Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

After a few I can’t help clicking my tongue with frustration. Half of these emails are reminders and chasers. He still hasn’t replied about the conference accommodation at Chiddingford Hotel, or the Fun Run, or the dentist. Or the new James & James bespoke suit waiting for him to pick up at his convenience. How can you ignore new clothes?

There are only a few people he ever seems to reply to immediately. One is a girl called Vicks, who runs the PR department. She’s very businesslike and curt, just like him, and has been consulting him about some press launch they’re doing together. She often cc’s Violet’s address, but by the time I forward the email, Sam’s already replied to her. Another is a guy called Malcolm, who asks Sam’s opinion about something nearly every hour. And, of course, Sir Nicholas Murray, who’s clearly very senior and important and is doing some work for the government at the moment. 45He and Sam get on incredibly well, if their emails are anything to go by. They zing back and forth like conversation between old friends. I can’t really understand half of what they’re saying—especially all the in-jokes—but the tone is obvious, and so is the fact that Sam has more emails to and from Sir Nicholas than anybody else.

Sam’s company is evidently some kind of consultancy. They tell companies how to run their businesses and they do a lot of facilitating, whatever that is. I guess they’re like negotiators or mediators or something. They must be pretty successful at it, because Sam seems very popular. He’s been invited to three drinks parties this week alone and to a shooting event with a private bank next weekend. And a girl called Blue has emailed for the third time, asking if he’d like to attend a special reception to celebrate the merger of Johnson Ellison with Greene Retail. It’s at the Savoy, with a jazz band and canapés and goody bags.

And he still hasn’t replied. Still.

I don’t understand him. If I’d been invited to something so amazing, I would have replied instantly, Yes, please! Thank you so much! I can’t wait! . Whereas he hasn’t even acknowledged it.

Rolling my eyes, I forward every single email, then type him a text:

Thx again for Scrabble! Have just sent on some new emails. Poppy

A moment later my phone rings. It’s Sam.

“Oh, hi—” I start.

“OK, you’re a genius,” he interrupts. “I had a hunch Vivien would be working late. I called her for a chat and mentioned the issues we discussed. It all came out. You were right. We’re going to talk again tomorrow, but I think she’s staying.”

“Oh,” I say, pleased. “Cool.”

“No,” he says firmly. “Not only cool. Awesome. Incredible. Do you know how much time and money and trouble you have saved me? I owe you, big-time.” He pauses. “Oh, and you’re right, she hates being called Viv. So I owe you twice.”

“No problem! Anytime.”

“So … that’s all I had to say. I won’t keep you.”

“Good night. Glad it all worked out.” As I ring off, I remember something and quickly type a text.

Have u booked dentist yet? U will get manky teeth!!!

A few seconds later the phone bleeps with a reply:

I’ll take my chances.

Take his chances? Is he nuts ? My aunt is a dental nurse, so I know what I’m talking about.

I search the Web for the most gross, revolting photo of decaying teeth I can find. They’re all blackened and some have fallen out. I click on send/share and text it to him.

The phone almost immediately bleeps with a reply:

You made me spill my drink.

I giggle and text back:

Be afraid!!!!

I nearly add: Willow won’t be impressed when your teeth fall out!!! But then I stop, feeling awkward. You have to draw a line. Despite all the texting back and forth, I don’t know this guy. And I certainly don’t know his fiancée.

Although the truth is, I feel as though I do know her. And not in a good way.

I’ve never come across anyone or anything like Willow before. She’s unbelievable. I would say she’s sent twenty emails to Sam since I’ve had this phone. Each screwier than the last. At least she’s given up sending messages addressed directly to Violet. But, still, she keeps cc’ing her emails to the PA address, as though she wants to have as much chance of reaching Sam as possible and doesn’t care who sees what.

Why does she have to email her most private thoughts, anyway? Why can’t they just have these conversations in bed, like normal people?

This evening she was going on about this dream she’d had about him last night, and how she felt suffocated but ignored all at the same time, and did he realize how toxic he was? Did he realize how he was CORRODING HER SPIRIT????

I always type a reply to her now; I can’t help it. This time I put: Do you realize how toxic YOU are, Willow the Witch?

And then deleted it. Naturally.

The most frustrating thing is that I never get to see Sam’s replies. There’s no back-and-forth correspondence; she always starts a fresh email. Sometimes they’re friendly—like yesterday she sent one that just said, You’re a really, really special man, you know that, Sam? Which was quite sweet. But nine out of ten are whinging. I can’t help feeling sorry for him.

Anyway. His life. His fiancée. Whatever.

“Sweetheart!” Magnus comes into the room, interrupting my thoughts.

“Oh, hi!” I quickly turn off. “Finished your work?”

“Don’t let me disturb you.” He nods at the phone. “Chatting to the girls?”

I give a noncommittal smile and slip the phone into my pocket.

I know, I know, I know. This is bad. Keeping a secret from Magnus. Not telling him about the ring or the phone or any of it. But how can I start now? Where would I begin? And maybe I’d regret it. What if I confess all and cause a huge rift and half an hour later the ring turns up and I needn’t have said anything?

“You know me!” I say at last, and give a little laugh. “What did you talk to your parents about tonight?” I quickly move on to the subject I really want to find out about—i.e., what do his parents think of me and have they changed their mind?

“Oh, my parents.” He makes an impatient gesture and sinks down on the sofa. He’s tapping his fingers on the arm, and his eyes are distant.

“You OK?” I say cautiously.

“I’m great.” He turns to me and the clouds fall away from his eyes. Suddenly he’s focused. “Remember when we first met?”

“Yes.” I smile back. “Of course I do.”

He starts stroking my leg. “I arrived at that place expecting the battle-ax. But there you were.”

I wish he wouldn’t always call Ruby a battle-ax. She’s not. She’s gorgeous and lovely and sexy; her arms are just a teeny bit meaty. But I hide my squirm of irritation and keep smiling.

“You were like an angel in that white uniform. I’ve never seen anything more sexy in my life.” His hand is moving farther up my leg with intent. “I wanted you, right there, right then.”

Magnus loves telling this story, and I love hearing it.

“And I wanted you.” I lean over and gently bite his earlobe. “The minute I saw you.”

“I know you did. I could tell.” He pulls my top aside and starts to nuzzle my bare shoulder. “Hey, Poppy, let’s get back in to that room one day,” he whispers. “That’s the best sex I’ve ever had. You, in that white uniform, up on that couch, with that massage oil … Jesus … ” 46He starts tugging at my skirt and we both tumble off the sofa onto the carpet. And as my phone bleeps with another text, I barely notice.