Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

Uh-oh.

“Hi, Amanda.” Sam nods. “What’s up?”

“We’re filming all the conference guests,” she says cheerfully. “Just a little shout-out, say hi, we’ll show it at the gala dinner.”

The TV camera is pointing in my face, and I flinch. I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t do a “little shout-out.”

“Anything you like,” Amanda prompts me. “A personal message, a joke … ” She consults her list, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what department you’re in… .”

“Poppy’s a guest,” says Sam.

“Oh!” The girl’s brow clears. “Lovely! Tell you what, since you’re a special guest, why don’t you do our Q and A interview? What do you think, Ryan? Do you know Ryan?” she adds to Sam. “He’s on an internship from the LSE for six months. He’s been doing all our promotional filming. Hey, Ryan, get a close-up. Poppy’s a special guest!”

What? I’m not a “special guest.” I want to escape, but somehow I feel pinned to the spot by the TV camera.

“Just introduce yourself and Ryan will ask the questions!” says the girl brightly. “So, tell us your name.”

“Hi,” I say reluctantly to the camera. “I’m … Poppy.” This is so stupid. What am I going to say to a conference of strangers?

Maybe I’ll do a shout-out to Willow.

Hey, Willow the Witch. You know how you think I’m ‘parading around’ with your boyfriend? Well, here’s the news flash. He’s not your boyfriend anymore.

The thought makes me snort, and Amanda gives me an encouraging smile.

“That’s right! Enjoy yourself. Ryan, do you want to start the Q and A?”

“Sure. So, Poppy, what do you think of the conference so far?”

The high-pitched, reedy voice which comes from behind the camera hits my ears like a twenty-volt shock.

It’s him.

That’s the voice I heard down the phone. This person talking to me now. This guy, with a crew cut and a camera on his shoulder. This is him.

“Having fun?” he prompts me, and my brain explodes with recognition again. The memory of his voice on the phone is running through my head like a TV sports replay.

It’s Scottie. It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike.

“Which was your favorite speech of the conference?”

“She didn’t go to any of the speeches,” interjects Sam.

“Oh. OK.”

No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself. Adiós, Santa Claus.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the drinks party?”

It’s Scottie.

This is Scottie. No question.

“Are you all right?” He leans round the camera, looking impatient. “You can talk. We’re rolling.”

I stare at his thin, intelligent face, my heart thumping, willing myself not to give anything away. I feel like a rabbit being mesmerized by a snake.

“It’s OK, Poppy.” Sam steps forward, looking sympathetic. “Don’t worry. A lot of people get stage fright.”

“No!” I manage. “It’s not—It’s—”

I stare up at him helplessly. My voice won’t work. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you can’t shout out that you’re being murdered.

“Guys, I don’t think she’s up for it,” Sam’s saying. “Could you … ” He gestures with his hand.

“Sorry!” Amanda puts a hand over her mouth. “Didn’t mean to freak you out! Have a good evening!” They head off to accost another group of people, and I stare after them, transfixed.

“Poor old Poppy.” Sam smiles ruefully. “Just what you needed. Sorry about that, it’s a new thing they’re doing at the conferences, although I can’t see what it adds—”

“Shut up.” Somehow I cut him off, although I can still barely speak. “Shut up, shut up.”

Sam looks astonished. I move closer to him and reach up on tiptoe until my mouth is touching his ear, his hair brushing against my skin. I inhale, breathing in his warmth and smell, then murmur, as quietly as a breath, “That’s him.”

We stay outside for another twenty minutes. Sam has a long telephone conversation with Sir Nicholas—none of which I can hear—then a brief, brusque call with Mark, of which I catch bits and pieces as he strides around, his hand to his head: Well, company policy can fuck itself … . the minute Vicks gets here …

It’s clear that tension levels are rising. I thought Sam would be happy that I’d helped, but he looks even more grim than before. He ends the call by snapping, “Whose side are you on, anyway? Jesus, Mark.”

“So … what are you going to do?” I say timidly as he rings off.

“Ryan’s company email is being searched. But he’s sharp. He won’t have used the company system. He’ll have set it all up by phone or with some private email account.”

“What, then?

“That’s the debate.” Sam screws up his face in frustration. “Trouble is, we don’t have time for a discussion on protocol. We don’t have time to consult our lawyers. If it were me—”

“You’d have him arrested, all his personal property confiscated, and a lie-detector test forcibly conducted,” I can’t help saying. “In a dark cellar somewhere.”

A reluctant smile passes across Sam’s face. “Something like that.”

“How’s Sir Nicholas?” I venture.

“Acting chipper. You can imagine. He keeps his chin up. But he feels it far more than he’s letting on.” Sam’s face twists briefly and he hunches his arms round his chest.

“You do too,” I say gently, and Sam looks up in a startled movement, as though I’ve caught him out.

“I suppose I do,” he says after a long pause. “Nick and I go back a long time. He’s a good guy. He’s done some remarkable things over his lifetime. But if this smear gets out unchallenged, it’ll be the only thing the wider world ever remembers about him. It’ll be the same headline over and over, till he dies. Sir Nicholas Murray, suspected of corruption. He doesn’t deserve that. He especially doesn’t deserve to be stitched up by his own board.”

There’s a somber moment, then Sam visibly pulls himself together. “Anyway. Come on. They’re waiting for us. Vicks is nearly here.”

We head back, past a group of girls clustered round a table, past an ornamental garden, toward the huge double doors leading into the hotel. My phone has been buzzing and I quietly take it out to check my in-box, just to see if Magnus has replied—

I blink at the screen. I don’t believe it. I give a tiny involuntary whimper, and Sam shoots me an odd look.

There’s a brand-new email right at the top of my in-box and I click on it, desperately hoping it won’t say what I’m dreading—

Shit. Shit.

I stare at it in dismay. What am I going to do? We’re nearly at the hotel. I have to speak. I have to tell him.

“Um, Sam.” My voice is a bit strangled. “Um, stop a minute.”

“What?” He halts with a preoccupied frown, and my stomach lurches with nerves.

OK. Here’s the thing. In my defense, if I’d known Sam was going to be mired in a massive, urgent crisis involving leaked memos and senior government advisers and ITN News, I wouldn’t have sent that email to his father. Of course I wouldn’t.

But I didn’t know. And I did send the email. And now …

“What’s up?” Sam looks impatient.

Where on earth do I start? How do I soften him up?

“Please don’t get angry,” I throw out as a preemptive sally, even though it feels a bit like chucking an ice cube into the path of a forest fire.

“About what?” There’s an ominous tone to Sam’s voice.

“The thing is … ” I clear my throat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I can see that you may not view it exactly that way… .”