Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

You know. Paraphrasing.

I’ve never felt such overt hostility from anyone in my life. It’s like an electric current between us. Willow’s nostrils are flared and whitening. Her eyes are all stary. Her hand has gripped her glass so tightly, her tendons are showing through her pale skin. But her smile is still soft and pleasant, and her voice is still mellifluous. Which is almost most creepy of all.

“Poppy’s thinking of joining the company,” says Sam.

“Oh.” Willow carries on smiling. “Lovely. Welcome, Poppy.”

She’s unnerving me. She’s like some alien. Behind the soft smile and the dulcet voice is a lizard.

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, we must press on… . See you later, Willow.” Sam takes my arm to guide me away.

Uh-oh. Bad idea. I can feel her laser eyes in my back. Does Sam not feel them too?

We head to a new group and Sam launches into his spiel, and I dutifully crane my neck to listen, but nobody sounds a bit like the phone guy. As we work our way farther round, I can tell Sam’s getting dispirited, though he’s trying to hide it. After we leave a group of youngish IT guys drinking beers, he says, “Really? None of those guys?”

“No.” I shrug apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry!” He gives a short, strained laugh. “You heard what you heard. You can’t … If it’s not any of them—” He breaks off a moment. “Definitely not the blond guy? The one talking about his car? He didn’t sound at all familiar?”

And now the disappointment in his voice is evident.

“Is that who you thought it was?”

“’I … don’t know.” He spreads his hands, exhaling. “Maybe. Yes. He’d have the IT contacts, he’s new to the company, Justin and Ed could easily have talked him round … ”

I don’t know what to reply. Like he says, I heard what I heard.

“I think some people have gone out to the terrace,” I say, trying to be helpful.

“We’ll try there.” He nods. “Let’s finish up here first.”

Even I can tell that none of the four gray-haired men standing by the bar will be the guy from the phone—and I’m right. As Sam is inveigled into a conversation about Malcolm’s speech, I take the opportunity to edge away and see if Magnus has replied. Of course he hasn’t. But flashing at the top of my in-box is an email sent to samroxton@whiteglobeconsulting.com, cc’ed to pasamroxtonpa@whiteglobeconsulting.com, which makes me splutter.

Sam,

Nice try. I know EXACTLY what you’re up to and you’re PATHETIC. Where did you get her from, an agency? I would have thought you could do better than that.

Willow

As I’m staring at the screen in disbelief, a second email pops in.

I mean, Jesus, Sam. She isn’t even DRESSED for the occasion. Or are cutesy denim skirts suddenly appropriate conference wear??

My skirt is not cutesy! And I wasn’t exactly planning to come to a conference when I got dressed this morning, was I?

In outrage, I press reply and type an email.

Actually, I think she’s stunningly beautiful. And her denim skirt isn’t cutesy. So there, Willow the Witch.

Sam.

Then I delete it. Naturally. I’m about to put my phone away when a third email pops in from Willow. Honestly. Can’t she give it a rest?

You want me to be jealous, Sam. Fine. I respect that. I even like it. We need sparks in our relationship. But TRY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE JEALOUS OF!!!

Because believe me, no one here is impressed by your little stunt. I mean, parading around some nondescript girl who clearly has NO IDEA HOW TO BLOW-DRY HER FUCKING HAIR … Well. It’s tragic, Sam. TRAGIC.

Talk to you when you’re a grown-up.

Willow

I touch my hair defensively. I did blow-dry it this morning. It’s just hard to get to the back bits. I mean, not that I care what she thinks, but I can’t help feeling a little stung—

My thoughts are interrupted mid-flow and I stare at the screen. I don’t believe it. An email has arrived in the phone from Sam. He’s responded to Willow. He’s actually replied to her! Except he’s pressed reply all, so it’s come to me too.

I glance up in astonishment and see that he’s still talking to the gray-haired men, apparently engrossed. He must have rattled it off very quickly. I open up the email and see a single line.

Cut it out, Willow. You’re not impressing anyone.

I blink at the screen. She won’t like that.

I wait for her to launch some further scathing attack on Sam—but no more emails arrive. Maybe she’s as taken aback as I am.

“Great. We’ll talk later.” Sam’s voice rises above the hubbub. “Poppy, few more people I’d like you to meet.”

“OK.” I snap to attention, thrusting my phone away. “Let’s do it.”

We circulate around the rest of the room. Sam’s list is covered with ticks. I must have listened to nearly every male voice in the company, and I haven’t heard anybody who sounds anything like the guy on the phone. I’m even starting to wonder whether I’m remembering him right. Or whether I hallucinated the whole thing.

As we head along a carpeted corridor toward the open terrace doors, I can tell Sam is low. I feel pretty low myself.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Not your fault.” He looks up and seems to clock my mood. “Poppy, seriously. I know you’re doing your best.” His face crinkles for a moment. “Hey, and I’m sorry about Willow.”

“Oh.” I brush it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

We walk in silence for a few moments. I want to say something like, “Thanks for sticking up for me,’ but I’m too awkward. I feel like I shouldn’t really have been inside that email exchange.

The terrace is covered in lanterns, and there are a few clusters of people but not nearly as many as there were inside. I suppose it’s too cold. But it’s shame, because there’s actually quite a nice partylike atmosphere out here. There’s a bar, and a couple of people are even dancing. On the corner of the terrace, a guy holding a TV camera seems to be interviewing a pair of giggling girls.

“So, maybe we’ll strike lucky.” I try to sound upbeat.

“Maybe.” Sam nods, but I can tell he’s given up.

“What happens if we don’t find him out here?”

“Then … we tried.” Sam’s face is taut, but for the briefest of moments his smile pops out. “We tried.”

“OK. Well, let’s do it.” I put on my best motivational you- can -get-mobility-back-into-that-hip-joint voice. “Let’s try.”

We head out and Sam launches into the same old routine.

“Hi there, gang! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is James. James, why don’t you tell Poppy what your line is? And here’s Brian, and this is Rhys.”

It’s not James or Brian or Rhys. Or Martin or Nigel.

Every name on Sam’s list is ticked off. I almost want to cry when I look at his face. At last we step away from a group of interns who weren’t even on the list and can’t possibly be Scottie.

We’re done.

“I’ll phone Vicks,” Sam says, his voice a little heavy. “Poppy, thanks for giving up your time. It was a stupid plan.”

“It wasn’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “It … could have worked.”

Sam looks up and for a moment we just stand there.

“You’re very kind,” he says at last.

“Hi, Sam! Hi, guys!” A girl’s raised voice makes me flinch. Maybe I’m sensitive because I’ve been listening more carefully to the way people speak—but this voice is setting my teeth on edge. I turn to see a bubbly-looking girl with a pink scarf tied in her hair approaching us with the TV camera guy, who has a dark crew cut and jeans.