Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

“What on earth are you—” He breaks off, his face suddenly clearing with appalled understanding. “Oh, Jesus. No. Please don’t say you’ve been telling your friends about this—”

“No!” I say in horror. “Of course not!”

“Then what?”

I feel slightly emboldened by his wrong suspicions. At least I haven’t been blabbing everything to my friends. At least I haven’t been selling my story to The Sun.

“It’s a family thing. It’s about your dad.”

Sam’s eyes widen sharply, but he says nothing.

“I just felt bad that you and he weren’t in contact. So I emailed him back. He’s desperate to see you, Sam. He wants to reach out! You never go down to Hampshire, you never see him—”

“For God’s sake,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I really don’t have time for this.”

“You don’t have time for your own father?” His words sting me. “You know what, Mr. Big Shot, maybe your priorities are a little screwed. I know you’re busy, I know this crisis is important, but—”

“Poppy, stop right there. You’re making a big mistake.”

He looks so impassive, I feel a surge of outrage. How dare he be so sure of himself all the time?

“Maybe you’re the one who’s making a big mistake!” The words burst out before I can stop them. “Maybe you’re the one who’s letting your life pass by without engaging in it! Maybe Willow’s right!”

“ Excuse me?” Sam looks thunderous at the mention of Willow.

“You’re going to miss out! You’re going to miss out on relationships which could give you so much, because you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to listen… .”

Sam glances around, looking embarrassed. “Poppy, cool it,” he mutters. “You’re getting too emotional.”

“Well, you’re staying too calm!” I feel like exploding. “You’re too stoic!” An image suddenly comes to me of those Roman senators, all waiting in the arena to be massacred. “You know something, Sam? You’re turning into stone.”

“Stone?” He gives a burst of laughter.

“Yes, stone. You’ll wake up one day and you’ll be a statue, but you won’t know it. You’ll be trapped inside yourself.” My voice is wobbling; I’m not sure why. It’s nothing to me whether he turns into a statue or not.

Sam is eyeing me warily.

“Poppy, I“ve no idea what you’re talking about. But we have to put this on pause. I have stuff I need to do.” His phone buzzes and he lifts it to his ear. “Hey, Vicks. You made it. OK, on my way.”

“I know you’re dealing with a crisis.” I grab his arm fiercely. “But there’s an old man waiting to hear from you, Sam. Longing to hear from you. For only five minutes. And you know what? I envy you.”

Sam exhales sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Poppy, you’ve got this all wrong.”

“Have I?” I stare up at him, feeling all my buried emotions starting to bubble. “I just wish I had your chance. To see my dad. You don’t know how lucky you are. That’s all.”

A tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away brusquely.

Sam is silent. He puts his phone away and faces me square-on. When he speaks, his voice is gentle.

“Listen, Poppy. I can understand how you feel. I don’t mean to trivialize family relationships. I have a very good relationship with my father, and I see him whenever I can. But it’s not that easy, bearing in mind that he lives in Hong Kong.”

I gasp with horror. Are they so out of touch? Did he not even know his father had moved back to this country?

“Sam!” My words tumble out. “You don’t understand! He’s moved back. He lives in Hampshire! He sent you an email. He wanted to see you. Don’t you read anything ?”

Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter, and I stare at him, affronted.

“OK,” he says at last, wiping his eyes. “Let’s start from the beginning. Let’s get this straight. You’re talking about the email from David Robinson, right?”

“No, I’m not! I’m talking about the one from—”

I break off midstream, suddenly uncertain. Robinson? Robinson? I grab my phone and check the email address: Davidr452@hotmail.com.

I just assumed he was David Roxton. It seemed obvious he was David Roxton.

“Contrary to your assumptions, I did read that email,” Sam is saying. “And I chose to ignore it. Believe me, David Robinson is not my father.”

“But he called himself Dad. ” I’m totally bewildered. “That’s what he wrote. Dad. Is he … your stepdad? Your halfdad?”

“He’s not my dad in any shape or form,” says Sam patiently. “If you must know, when I was at college I hung out with a group of guys. He was one of them. David Andrew Daniel Robinson. D.A.D. Robinson. We called him Dad. OK? Got it, finally?”

He starts walking toward the hotel as though the subject is closed, but I’m rooted to the spot, my mind flitting around in shock. I can’t get over this. Dad isn’t Sam’s dad? Dad is a friend ? How was I supposed to know that? People shouldn’t be allowed to sign themselves as Dad unless they are your dad. It should be the law.

I’ve never felt so stupid in all my life.

Except … Except. As I’m standing there, I can’t help replaying all David Robinson’s emails in my head.

It’s been a long time. I think of you often … . Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow … . As I said, there is something I’d love to talk to you about. Are you ever down Hampshire way?

OK. So maybe I got it wrong about Sam’s father and the cottage and the faithful dog. But these words still touch a nerve in me. They sound so humble. So self-effacing. This David is clearly an old, old friend who wants to reach out. Maybe this is another relationship which Sam is leaving to wither. Maybe they’ll see each other and the years will fall away and afterward Sam will thank me and tell me how he needs to value friendship more, he simply didn’t realize it, and I’ve transformed his life… .

Abruptly, I hurry after Sam and catch up with him.

“So, is he a good friend?” I begin. “David Robinson? Is he, like, a really old, close chum?”

“No.” Sam doesn’t break his stride.

“But you must have been friends once.”

“I suppose so.”

Could he sound any less enthusiastic? Does he realize how empty his life will be if he doesn’t keep up with the people who were once important to him?

“So, surely he’s someone you still have a bond with! If you saw him, maybe you’d rekindle that! You’d bring something positive into your life!”

Sam stops dead and stares at me. “What business is this of yours, anyway?”

“Nothing,” I say defensively. “I just … I thought you might like to get in touch with him.”

“I am in touch with him.” Sam sounds exasperated. “Every year or so we meet for a drink, and it’s always the same story. He has some new entrepreneurial project he needs investors for, usually involving some ridiculous product or pyramid scheme. If it’s not fitness equipment, it’s double-glazing or time-shares in Turkey. Against my better judgment I give him some money. Then the business folds and I don’t hear from him again for another year. It’s a ridiculous cycle I need to break. Which is why I blanked his email. I’ll call him in a month or two, maybe, but right now, frankly, the last thing I need in my life is David bloody Robinson—” He breaks off and peers at me. “What?”

I gulp. There’s no way round this. None.