Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

“OK?” Stephanie notices I’ve stopped.

“Fine! Sorry.” I shoot her a smile and resume walking along, but my mind is wheeling. What else did that guy say? What exactly was it about Santa Claus? Come on, Poppy, think.

“Well, bye! Thanks for visiting!” Stephanie smiles once more.

“Thank you! ’ And as I step outside onto the pavement, I feel a jolt inside. I have it: Adiós, Santa Claus.

More people are coming out of the building, and I step aside to where a window cleaner is swooshing suds all over the glass. I reach into my bag and start scrabbling around for the Lion King program. Please don’t say I’ve lost it, please —

I haul it out, and stare at my scribbled words.

April 18: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.

April 20: Scottie rang. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa Claus.

It’s as though the voices are playing back in my mind. It’s as though I’m listening to them again. I’m hearing the older drawl and the young, reedy voice.

And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt who left the first message. It was Justin Cole.

Oh. My God.

I’m quivering all over. I have to get back in and show these messages to Sam. They mean something, I don’t know what, but something. I push the big glass doors open, and the concierge girl immediately appears in front of me. When I was with Sam she waved us through, but now she smiles remotely at me, as though she hasn’t just seen me walking along with Stephanie.

“Hello. Do you have an appointment?”

“Not exactly,” I say breathlessly. “I need to see Sam Roxton at White Globe Consulting. Poppy Wyatt.”

I wait while she turns away and makes a call on her cell phone. I’m trying to stand there patiently, but I’m barely able to contain myself. Those messages are something to do with this whole memo thing. I know they are.

“I’m sorry.” The girl faces me with professional pleasantness. “Sam is unavailable right now.”

“Could you tell him it’s urgent?” I shoot back. “Please?”

Clearly restraining a desire to tell me to go away, the girl turns and makes another call, which lasts all of thirty seconds.

“I’m sorry.” Another frozen smile. “Mr. Roxton is busy for the remainder of the day, and most of the other staff are away at the company conference. Perhaps you should phone his assistant and make an appointment. Now, if you could please make way for our other guests?”

She’s ushering me out of the main doors. Make way clearly means piss off.

“Look, I need to see him.” I duck round her and start heading for the escalators. “Please let me go up there. It’ll be fine.”

“Excuse me!” she says, grabbing me by the sleeve. “You can’t just march in there! Thomas?”

Oh, you have to be kidding. She’s calling over the security guard. What a wimp.

“But it’s a real emergency.” I appeal to both of them. “He’ll want to see me. ’

“Then call and make an appointment!” she snaps, as the security guard leads me to the main doors.

“Fine!” I snap back. “I will! I’ll call right now! See you in two minutes!” I stomp onto the pavement and reach into my pocket.

And then the full horror hits me. I don’t have a phone.

I don’t have a phone.

I’m powerless. I can’t get into the building and I can’t ring Sam. I can’t tell him about this. I can’t do anything. Why didn’t I buy a new phone earlier? Why don’t I always walk around with a spare phone? It should be the law, like having a spare tire.

“Excuse me?” I hurry over to the window cleaner. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”

“Sorry, love.” He clicks his teeth. “I do, but it’s out of battery.”

“Right.” I smile, breathless with anxiety. “Thanks anyway—oh!”

I stop midstream, peering through the glass into the building. God loves me! There’s Sam! He’s standing twenty yards away in the lobby, talking animatedly to some guy in a suit holding a leather briefcase. Maybe that’s Julian from legal.

As they head towards the lifts, I push open the main doors, but Thomas the security guard is waiting for me.

“I don’t think so,” he says, blocking my way.

“But I need to get in.”

“If you could step aside—”

“But he’ll want to see me! Sam! Over here! It’s Poppy! Saaam!” I yell, but someone’s moving a sofa in the reception area, and the scraping sound on the marble drowns me out.

“No, you don’t!” says the security guard firmly. “Out you go.” His hands are around my shoulders and, the next thing, I find myself back on the pavement, panting in outrage.

I can’t believe that just happened. He threw me out! I’ve never been physically thrown out of anywhere in my life. I didn’t think they were allowed to do that.

A crowd of people has arrived at the entrance and I stand aside to let them go in, my thoughts skittering wildly. Should I hurry down the street and try to find a pay phone? Should I try to get in again? Should I make a run for it into the lobby and see how far I get before I’m tackled to the ground? Sam’s standing in front of the lifts now, still talking to the guy with the leather briefcase. He’ll be gone in a few moments. It’s torture. If I could only attract his attention …

“No luck?” says the window cleaner sympathetically from the top of his ladder. He’s covered an entire massive pane of glass with suds and is about to wipe them off with his scraper thing.

And then it comes to me.

“Wait!” I call urgently up to him. “Don’t wipe! Please!”

I’ve never written in soap suds in my life before, but luckily I’m not aiming for anything very ambitious. Just MAS. In six-foot-high letters. A bit wobbly—but who’s fussing?

“Nice job,” says the window cleaner approvingly from where he’s sitting. “You could come into business with me.”

“Thanks,” I say modestly, and wipe my brow, my arm aching.

If Sam doesn’t see that, if someone doesn’t notice it and poke him on the shoulder and say, “Hey, look at that—”

“Poppy?”

I turn and look down from my perch on the window cleaner’s ladder. Sam’s standing there on the pavement, looking up at me incredulously.

“Is that addressed to me?”

We travel upstairs in silence. Vicks is waiting in Sam’s office, and as she sees me she bangs her forehead with the heel of her hand.

“This had better be good,” says Sam tersely, closing the glass door behind us. “I have five minutes. There’s a bit of an emergency going on—”

I feel a flash of anger. Does he think I don’t realize that? Does he think I wrote SAM in six-foot sudsy letters on a whim?

“I appreciate that,” I say, matching his curt tone. “I just thought you might be interested in these messages, which came in to Violet’s phone last week. This phone.” I reach for the phone, still lying on his desk.

“Whose phone is that?” says Vicks, eyeing me with suspicion.

“Violet’s,” replies Sam. “My PA? Clive’s daughter? Shot off to be a model?”

“Oh, her.” Vicks frowns again and jerks a thumb at me. “Well, what was she doing with Violet’s phone?”

Sam and I exchange glances.

“Long story,” says Sam at last. “Violet threw it away. Poppy was … babysitting it.”

“I got a couple of messages, which I wrote down.” I put the Lion King program down between them and read the messages out for good measure, as I know my writing isn’t that clear. “Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.” I point at the program. “This second message was a few days later, from Scottie himself. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa Claus. ” I let the words sink in a moment before I add, “The first message was from Justin Cole.”