Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

“Hey, Pops!” Magnus’s distinctive voice is muffled by a background thump of music. “Could you call Professor Wilson and remind her I’m away? Thanks, sweets. Number’s on my desk. Ciao! Having a great time!”

I listen to it twice over for clues, even though I have no idea what kind of clues I’m hoping to glean. 83As I ring off, my stomach is churning. I can’t bear it. I don’t want this. If I’d never got that text message, I’d be happy now. I’d be looking forward to my wedding and thinking about the honeymoon and practicing my new signature. I’d be happy.

I’ve run out of conversational gambits, so I kick off my shoes, draw my feet up onto the bench, and hug my knees morosely. I’m aware that around us, in the bar, the White Globe Consulting employees have started to cluster. I can hear snatches of low, anxious conversation, and I’ve caught the word memo a few times. The news must be seeping out. I glance at my watch and feel a clench of alarm. It’s 9:40 p.m. Only twenty minutes till the ITN bulletin.

For the millionth time I wonder what Vicks and Sam are up to. I wish I could help. I wish I could do something. I feel powerless sitting out here—“OK!” A sharp female voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see Willow standing in front of me, glaring down. She’s changed into a halter-neck evening dress, and even her shoulders are twitchy. “I’m going to ask you this straight, and I hope you’ll answer it straight. No games. No playing around. No little tricks.”

She’s practically spitting the words at me. Honestly. What little tricks am I supposed to have played?

“Hello,” I say politely.

The trouble is, I can’t see this woman without remembering all her screwy capital-letter emails. It’s as though they’re emblazoned on her face.

“Who are you?” she bristles at me. “Just tell me that. Who are you? And if you won’t tell me, then believe me—”

“I’m Poppy,” I interrupt.

“ ‘Poppy.’ ” She sounds deeply suspicious, as though Poppy must be my invented escort-agency name.

“Have you met David?” I add politely. “He’s an old university friend of Sam’s.”

“Oh.” At these words I can see interest flash across her features. “Hello, David, I’m Willow.” Her gaze swivels to focus on him, and I swear I feel a cooling on my face.

“Charmed, Willow. Friend of Sam’s, are you?”

“I’m Willow.” She says it with slightly more emphasis.

“Nice name.” He nods.

“I’m Willow. Willow. ” There’s an edge to her voice now. “Sam must have mentioned me. Wi-llow. ’

David wrinkles his brow thoughtfully. “Don’t think so.”

“But … ” She looks as though she’s going to expire with outrage. “I’m with him.”

“Not right now you’re not, are you?” says David jovially—then shoots me a tiny wink.

I’m actually warming to this David. Once you get past the bad shirt and the dodgy investments, he’s OK.

Willow looks incandescent. “This is just … The world is going insane,” she says, almost to herself. “You don’t know me, but you know her ?” She jerks a thumb at me.

“I assumed she was Sam’s special lady,” says David innocently.

“Her? You? ”

Willow’s eyeing me up and down in a disbelieving, supercilious sort of way that nettles me.

“Why not me?” I say robustly. “Why shouldn’t he be with me?”

Willow says nothing for a moment, just blinks very fast. “So that’s it. He’s two-timing me,” she murmurs at last, her voice throbbing with intensity. “The truth finally comes out. I should have known it. It explains … a lot.” She exhales sharply, her fingers raking through her hair. “So where do we go now?” She addresses some unknown audience. “Where the fuck do we go now?”

She’s a total fruit loop. I want to burst out laughing. Where does she think she is, acting in her own private stage play? Who does she think is impressed by her performance?

And she’s missed a crucial fact. How can Sam be two-timing her if she’s not his girlfriend ?

On the other hand, as much as I’m enjoying winding her up, I don’t want to spread false rumors.

“I didn’t say I was with him,” I clarify. “I said, ‘Why shouldn’t he be with me?’ Are you Sam’s girlfriend, then?”

Willow flinches but doesn’t answer, I notice.

“Who the hell are you?” She rounds on me again. “You appear in my life, I have no idea who you are or where you came from … ”

She’s playing to the gallery again. I wonder if she went to drama school and got chucked out for being too melodramatic. 84

“It’s … complicated.”

The word complicated seems to inflame Willow even more.

“Oh, ‘complicated.’ ” She makes little jabby quote gestures. “ ‘Complicated.’ Wait a minute.” Her eyes suddenly narrow to disbelieving slits as she surveys my outfit. “Is that Sam’s shirt?”

Ah. A-ha-ha. She’s really not going to like that. Maybe I won’t answer.

“Is that Sam’s shirt? Tell me right now!” Her voice is so hectoring and abrasive, I flinch. “Are you wearing Sam’s shirt? Tell me! Is that his shirt? Answer me!”

“Mind your own Brazilian!” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Oops.

OK. The trick when you’ve said something embarrassing by mistake is not to overreact. Instead, keep your chin up and pretend nothing happened. Maybe Willow didn’t even notice what I said. I’m sure she didn’t notice. Of course she didn’t.

I dart a surreptitious look at her, and her eyes have widened so much, I think her eyeballs might pop out. All right, so she did notice. And from David’s gleeful expression, it’s clear he did too.

“I mean … business,” I amend, clearing my throat. “Business.”

Over David’s shoulder I suddenly see Vicks. She’s striding through the clusters of White Globe Consulting employees, and her grim expression makes my stomach turn over. I glance at my watch. Quarter to ten.

“Vicks!” Willow has noticed her too. She blocks Vicks’s way, her arms folded imperiously. “Where’s Sam? Someone said he was with you.”

“Excuse me, Willow.” Vicks tries to get past.

“Just tell me where Sam is!”

“I have no idea, Willow!” Vicks snaps. “Can you get out of my way? I need to speak to Poppy.”

“ Poppy? You need to speak to Poppy ?” Willow looks as if she’s going to explode with frustration. “Who is this fucking Poppy?”

I almost feel sorry for Willow. Completely ignoring her, Vicks comes round to my seat, bends down low, and mutters, “Do you know where Sam is?”

“No.” I look at her in alarm. “What’s happened?”

“Has he texted you? Anything?”

“No!” I double-check my phone. “Nothing. I thought he was with you.”

“He was.” Vicks does her eye-rubbing thing with the heels of her hands, and I resist the temptation to grab her wrists.

“What happened?”’ I lower my voice further. “Please, Vicks. I’ll be discreet. I swear.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Vicks nods. “OK. We ran out of time. I guess you could say Sam lost.”

I feel a plunge of disappointment. After all that.

“What did Sam say?”

“Not a lot. He stormed out.”

“What will happen to Sir Nicholas?” I speak as quietly as I can.

Vicks doesn’t reply, but her head turns away as though she wants to escape that particular thought.

“I have to go,” she says abruptly. “Let me know if you hear from Sam. Please.”