I've Got Your Number (40 page)

I suppress a smile. She must have been the crappest PA in the world.

“But
that’s
why I know something was going on.” She finishes off her chicken wrap with a flourish. “Because of all the messages. On that.” She jabs a finger at it.

OK. At last we’re getting to it.

“Messages? What messages?”

“It had all these voice mails on it. Not for Sam; for some guy called Ed. I didn’t know what to do about them. So I listened to them and I wrote them down. And I didn’t like the sound of them.”

“Why not?” My heart starts to thud.

“They were all from the same guy, about altering a document. How they were going to do it. How long it would take. How much it would cost. That kind of thing. It didn’t sound right, you know what I mean? But it didn’t exactly sound
wrong
either.” She crinkles her nose. “It just sounded … weird.”

My head is wheeling. I can’t take this in. Voice mails for Ed about the memo. On this phone.
This phone
.

“Did you tell Sam?”

“I sent him an email and he said ignore them. But I didn’t
want
to ignore them. You know what I mean? I had this instinct.” She swigs her smoothie. “Then I open the paper this morning, and I see Sam talking about some memo and saying it must have been sexed up, and I think, yes!” She bangs her hand on the table again. “
That’s
what was going on.”

“How many voice mails were there in all?”

“Four? Five?”

“But there aren’t any voice mails on here now. At least, I haven’t found any.” I can hardly bear to ask the question. “Did you … delete them?”

“No!” She beams in triumph. “That’s the point! I saved them. At least, my boyfriend, Aran, did. I was writing one out one night, and he was, like, ‘Babe, just save it to the server.’ And I was like, ‘How do I save a
voice mail
?’ So he
came into the office and put them all on a file. He can do amazing stuff, Aran,” she adds proudly. “He’s a model too, but he writes games on the side.”

“A file?” I’m not following. “So where’s the file now?”

“It must still be there.” She shrugs. “On the PA’s computer. There’s an icon called
Voice Mails
on the desktop.”

An icon on the PA’s computer. Just outside Sam’s office. All the time, it was right there, right in front of our faces.

“Will it still be there?” I feel a blast of panic. “Won’t it be deleted?”

“Don’t know why it would be.” She shrugs. “Nothing was deleted when I arrived. There was just a big old pile of crap I was supposed to wade through.”

I almost want to laugh hysterically. All that panic. All that effort. We could have simply gone to the computer outside Sam’s office.

“Anyway, I’m going to the States tomorrow, and I had to tell someone, but it’s impossible to get in touch with Sam at the moment.” She shakes her head. “I’ve tried emailing, texting, phoning—I’m, like, if you only
knew
what I had to tell you …”

“Let me have a go,” I say after a pause, and type a text to Sam.

Sam, you have to call me. Now. It’s about Sir Nicholas. Could be a help. Not a time-waster. Believe me. Call at once. Please. Poppy.

“Well, good luck with that.” Violet rolls her eyes. “Like I told you, he’s gone off radar. His PA said he’s not responding to anybody. Not emailing, not answering calls—” She breaks off as the tinny sound of Beyonce comes through the air.
Sam Mobile
has already popped up on the display.

“OK.” Her eyes widen. “I’m impressed.”

I press
accept
and lift the receiver to my ear. “Hi, Sam.”

“Poppy.”

His voice feels like a blast of sunshine in my ear. There’s so much I want to say. But I can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Listen,” I say. “Are you in your office? Go to your PA’s computer. Quickly.”

There’s the briefest pause, then he says, “OK.”

“Look on the desktop,” I instruct him. “Is there a file called
Voice Mails
?”

There’s silence for a little while—then Sam’s voice comes down the phone.

“Affirmative.”

“OK!” My breath comes out in a whoosh. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it. “You need to look after that file carefully. And now you need to speak to Violet.”

“Violet?”
He sounds taken aback. “You don’t mean Violet my flaky ex-PA?”

“I’m with her now. Listen to her, Sam. Please.” I pass the phone over.

“Hey, Sam,” says Violet easily. “Sorry about leaving you in the lurch and all that. But you’ve had Poppy to help you out, yeah?”

As she’s talking, I head up to the counter and buy myself another coffee, even though I’m so wired I probably shouldn’t. Hearing Sam’s voice has thrown me. I immediately wanted to talk to him about everything. I wanted to nestle up and hear what he had to say.

But that’s impossible. Number one, because he’s mired in massive problems of his own. Number two, because who is he? Not a friend. Not a colleague. Just some random
guy who has no place in my life. It’s over. The only place for us to go from here is goodbye.

Maybe we’ll exchange the odd text. Maybe we’ll meet up awkwardly in a year’s time. Both of us will look different and we’ll say hello stiltedly, already regretting the decision to come. We’ll laugh about how bizarre that whole phone business was. We’ll never mention what happened in the woods.
Because it didn’t happen
.

“You OK, Poppy?” Violet is standing in front of me, waving the phone in front of my face. “Here.”

“Oh!” I come to and take it. “Thanks. Did you speak to Sam?”

“He opened the file as I was talking to him. He’s pretty stoked. He said to say he’d call you later.”

“Oh. Well … he doesn’t have to.” I pick up my coffee. “Whatever.”

“Hey, nice rock.” Violet grabs my hand.
⁹³
“Is that an emerald?”

“Yes.”

“Cool! So, who’s the lucky guy?” She gets out an iPhone. “Can I take a picture of it? I’m just getting ideas for when Aran becomes a gazillionaire. Did you choose it yourself?”

“No, he had it already when he proposed. It’s a family ring.”

“Romantic.” Violet nods. “Wow. So you didn’t expect it?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Were you like, ‘Fuck!’ “

“Kind of.” I nod.

It seems a million years ago now, that evening when Magnus proposed. I was so giddy. I felt as if I’d entered a magic bubble where everything was shiny and perfect and nothing could ever go wrong again.
God
, I was a fool….

A tear splashes onto my cheek before I can stop it.

“Hey.” Violet looks at me with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I smile, wiping at my eyes. “It’s … Things aren’t exactly brilliant. My fiance might be cheating on me, and I don’t know what to do.”

Just letting the words out makes me feel better. I take a deep breath and smile at Violet. “Sorry. Ignore that. You don’t want to know.”

“No. It’s fine.” She draws her feet up onto her chair and regards me intently. “Why aren’t you sure if he is or not? What makes you think he is?”

“Someone sent me an anonymous text. That’s it.”

“So ignore it.” Violet gives me a close look. “Or do you have a gut feeling? Does it seem like something he might do?”

I’m silent for a moment. I
so
wish I could say, “Never! Not in a million years!” But too many moments are sticking in my brain. Moments I haven’t wanted to see, that I’ve tried to blank out. Magnus flirting with girls at parties. Magnus surrounded by all his female students, his arms casually draped around their shoulders. Magnus being practically molested by Annalise.

The thing is, girls like Magnus. And he likes them.

“I don’t know,” I say, staring into my coffee. “Maybe.”

“And do you have any idea who he’s doing it with?”

“Maybe.”

“So!” Violet seems galvanized. “Confront the situation. Have you spoken to him? Have you spoken to her?”

“He’s in Bruges, on his stag do. I can’t talk to him. And she’s—” I break off. “No. I can’t. I mean, it’s a possibility. She’s probably totally innocent.”

“Are you
sure
he’s on his stag do?” says Violet, raising her eyebrows, then grins. “No, I’m just winding you up.” She pushes my arm. “I’m sure he is. Hey, babe, I have to go and pack. Hope it all works out for you. Give my love to Sam.”

As she strides out of the coffee shop, about six male heads turn. I’m pretty sure that if Magnus were here, his would be one of them.

I stare morosely into my coffee for a little while. Why do people have to keep telling me to confront the situation? I
do
confront things. Loads of times. But it’s not like I can march up to Magnus on his stag do, or accost Lucinda and accuse her out of the blue. I mean, you need
evidence
. You need
facts
. One anonymous text doesn’t cut it.

My phone starts emitting Beyonce and I stiffen, in spite of myself. Is that—

No. It’s Unknown Number. But
which
bloody Unknown Number? I take a swig of coffee, to steel myself, and answer.

“Hi, Poppy Wyatt here.”

“Hello, Poppy. My name is Brenda Fairfax. I’m calling from the Berrow Hotel. I’ve been away on holiday for a few days; otherwise of course I should have called at once. I do apologize.”

Mrs. Fairfax. After all this time. I almost want to burst out laughing.

To think how desperate I was to hear this woman’s voice. And now it’s all irrelevant. I’ve got the ring back. None of it matters. Why is she calling me, anyway? I told the concierge I’d got the ring safely. The whole thing is over.

“You don’t need to apologize—”

“But of course I do! What a
dreadful
mix-up.” She sounds quite flustered. Maybe the concierge gave her a hard time. Maybe he told her to call me and apologize.

“Please don’t worry. I had a bit of a fright, but it’s all fine now.”

“And such a valuable ring too!”

“It’s fine,” I say soothingly. “No harm done.”

“But I still can’t understand it! One of the waitresses had handed it to me and I was going to put it in the safe, you see. That’s what I was about to do.”

“Honestly, you don’t have to explain.” I feel quite sorry for her. “These things happen. It was a fire alarm, you got distracted—”

“No!” Mrs. Fairfax sounds a mite offended. “That’s not what happened at all. I was about to put it in the safe, as I say. But before I could do so, another lady rushed up to me and told me it was hers. Another guest at the tea.”

“Another guest?” I say, after a puzzled pause.

“Yes! She said it was her engagement ring and that she’d been frantically searching high and low. She was very credible. The waitress vouched for the fact that she’d been sitting at the table. And then she put it on. Well, who was I to disbelieve her?”

I rub my eyes, wondering if I’m hearing this correctly.

“You’re saying someone else took my ring? And said it was hers?”

“Yes! She was adamant that the ring belonged to her. She put it on straightaway and it fitted. It looked very nice, as it happens. I know that strictly speaking I should have asked her for proof that she was the owner, and we
will
be reviewing our official procedures in light of this unfortunate occurrence—”

“Mrs. Fairfax.” I cut her off, not remotely interested in official procedures. “Can I just ask you—did she have long dark hair, by any chance? And a little diamante hair band?”

“Yes. Long dark hair, with a diamante hair band, as you say, and a
wonderful
orange dress.”

I close my eyes in disbelief. Lucinda. It was Lucinda.

The ring didn’t get caught on her bag lining. She deliberately took it. She knew how panicked I’d be. She knew how important it was. But she took it and pretended it was hers. God only knows why.

A pulse is beating in my head as I say goodbye to Mrs. Fairfax. I’m breathing hard and my hands are balling into fists. Enough is enough. Maybe I don’t have any evidence that she’s sleeping with Magnus—but I can sure as hell confront her about this. And I’m going to do it right now.

I don’t know what Lucinda’s doing today. I haven’t had any emails or messages from her for a couple of days, which is unusual. As I text, my hands are actually shaking.

Hi, Lucinda! How’s it going? What are you up to? Can I help? Poppy.

Almost immediately she replies:

Just polishing off some loose ends at home. Don’t worry, nothing for you to help with. Lucinda

Lucinda lives in Battersea. Twenty minutes away by taxi. I’m not going to give her time to get her story straight. I’m going to take her by surprise.

I hail a cab and give her address, then sit back, trying to stay calm and steely, even though the more I think about this, the more flabbergasted I feel. Lucinda took my ring. Does that mean she’s a
thief
? Did she make a copy and keep the real one and sell it? I glance at my left hand, suddenly doubtful. Am I so sure this is the real thing?

Or was she somehow meaning to be helpful? Did she forget she had it? Should I give her the benefit of the doubt—

No, Poppy. No chance.

As I arrive at her red-brick mansion block, a guy in jeans is opening the main front door. I quickly dodge in behind him and head up the three flights of stairs to Lucinda’s flat. This way she’ll get absolutely no warning that I’m here.

Maybe she’ll open the door wearing the real ring, plus all the other jewelry she’s stolen from unsuspecting friends. Maybe no one will answer, because she’s actually in Bruges. Maybe Magnus will open the door dressed in a bedsheet—

Oh God.
Stop
it, Poppy.

I rap on the door, trying to sound like a delivery guy. It must have worked, because she swings the door open, her face creased in annoyance, her phone to her ear, before stopping dead, her mouth in an
O
.

I stare back, equally wordless. My eyes flick past Lucinda, to the huge suitcase in the hall, then to the passport in her hand, and then back to the suitcase.