I've Got Your Number (6 page)

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.

T
he next morning I wake abruptly to see the phone flashing with a new text from the Berrow Hotel and feel so relieved I almost want to cry. They’ve found it! They’ve found it!

My fingers are fumbling as I unlock the phone, my mind galloping ahead. An early-morning cleaner found the ring clogging up a Hoover … discovered it in the ladies’ room … saw a glint on the carpet … now securely locked in the hotel safe …

Dear Guest,

Summer breaks, half price.

Please visit www.berrowhotellondon.co.uk for details.

Kind regards,
The Berrow Team

I sag back on the bed, leaden with disappointment. Not to mention anger at whoever put me on the mailing list. How could they do that? Are they
trying
to play with my neuroses?

At the same time, a nasty realization is turning around and around in my stomach. Another eight hours have passed since I lost the ring. The longer it’s not found—

What if—

I can’t even finish my thoughts. Abruptly, I get out of bed and pad through to the kitchen. I’ll make a cup of tea and send on some more messages to Sam Roxton. That’ll take my mind off things.

The phone has started buzzing again with texts and emails, so I turn on the kettle, perch on the window seat, and start scrolling through, trying desperately not to hope. Sure enough, every message is just some friend asking if I’ve found the ring yet and making suggestions like
have you checked your handbag pockets?

There’s nothing from Magnus, even though I sent him a couple of texts last night, asking what else his parents had said about me and when was he planning to tell me, and how was I going to face them now, and was he ignoring me on purpose?
²²

At last I turn to Sam’s messages. He clearly hasn’t had the email function transferred yet, because there are about fifty, just from overnight and this morning. Crikey Moses, he was right. His PA evidently
does
handle his whole life.

There’s everything and everyone in here. His doctor,
colleagues, charity requests, invitations … It’s like a mainline into the universe of Sam. I can see where he buys his shirts (Turnbull & Asser). I can see where he went to university (Durham). I can see the name of his plumber (Dean).

As I scroll down, I start to feel uncomfortable. I’ve never had so much access to someone else’s phone before. Not my friends’; not even Magnus’s. There are some things you just don’t share. I mean, Magnus has seen every inch of my body, including the dodgy bits, but I would never,
ever
let him near my phone.

Sam’s text messages are randomly mixed up with mine, which feels weird too. I scroll down two messages for me, then about six for Sam, then another for me. All side by side; all touching one another. I’ve never shared an in-box with anyone in my life. I didn’t expect it to feel so …
intimate
. It’s as if we’re suddenly sharing an underwear drawer or something.

Anyway. No big deal. It’s not for long.

I make my tea and fill a bowl with Shreddies. Then, as I munch, I slowly pick through the messages, working out which ones are for Sam and forwarding them on.

I’m not going to
spy
on him or anything. Obviously not. But I have to click on each message in order to forward it, and sometimes my fingers automatically press
open
by mistake and I catch a glimpse of the text. Just sometimes.

Clearly it’s not only his father who’s having a hard time getting in touch with him. He must be really,
really
bad at answering emails and texts, there are so many plaintive requests to Violet:
Is this a good way to reach Sam? … Hi! Apologies for bothering you, but I have left several messages for Sam…. Hi, Violet, could you nudge Sam about
an email I sent last week? I’ll reprise the main points here….

It’s not like I’m reading through every single email
fully
or anything. Or scrolling down to read all the previous correspondence. Or critiquing all his answers and rewriting them in my head. After all, it’s none of my business what he writes or doesn’t write. He can do what he likes. It’s a free country. My opinion is neither here nor there—

God
, his replies are abrupt! It’s driving me nuts! Does everything
have
to be so short? Does he
have
to be so curt and unfriendly? As I clock yet another brief email, I can’t help exclaiming out loud, “Are you allergic to typing or something?”

It’s ridiculous. It’s like he’s determined to use the least possible words.

Yes, fine. Sam

Done. Sam

OK, Sam

Would it kill him to add
Best wishes
? Or a smiley face? Or say thank you?

And while I’m on the subject, why can’t he just
reply
to people? Poor Rachel Elwood is trying to organize an office Fun Run and has asked him twice now if he could lead a team. Why wouldn’t he want to do that? It’s fun, it’s healthy, it raises money for charity—what’s not to love?

Nor has he replied about accommodation for the company conference in Hampshire next week. It’s at the Chiddingford
Hotel, which sounds amazing, and he’s booked into a suite, but he has to specify to someone called Lindy whether he’s still planning to come down late. And he hasn’t.

Worst of all, his dentist’s office has emailed him about scheduling a checkup four times.
Four times
.

I can’t help glancing back at the previous correspondence, and Violet’s obviously given up trying. Each time she’s made an appointment for him, he’s emailed her:
Cancel it. S
and once even,
You have to be joking
.

Does he
want
his teeth to rot?

By the time I’m leaving for work at eight-forty, a whole new series of emails has arrived. Obviously these people all start work at the crack of dawn. The top one, from Jon Mailer, is entitled
What’s the story?
That sounds quite intriguing, so as I’m walking along the street, I open it.

Sam,

Ran into Ed at the Groucho Club last night, looking worse for wear. All I’ll say is, don’t let him in the same room as Sir Nicholas anytime soon, will you?

Regards,
Jon

Ooh, now I want to know the story too. Who’s Ed, and why was he worse for wear at the Groucho Club?
²³

The second email is from someone called Willow, and as I click on it, my eyes are assaulted by capitals everywhere.

Violet,

Let’s be grown-ups about this. You’ve HEARD Sam and me fighting. There’s no point hiding anything from you.

So, since Sam REFUSES to answer the email I sent half an hour ago, maybe you could be so kind as to print this attachment out and PUT IT ON HIS DESK SO HE READS IT?

Thanks so much.
Willow

I stare at the phone in shock, almost wanting to laugh. Willow must be his fiancee. Yowzer.

Her email address is will owhar te@ white globe consu lting. com. So she obviously works at White Globe Consulting, but she’s still emailing Sam? Isn’t that odd? Unless maybe they work on different floors. Fair enough. I once emailed Magnus from upstairs to ask him to make me a cup of tea.

I wonder what’s in the attachment.

My fingers hesitate as I pause at a pedestrian crossing. It would be wrong to read it. Very, very wrong. I mean, this isn’t some open email cc’ed to loads of people. This is a private document between two people in a relationship. I
shouldn’t
look at it. It was bad enough reading that email from his father.

But on the other hand … she wants it printed out, doesn’t she? And put on Sam’s desk, where anyone could read it if they walked by. And it’s not like I’m
indiscreet
. I won’t mention this to anyone; no one will ever even know I’ve seen it….

My fingers seem to have a life of their own. Already I’m
clicking on the attachment. It takes me a moment to focus on the text, it’s so heavy with capital letters.

Sam

You still haven’t answered me.

Are you intending to? Do you think this is NOT IMPORTANT?????

Jesus.

It’s only the most important thing IN OUR LIFE. And how you can go about your day so calmly … I don’t know. It makes me want to weep.

We need to talk, so, so badly. And I know some of this is my fault, but until we start untying the knots TOGETHER, how will we know who’s pulling which string? How?

The thing is, Sam, sometimes I don’t even know if you have a string. It’s that bad. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU HAVE A STRING.

I can see you shaking your head, Mr. Denial. But it is. It’s THAT BAD, OK???

If you were a human being with a shred of emotion, you’d be crying by now. I know I am. And that’s another thing—I have a ten o’clock with Carter, which you have now FUCKED UP, as I left my FUCKING MASCARA at home.

So, be proud of yourself.
Willow

My eyes are like saucers. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

I read it over again—and suddenly find myself giggling. I know I shouldn’t. It’s not funny. She’s obviously really upset. And I know I’ve said some pretty screwy things to Magnus when I’ve been pissed and hormonal. But I would never,
ever
put them in an email and get his assistant to print it out—

My head bobs up in realization. Shit! There’s no Violet anymore. No one’s going to print it out and put it on Sam’s desk. He won’t know about it and he won’t reply and Willow will get even more livid. The awful thing is, this thought makes me want to giggle again.

I wonder if this is a bad day or if she’s always this intense. I can’t resist typing
Willow
in the search engine, and a whole series of emails pop up. There’s one from yesterday, with the title
Are you trying to fuck me or fuck WITH me, Sam? Or CAN’T YOU DECIDE???
and I get another fit of the giggles. Yikes. They must have one of those up and down relationships. Maybe they throw things at each other and shriek and bellow, then have mad passionate sex in the kitchen—

Beyonce blasts out from the phone, and I nearly drop it as I see
Sam Mobile
appear on the screen. I have a sudden mad thought that he’s psychic and knows I’ve been spying on his love life.

No more snooping, I hastily promise myself. No more Willow searches. I count to three—then press
answer
.

“Oh, hi there!” I try to sound relaxed and guiltless, like I was just thinking about something else altogether and not at all imagining him screwing his fiancee amid a pile of broken crockery.

“Did I have an email from Ned Murdoch this morning?” he launches in without so much as a “Hi.”

“No. I’ve sent all your emails over. Good morning to you too,” I add brightly. “I’m really well, how about you?”

“I thought you might have missed one.” He completely ignores my little dig. “It’s extremely important.”

“Well, I’m extremely thorough,” I retort pointedly. “Believe me, everything that’s coming in to this phone, you’re getting. And there wasn’t anything from Ned Murdoch. Someone called Willow just emailed, by the way,” I add casually. “I’ll forward it on. There’s an attachment, which sounded quite important. But obviously I didn’t look at it at all. Or read it or anything.”

“Hrrrmm.” He gives a kind of noncommittal growl. “So, have you found your ring?”

“Not yet,” I admit reluctantly. “But I’m sure it’ll turn up.”