.”

“Begin,” the man in steel spectacles says pointedly.

Some people nearby have turned to watch. Oh God. How did I get myself into this? Number one, I can’t sing. Number two, what do I sing to a Japanese businessman I’ve never met before? Number three, why did I say singing telegram?

But if I don’t do something soon, twenty people might lose their jobs.

I make a deep bow, to spin out some more time, and all the Japanese bow back.

“Begin,” repeats the man in steel spectacles, his eyes glinting ominously.

I take a deep breath. Come on. It doesn’t matter what I do. I only have to last half a minute. Then I can run away and they’ll never see me again.

“Mr. Yamasaki … ” I begin cautiously, to the tune of “Single Ladies.” “Mr. Yamasaki. Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.” I shimmy my hips and shoulders at him, just like Beyoncé.11 “Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.”

Actually, this is quite easy. I don’t need any lyrics—I can keep singing “Mr. Yamasaki” over and over. After a few moments, some of the Japanese even start singing along and clapping Mr. Yamasaki on the back.

“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki. Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki.” I lift my finger and waggle it at him with a wink. “Ooh-ooh-ooh … ooh-ooh-ooh … ”

This song is ridiculously catchy. All the Japanese are singing now, apart from Mr. Yamasaki, who’s standing there, looking delighted. Some nearby delegates have joined in with the singing, and I can hear one of them saying, “Is this a flash mob thing?”

“Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki, Mr. Yamasaki … Where are you?” I mutter into the phone, still beaming brightly.

“Watching.”

“What?” My head jerks up and I sweep the lobby.

Suddenly my gaze fixes on a man standing alone, about thirty yards away. He’s wearing a dark suit and has thick black rumpled hair and is holding a phone to his ear. Even from this distance I can see that he’s laughing.

“How long have you been there?” I demand furiously.

“Just arrived. Didn’t want to interrupt. Great job, by the way,” he adds. “I think you won Yamasaki round to the cause, right there.”

“Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “Glad I could help. He’s all yours.” I bow to Mr. Yamasaki with a flourish, then turn on my heel and head swiftly toward the exit, ignoring the disappointed cries of the Japanese. I’ve got more important stuff to worry about than arrogant strangers and their stupid business deals.

“Wait!” The man’s voice follows me through the receiver. “That phone. It’s my PA’s.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have thrown it away, then,” I retort, pushing the glass doors open. “Finders keepers.”

There are twelve tube stops from Knightsbridge to Magnus’s parents’ house in North London, and as soon as I resurface from the underground I check the phone. It’s flashing with new messages—about ten texts and twenty emails—but there are only five texts for me and none with news about the ring. One’s from the police, and my heart leaps with hope—but it’s only to confirm that I’ve filed a report and asking if I want a visit from a victim support officer.

The rest are all text messages and emails for Violet. As I scroll down them, I notice that Sam features in the subject heading of quite a few of the emails. Feeling like Poirot again, I check back on the numbers called function and, sure enough, the last number that called this phone was Sam Mobile. So that’s him. Violet’s boss. Dark-rumpled-hair guy. And to prove it, her email address is samroxtonpa@whiteglobeconsulting.com.

Just out of the mildest curiosity, I click on one of the emails. It’s from jennasmith@grantlyassetmanagement.com, and the subject is Re: Dinner?

Thanks, Violet. I’d appreciate you not mentioning any of this to Sam. I feel a little embarrassed now!

Ooh. What’s she embarrassed about? Before I can stop myself, I’ve scrolled down to read the previous email, which was sent yesterday.

Actually, Jenna, you should know something: Sam’s engaged.

Best, Violet

He’s engaged. Interesting. As I read the words over again, I feel a strange little reaction inside which I can’t quite place—surprise?

Although why should I be surprised? I don’t even know the guy.

OK, now I have to know the whole story. Why is Jenna embarrassed? What happened? I scroll down still farther past a couple more exchanges, and at last find a long introductory email from Jenna, who clearly met this Sam Roxton at a business function, got the hots for him, and invited him to dinner two weeks ago, but he hasn’t returned her calls.

… tried again yesterday … maybe using the wrong number … someone told me he is notorious and that his PA is always the best route to contact him … very sorry to bother you … possibly just let me know either way …

Poor woman. I feel quite indignant on her behalf. Why didn’t he reply? How hard is it to send a quick email saying, no, thanks? And then it turns out he’s engaged, for God’s sake.

Anyway. Whatever. I suddenly realize I’m snooping in someone else’s in-box when I have a lot of other, more important things to be thinking about. Priorities, Poppy. I need to buy some wine for Magnus’s parents. And a welcome-home card—And, if I don’t track down the ring in the next twenty minutes—some gloves.

Disaster. Disaster. It turns out they don’t sell gloves in April. The only ones I could find were from the back room in Accessorize. Old Christmas stock, available only in a small.

I cannot believe I’m seriously planning to greet my prospective in-laws in too-tight red woolly reindeer gloves. With tassels.

But I have no choice. It’s that or walk in bare-handed.

As I start the long climb up the hill to Magnus’s parents’ house, I’m starting to feel really sick. It’s not just the ring. It’s the whole scary prospective in-laws thing. I turn the corner—and all the windows of the house are alight. They’re home.

I’ve never known a house which suits a family as much as the Tavishes’ does. It’s older and grander than any of the others in the street and looks down on them from its superior position. There are yew trees and a monkey puzzle in the garden. The bricks are covered in ivy, and the windows still have their original 1835 wooden frames. Inside, there’s William Morris wallpaper dating from the 1960s, and the floorboards are covered with Turkish carpets.

Except you can’t actually see the carpets, because they’re mostly covered in old documents and manuscripts which no one ever bothers to clear up. No one’s big on tidying in the Tavish family. I once found a fossilized boiled egg in a spare-room bed, still in its egg cup, with a desiccated toast soldier. It must have been about a year old.

And everywhere, all over the house, are books. Stacked up three deep on shelves, piled on the floor, and on the side of every lime-stained bath. Antony writes books, Wanda writes books, Magnus writes books, and his elder brother, Conrad, writes books. Even Conrad’s wife, Margot, writes books.12

Which is great. I mean, it’s a wonderful thing, all these genius intellectuals in one family. But it does make you feel just the teensiest, weensiest bit inadequate.

Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m pretty intelligent. You know, for a normal person who went to school and college and got a job and everything. But these aren’t normal people; they’re in a different league. They have superbrains. They’re the academic version of The Incredibles.13 I’ve met his parents only a few times, when they flew back to London for a week for Antony to give some big important lecture, but it was enough to show me. While Antony was lecturing about political theory, Wanda was presenting a paper on feminist Judaism to a think tank, and then they both appeared on The Culture Show, taking opposing views on a documentary about the influence of the Renaissance.14 So that was the backdrop to our meeting. No pressure or anything.

I’ve been introduced to quite a few different boyfriends’ parents over the years, but hands down this was the worst experience, ever. We’d just shaken hands and made a bit of small talk and I was telling Wanda quite proudly where I’d been to college, when Antony looked up over his half-moon glasses, with those bright, cold eyes of his, and said, “A degree in physiotherapy. How amusing.” I felt instantly crushed. I didn’t know what to say. In fact, I was so flustered I left the room to go to the loo.15

After that, of course, I froze. Those three days were sheer misery. The more intellectual the conversation became, the more tongue-tied and awkward I was. My second-worst moment: pronouncing Proust wrong and everyone exchanging looks.16 My very worst moment: watching University Challenge all together in the drawing room, when a section on bones came on. My subject! I studied this! I know all the Latin names and everything! But as I was drawing breath to answer the first question, Antony had already given the correct answer. I was quicker next time—but he still beat me. The whole thing was like a race, and he won. Then, at the end, he looked over at me and inquired, “Do they not teach anatomy at physiotherapy school, Poppy?” and I was mortified.

Magnus says he loves me, not my brain, and that I’ve got to ignore his parents. And Natasha said, think of the rock and the Hampstead house and the villa in Tuscany. Which is Natasha for you. Whereas my own approach has been as follows: Just don’t think about them. It’s been fine. They’ve been safely in Chicago, thousands of miles away.

But now they’re back.

Oh God. And I’m still a bit shaky on Proust. (Proost? Prost?) And I didn’t revise the Latin names for bones. And I’m wearing red woolly reindeer gloves in April. With tassels.

My legs are shaking as I ring the bell. Actually shaking. I feel like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. Any minute I’ll collapse on the path and Wanda will torch me for losing the ring.

Stop, Poppy. It’s fine. No one will suspect anything, My story is, I burned my hand. That’s my story.

“Hi, Poppy!”

“Felix! Hi!”

I’m so relieved it’s Felix at the door, my greeting comes out in a shaky gasp.

Felix is the baby of the family—only seventeen and still at school. In fact, Magnus has been living in the house with him while his parents have been away, as kind of babysitter, and I moved in after we got engaged. Not that Felix needs a babysitter. He’s completely self-contained, reads all the time, and you never even know he’s in the house. I once tried to give him a friendly little “drugs chat.” He politely corrected me on every single fact, then said he’d noticed I drank above the recommended guidelines of Red Bull and did I think I might have an addiction? That was the last time I tried to act the older sister.

Anyway. That’s all come to an end, now that Antony and Wanda are returning from the States. I’ve moved back to my flat and we’ve started looking for places to rent. Magnus was all for staying here. He thought we could continue using the spare bedroom and bathroom on the top floor, and wouldn’t it be convenient, as he could carry on using his father’s library?

Is he nuts? There is no way I am living under the same roof as the Tavishes.

I follow Felix into the kitchen, where Magnus is lounging on a kitchen chair, gesturing at a page of typescript, and saying, “I think your argument goes wrong here. Second paragraph.”

However Magnus sits, whatever he does, he somehow manages to looks elegant. His suede-brogued feet are up on a chair, he’s halfway through a cigarette,17 and his tawny hair is thrown back off his brow like a waterfall.

The Tavishes all have the same coloring, like a family of foxes. Even Wanda hennas her hair. But Magnus is the best-looking of all, and I’m not just saying that because I’m marrying him. His skin is freckled but tans easily too, and his red-brown hair is like something out of a hair ad. That’s why he keeps it long.18 He’s actually quite vain about it.

Plus, although he’s an academic, he’s not some fusty guy who sits inside reading books all day. He skis really well, and he’s going to teach me too. That’s how we met, in fact. He’d sprained his wrist skiing and he came in for physio after his doctor recommended us. He was supposed to be seeing Annalise, but she switched him for one of her regulars and he ended up coming to me instead. The next week he asked me out on a date, and after a month he proposed. A month!19

Now Magnus looks up and his face brightens. “Sweetheart! How’s my beautiful girl? Come here.” He beckons me over for a kiss, then frames my face in his hands, like he always does.

“Hi!” I force a smile. “So, are your parents here? How was their flight? I can’t wait to see them.”

I’m trying to sound as keen as I can, even though my legs are wanting to run away, out the door and down the hill.

“Didn’t you get my text?” Magnus seems puzzled.

“What text? Oh.” I suddenly realize. “Of course. I lost my phone. I’ve got a new number. I’ll give it to you.”

“You lost your phone?” Magnus stares at me. “What happened?”

“Nothing!” I say brightly. “Just … lost it and had to get a new one. No biggie. No drama.”

I’ve decided on a general policy that the less I say to Magnus right now, the better. I don’t want to get into any discussions as to why I might be clinging desperately to some random phone I found in a bin.

“So, what did your text say?” I quickly add, trying to move the conversation on.

“My parents’ plane was diverted. They had to go to Manchester. Won’t be back till tomorrow.”

Diverted?

Manchester?

Oh my God. I’m safe! I’m reprieved! My legs can stop wobbling! I want to sing the “Hallelujah” chorus. Ma-an-chester! Ma-an-chester!

“God, how awful.” I’m trying hard to twist my face into a disappointed expression. “Poor them. Manchester. That’s miles away! I was really looking forward to seeing them too. What a pain.”

I think I sound pretty convincing. Felix shoots me an odd look, but Magnus has already picked up the typescript again. He hasn’t commented on my gloves. Nor has Felix.

Maybe I can relax a notch.

“So … er … guys.” I survey the room. “What about the kitchen?”

Magnus and Felix said they were going to clear up this afternoon, but the place is a bomb site. There are takeaway boxes on the kitchen table and a stack of books on top of the hob and even one in a saucepan. “Your parents will be back tomorrow. Shouldn’t we do something?”

Magnus looks unmoved. “They won’t care.”

It’s all very well for him to say that. But I’m the daughter-in-law (nearly) who’s been living here and will get the blame.

Magnus and Felix have begun talking about some footnote,20 so I head over to the hob and start a quick tidy-up. I don’t dare remove my gloves, but the guys aren’t giving me the slightest glance, thankfully. At least I know the rest of the house is OK. I went over the whole place yesterday, replaced all the old manky bottles of bubble bath and got a new blind for the bathroom. Best of all, I tracked down some anemones for Wanda’s study. Everyone knows she loves anemones. She’s even written an article about “anemones in literature”. (Which is typical of this family—you can’t just enjoy something, you have to become a top academic expert on it.)

Magnus and Felix are still engrossed as I finish. The house is tidy. No one’s asked me about the ring. I’ll quit while I’m ahead.

“So, I’ll head home,” I say casually, and drop a kiss on Magnus’s head. “You stay here, keep Felix company. Say welcome home to your parents from me.”

“Stay the night!” Magnus sweeps an arm round my waist and pulls me back. “They’ll want to see you!”

“No, you welcome them. I’ll catch up tomorrow.” I smile brightly, to distract attention from the fact that I’m edging toward the door, my hands behind my back. “Plenty of time.”

“I don’t blame you,” says Felix, looking up for the first time since I’ve arrived at the house.

“Sorry?” I say, a bit puzzled. “Don’t blame me for what?”

“Not sticking around.” He shrugs. “I think you’re being remarkably sanguine, given their reaction. I’ve been meaning to say so for weeks. You must be a very good person, Poppy.”

What’s he talking about?

“I don’t know—what do you mean?” I turn to Magnus for help.

“It’s nothing,” he says, too quickly. But Felix is staring at his older brother, a light dawning in his eyes.

“Oh my God. Didn’t you tell her?”

“Felix, shut up.”

“You didn’t, did you? That’s not exactly fair, is it, Mag?”

“Tell me what?” I’m turning from face to face. “What?”

“It’s nothing.” Magnus sounds rattled. “Just … ” He finally meets my eyes. “OK. My parents weren’t exactly wild to hear we’re engaged. That’s all.”

For a moment I don’t know how to react. I stare at him dumbly, trying to process what I heard.

“But you said … ” I don’t quite trust my voice. “You said they were thrilled. You said they were excited!”

“They will be thrilled,” he says crossly. “When they see sense.”

They will be?

My whole world is wobbling. It was bad enough when I thought Magnus’s parents were intimidating geniuses. But all this time they’ve been against us getting married?

“You told me they said they couldn’t imagine a sweeter, more charming daughter-in-law.” I’m trembling all over by now. “You said they sent me special love from Chicago! Was all that lies?”

“I didn’t want to upset you!” Magnus glares at Felix. “Look, it’s no big deal. They’ll come round. They simply think it’s all a bit fast… . They don’t know you properly… . They’re idiots,” he ends with a scowl. “I told them so.”

“You had a row with your parents?” I stare at him, dismayed. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“It wasn’t a row,” he says defensively. “It was more … a falling-out.”

A falling-out? A falling-out?

“A falling-out is worse than a row!” I wail in horror. “It’s a million times worse! Oh God, I wish you’d told me … What am I going to do? How can I face them?”

I knew it. The professors don’t think I’m good enough. I’m like that girl in the opera who relinquishes her lover because she’s too unsuitable and then gets TB and dies, and good thing too, since she was so inferior and stupid. She probably couldn’t pronounce Proust either.

“Poppy, calm down!” Magnus says irritably. He gets to his feet and takes me firmly by the shoulders. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. It’s family nonsense and it’s got nothing to do with us. I love you. We’re getting married. I’m going to do this and I’m going to see it through whatever anyone else says, whether it’s my parents or my friends or anyone else. This is about us.” His voice is so firm, I start to relax. “And, anyway, as soon as my parents spend some time with you, they’ll come round. I know it.”

I can’t help giving a reluctant smile.

“That’s my beautiful girl.” Magnus gives me a tight hug and I clasp him back, trying as hard as I can to believe him.

As he draws away, his gaze falls on my hands and he frowns, looking puzzled. “Sweets … why are you wearing gloves?”

I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. I really am.

The whole ring debacle nearly came out. It would have, if it weren’t for Felix. I was halfway through my ludicrous, stumbling hand-burning excuse, expecting Magnus to become suspicious at any moment, when Felix yawned and said, “Shall we go to the pub?” and Magnus suddenly remembered an email he had to send first and everyone forgot about my gloves.

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 Beyoncé 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 never 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.” 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 all on. And the emails can all go to samroxton@whiteglobeconsulting.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 davidr452@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 Beyoncé 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 inbox,” 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 really, really appreciate it, I text back. Thx

But there’s no reply.

7 The 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 Beyoncé. Like me imitating Beyoncé.

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.