Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

There’s silence. I can hardly breathe.

“No,” expostulates Sam suddenly. “No way. This is not the version I received.” He looks up, his face baffled. “What’s going on? I had it.”

“Not there?” Vicks’s voice is tight with disappointment.

Sam is clicking frantically at his computer again.

“This makes no bloody sense,” he’s saying, almost to himself. “The memo was emailed over. It came to Malcolm and me on the system. I had it. I read it with my own eyes. It has to be here.” He glowers at his screen. “Where the fuck is that fucking email?”

“Did you print it out? Did you keep it? Do you still have that original version?” I can see the hope in Vicks’s eyes.

There’s a long silence.

“No.” Sam exhales. “I read it online. Malcolm?”

“He didn’t print it out either. And he can only find this version on his system. OK.” Vicks sags a little. “Well … we’ll keep trying.”

“It has to be there.” Sam sounds adamant. “If the techies say they can’t find it, they’re wrong. Put more of them on it.”

“They’re all searching. We haven’t told them why, obviously.”

“Well, if we can’t find it, you’ll just have to tell ITN it’s a mystery to us,” says Sam energetically. “We refute it. We make it crystal clear that this memo was never read by me, never written by Nick, has never been seen before by anyone in the company—”

“Sam, it’s on the company system.” Vicks sounds weary. “We can hardly claim that no one in the company has ever seen it. Unless we can find the other memo—” Her phone bleeps with a text, and she glances at it. “That’s Julian from legal. They’re going to go for an injunction, but … ” She gives a hopeless shrug. “Now that Nick’s a government adviser, there’s not much chance.”

Sam is peering at the sheet of paper again, a frown of distaste on his face.

“Who wrote this crap?” he says. “It doesn’t even sound like Nick.”

“God knows.”

I’m so rapt that when my phone buzzes I nearly expire in fright. I glance at the screen and feel another jolt of fright. I can’t stay hiding here. I quickly press talk, and hurry out of the bathroom, my legs wobbly.

“Um, sorry to disturb,” I say awkwardly, and hold out the phone. “Sam, it’s Sir Nicholas for you.”

Vicks’s expression of horror almost makes me want to laugh—except she looks as though she wants to strangle someone. And that someone could be me.

“Who’s she ?” she snaps, eyeing the stain on my T-shirt. “Is this your new PA?”

“No. She’s … ” Sam waves it off. “Long story. Nick!” he exclaims into the receiver. “I’ve just heard. Jesus.”

“Did you hear any of that?” says Vicks to me in a savage undertone.

“No! I mean, yes. A bit.” I’m gabbling in fright. “But I wasn’t listening. I didn’t hear anything. I was brushing my hair. Really hard.”

“OK. I’ll be in touch. Keep us posted.” Sam switches off the phone and shakes his head. “When the hell will he learn to use the right number? Sorry.”

Distractedly, he puts the phone down on the desk. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to speak to the techies myself. If they can’t find a lost email, for fuck’s sake, they should all be fired. They should be fired anyway. They’re useless.”

“Could it be on your phone?” I suggest timidly.

Sam’s eyes light up for a moment—then he shakes his head.

“No. This was months ago. The phone doesn’t store emails beyond two months. Nice idea, though, Poppy.”

Vicks looks as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Again— who’s she? Does she have a pass ?”

“Yes.” I hurriedly produce my laminated card.

“She’s … OK. She’s a visitor. I’ll deal with her. Come on. We need to talk to the techies.”

Without a word in my direction, Sam hurries out into the corridor. A moment later, looking absolutely livid, Vicks follows. I can hear a stream of low-pitched invective coming from her as they walk off.

“Sam, when exactly were you planning to tell me you had a fucking visitor in your bathroom, listening to our fucking confidential crisis ? You do realize my job is to control the flow of information? Control it?”

“Vicks, relax.”

As they disappear from view, I sink down onto a chair, feeling a bit unreal. Yowzer. I have no idea what to do now. Should I stay? Should I go? Is the meeting with the CEO still going to happen?

I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere—but after about twenty minutes of sitting there alone, I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I’ve leafed through a magazine full of words I don’t understand, and I’ve thought about getting myself a coffee (and decided against it). The CEO meeting must surely be off. Sam must be tied up. I’m gearing myself up to write him a note and leave, when a blond guy taps at the glass door. He looks about twenty-three and is holding a massive rolled-up piece of blue paper.

“Hi,” he says shyly. “Are you Sam’s new PA?”

“No. I’m just … er … helping him.”

“Oh, OK.” He nods. “Well, it’s about the competition. The ideas competition?”

Oh God. This again.

“Yes?” I say encouragingly. “Do you want to leave Sam a message?”

“I want this to get to him. It’s a visualization of the company? A restructuring exercise? It’s self-explanatory, but I’ve attached some notes.”

He hands over the rolled-up paper, together with an exercise book full of writing.

I already know there is no way Sam is going to look at any of this. I feel quite sorry for this guy.

“OK! Well … I’ll make sure he sees it. Thanks!”

As the blond guy heads off, I unroll a corner of the paper out of curiosity—and I don’t believe it. It’s a collage! Like I used to do when I was about five!

I spread the whole thing out flat on the floor, anchoring the corners with chair legs. It’s in the design of a tree, with photos of staff stuck onto the branches. God only knows what it’s supposed to say about the structure of the company—I don’t care. What’s interesting for me is that under each photo is the person’s name. Which means I can finally put faces to all the people who have sent an email through Sam’s phone. This is riveting.

Jane Ellis is a lot younger than I expected, and Malcolm is fatter, and Chris Davies turns out to be a woman. There’s Justin Cole … and there’s Lindsay Cooper … and there’s—

My finger stops dead.

Willow Harte.

She’s nestling on a lower branch, smiling out cheerfully. Thin and dark-haired, with very arched black eyebrows. She’s quite pretty, I grudgingly admit, although not supermodel standard.

And she works on the same floor as Sam. Which means …

Oh, I’ve got to. Come on. I’ve got to have a quick peek at the psycho fiancée before I go.

I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the floor. I have no idea if she’ll be in the open-plan area or have her own office. I’ll just have to wander round. If anyone stops me, I’ll be Sam’s new PA.

I grab a couple of files as camouflage and cautiously venture out. A couple of people typing at their computers lift their heads and give me an uninterested glance. Skirting the edge of the floor, I glance through windows and peer at names on doors, trying to catch a glimpse of a girl with dark hair, listening out for a whiny, nasal voice. She has to have a whiny, nasal voice, surely. And lots of stupid, made-up allergies, and about ten therapists—