Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

There’s a sharp silence. Neither of them is looking at the other. Vicks’s face is creased and troubled-looking. Sam’s hair is more rumpled than ever, and he looks absolutely furious.

I feel a bit stunned by the intensity in the room. I always thought being in PR sounded like a fun job. I had no idea it was like this.

“Vicks.” The unmistakable drawl of Justin Cole hits the air, and a moment later he’s in the room, wafting Fahrenheit and satisfaction. “Got this under control, have you?”

“The lawyers are on it. We’re just drafting a press statement.” She gives him a tight smile.

“Because, for the sake of the company, we need to be careful that none of the other directors are tainted with these unfortunate … views. You know what I’m saying?”

“It’s all in hand, Justin.”

From Vicks’s sharp tone, I’m guessing she doesn’t like Justin any more than Sam does. 77

“Great. Of course, very unfortunate for Sir Nicholas. Great shame.” Justin looks delighted. “Still, he is getting on now—

“He is not getting on.” Sam scowls at Justin. “You really are an arrogant little shit.”

“Temper, temper!” Justin says pleasantly. “Oh, tell you what, Sam. Let’s send him an e-card.”

“Fuck you.”

“Guys!” Vicks sounds close to the edge.

I can totally understand now why Sam was talking about victories and camps. The aggression between these two is brutal. They’re like those stags who fight every fall until they wrench each other’s antlers off.

Justin shakes his head pityingly—his expression changing briefly to surprise as he clocks me in the corner—then saunters out again.

“That memo is a smear,” Sam says in a low, furious voice. “It’s planted. Justin Cole knows it and he’s behind it.”

“What?” Vicks sounds at the end of her tether. “Sam Roxton, you do not go around saying things like that! You’ll sound like a conspiracy nutter.”

“It was a Different. Fucking. Memo.” Sam sounds like he’s beyond exasperation with the whole world. “I saw the original version. Malcolm saw it. There was no talk of bribes. Now it’s disappeared from the whole computer system. No trace. Explain that and then call me a conspiracy nutter.”

“I can’t explain it,” says Vicks after a pause. “And I’m not even going to try. I’m going to do my job.”

“Someone did this. You know it. You’re playing right into their hands, Vicks. They’re smearing Nick and you’re letting them.”

“No. No. Stop.” Vicks is shaking her head. “I’m not playing this game. I don’t get involved.” She walks over to the wastepaper basket, retrieves the crumpled statement, and spreads it out.

“I can change a detail or two,” she says. “But I’ve spoken to Bruce and we have to go with this.” She holds out a pen. “You want to make any small amendments? Because Julian is on his way right now to approve it.”

Sam ignores the pen.

“What if we find the original memo? What if we can prove this one is a fake?”

“Great!” There’s a sudden edge to her voice. “Then we release it, Nick’s integrity is saved, and we throw a party. Believe me, Sam, I would like nothing more than that. But we have to work with what we have. Which, right now, is a damaging memo we can’t explain away.” Vicks rubs her face, then screws her fists in her eyes. “This morning I was trying to cover up that embarrassment with the drunken post-guy,” she mutters, almost to herself. “I was worried about that. ”

She really shouldn’t do that. She’s giving herself bags under her eyes.

“When does the statement go out?” says Sam at length. All his tempestuous energy seems to have dissipated. His shoulders have slumped and he sounds so low I almost want to go and give him a hug.

“That’s the one bright ray.” Vicks’s voice is softer now, as though she wants to treat him gently in his defeat. “They’re keeping it for the ten o’clock, so we have a good six hours or so to play with.”

“A lot can happen in six hours,” I volunteer timidly, and both of them jump as though scalded.

“ She’s still here?”

“Poppy.” Even Sam looks taken aback. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d still be here—”

“She heard all that?” Vicks looks like she wants to hit someone. “Sam, are you out of your mind ?”

“I won’t say anything!” I say hurriedly. “Promise.”

“OK.” Sam breathes out. “My mistake. Poppy, this isn’t your fault; I was the one who invited you. I’ll find someone to escort you out.” He leans his head out of his office door. “Stephanie? Borrow you a sec?”

A few moments later a pleasant-looking girl with long blond hair arrives at the office.

“Can you take our visitor down, sign her out, sort out the pass, all that?” says Sam. “Sorry, Poppy, I’d do it myself, but—”

“No, no!” I say at once. “Of course. You’re tied up, I understand—”

“The meeting!” says Sam, as though suddenly remembering. “Of course. Poppy, I’m sorry. It was canceled. But it’ll be rearranged. I’ll be in touch.”

“Great!” I muster a smile. “Thanks.”

He won’t. But I don’t blame him.

“I hope it all works out well for you,” I add. “And Sir Nicholas.”

Vicks’s eyes are swiveling madly in her head. She’s obviously paranoid that I’m about to spill the beans.

I don’t know what to do about Sam’s dad. I can’t possibly tell Sam now—he’ll explode from stress. I’ll just have to get a message to the hotel or something. And then bow out.

Like maybe I should have done in the first place.

“Well … thanks again.” I meet Sam’s eyes and feel a strange pang. This really is the last goodbye. “Here you are.” I proffer the phone.

“No problem.” He takes it from me and puts it down on his desk. “Sorry about all this—”

“No! I hope it all … ” I nod several times, not daring to say any more in front of Stephanie.

It’s going to be odd, not being in Sam’s life anymore. I’ll never know how any of it turns out. Maybe I’ll read about this memo in the papers. Maybe I’ll read an announcement about Sam and Willow in a wedding column.

“Bye, then.” I turn and follow Stephanie down the corridor. A couple of people are walking along with overnight bags, and as we get into the lift they’re in mid-conversation about the hotel and how crap the minibar is.

“So it’s your conference today,” I say politely as we arrive at the ground floor. “How come you’re not down there?”

“Oh, we stagger it.” She ushers me out into the lobby. “A whole bunch of people are already there, and the second coach is leaving in a few minutes. I’ll be on that. Although actually tomorrow’s the main event. That’s when we have the gala dinner and Santa Claus’s speech. It’s usually quite fun.”

“Santa Claus?” I can’t help laughing.

“It’s what we call Sir Nicholas. You know, a silly in-house nickname. Sir Nick, St. Nick, Santa Claus—it’s a bit lame, I know.” She smiles. “If you can give me your security pass?”

I hand over the laminated card and she gives it to one of the security personnel. He says something about “nice photo,” but I’m not listening. An odd feeling is creeping over me.

Santa Claus. Wasn’t that bloke who called Violet’s phone going on about Santa Claus? Is that a coincidence?

As Stephanie leads me across the marble floor to the main doors, I’m trying to remember what he said. It was all about surgery. Incisions. Something about no trace —

I stop dead, my heart thumping. That’s the same phrase Sam used just now. No trace.