Sophie Kinsella - I've Got Your Number

Did Sam find some proof? Did he pull it out of the bag? My phone bleeps and I yank it from my pocket. It’s a text from Sam.

How did Vicks react?

I look at Vicks and flinch.

She looks like she wants to eat someone alive.

“White Globe Consulting has been a major influence on business for the last three decades,” a voice-over is saying on-screen, accompanied by a long-lens shot of the White Globe Consulting building.

My thumbs are so full of adrenaline the text almost writes itself.

Did you do this?

I did this.

You contacted ITN yourself?

Correct.

Thought the techies didn’t find any proof. What happened?!

They didn’t.

I swallow hard, trying to get my head round this. I know nothing about PR. I’m a physiotherapist, for God’s sake. But even I’d say that you don’t phone up ITN with a story of a smear without something to back it up.

How

As I start typing, I realize I don’t even know how to frame the question, so I send it as it is. There’s silence for a little while—then a two page text arrives in my phone.

I blink at it in amazement. This is the longest text Sam has ever sent me, by approximately 2,000 percent.

I went on the record. I stand by what I said. Tomorrow I give them an exclusive interview about original memo, directors washing hands of Nick, everything. It’s a stitch-up. Corporate spin has gone too far. The true story needs to be out there. Wanted Malcolm to join me but he won’t. He has three kids. Can’t risk it. So it’s just me.

My head is buzzing. Sam’s put himself on the line. He’s turned into a whistle-blower. I can’t believe he’s done something so extreme. But at the same time … I can.

That’s a pretty big deal.

I have no idea what else to type. I’m in a state of shock.

Someone had to have the guts to stand by Nick.

I stare at his words, my brow crinkled, thinking this through.

Doesn’t prove anything though, surely? It’s only your word.

A moment later he replies:

Raises question mark over story. That’s enough. Where are you now?

In conference hall.

Anyone know you’re texting me?

Vicks is talking volubly to some guy while holding a phone to her ear. She happens to look my way, and I don’t know if it’s my expression, but her eyes narrow a smidgen. She glances at my phone, then at my face again. I feel a dart of apprehension.

Don’t think so. Yet.

Can you get away without anyone noticing?

I count to three, then casually scan the room as though I’m interested in the light fittings. Vicks is in my peripheral vision. Now she’s gazing straight at me. I lower my phone out of sight and text:

Where are you exactly?

Outside.

Doesn’t help much.

All I’ve got. No idea where I am.

A moment later another one arrives:

It’s dark, if that’s a clue. Grass underfoot.

Are you in big trouble?

There’s no reply. I guess that’s a yes.

OK. I won’t look at Vicks. I will simply yawn, scratch my nose—yes, good, unconcerned—turn on my heel, and move behind this group of people. Then I’ll duck down behind this big fat pillar.

Now I’ll peek out.

Vicks is looking around with a frustrated expression. People are trying to get her attention, but she’s batting them away. I can almost see the calculation in her eyes—how much brain space does she allocate the strange girl who might know something but might also be a red herring?

Within five seconds I’m in the corridor. Ten seconds, through the deserted lobby, avoiding the eye of the disconsolate-looking barman. He’ll be getting enough business in a minute. Fifteen seconds, I’m outside, ignoring the doorman, running over the gravel drive, round the corner, until grass is underfoot and I feel as though I’ve got away.

I walk slowly, waiting for my breath to return. I’m still in shock over what’s just happened.

Are you going to lose your job over this?

Another silence. I walk a little more, adjusting to the night sky, the cool air with a little breeze, the soft grass. The hotel is a good four hundred yards away by now, and I start to unwind.

Maybe.

He sounds quite relaxed about the fact. If a one-word text can sound relaxed. 86

I’m outside now. Where should I head?

God knows. I went out back of hotel and walked into oblivion.

That’s what I’m doing now.

So we’ll meet.

You never said your mum had died.

I’ve typed it and pressed send before I can stop myself. I stare at the screen, cringing at my own crassness. I can’t believe I said that. Of all the times. Like this is going to be his priority right now.

No. I never did.

I’ve reached the edge of what seems to be a croquet lawn. There’s a wooded area ahead. Is that where he is? I’m about to ask him, when another text bleeps into my phone.

I just get tired of telling people. The awkward pause. You know?

I blink at the screen. I can’t believe someone else knows about the awkward pause.

I understand.

I should have told you.

There’s no way I’m guilt-tripping him over this. That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I wanted him to feel. As quickly as I can, I type a reply:

No. No should. Never any should. That’s my rule.

That’s your rule for life?

Rule for life? That’s not exactly what I meant. But I like the idea that he thinks I have a rule for life.

No, my rule for life is …

I pause, trying to think. A rule for life. That’s quite a huge one. I can think of quite a few good rules, but for life …

On tenterhooks here.

Stop it, I’m thinking.

Then, suddenly, inspiration hits. Confidently, I type:

If it’s in a bin it’s public property.

There’s silence, then the phone bleeps again with his reply:

I stare in disbelief. A smiley face. Sam Roxton typed a smiley face! A moment later he sends a follow-up.

I know. I don’t believe it either.

I laugh out loud, then shiver as a breeze hits my shoulders. This is all very well. But I’m standing in a field in Hampshire with no coat and no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. Come on, Poppy. Focus. There’s no moon, and all the stars must be hidden behind clouds. I can hardly see to type.

Where ARE you? In the wood? Can’t see a thing.

Through the wood. Other side. I’ll meet you.

Cautiously, I start picking my way through the trees, cursing as a bramble catches my leg. There are probably stinging nettles and snake pits. There are probably man traps. I reach for my phone, trying to text and avoid brambles at the same time.

My new rule for life. Don’t go into spooky dark woods on your own.

There’s silence a moment—then my phone bleeps.

You’re not on your own.

I clutch the phone more tightly. It’s true; with him on the other end, I do feel secure. I walk on a bit more, nearly tripping over a tree root, wondering where the moon’s got to. Waxing, I suppose. Or waning. Whichever.

Look for me. I’m coming.

I peer at his text in disbelief. Look for him? How can I look for him?

It’s pitch-black. Hadn’t you noticed?

My phone. Look for the light. Don’t call out. Someone might hear.

I peer into the gloom. I can’t see anything at all except the dark shadows of trees and looming mounds of bramble bushes. Still, I guess the worst that can happen is I fall off a cliff and break all my limbs. I take another few steps forward, listening to my own padding footsteps, breathing in the musky, damp air.

OK?

Still here.

I’ve reached a tiny clearing and I hesitate, biting my lip. Before I go on, I want to say the things I won’t be able to when I see him. I’ll be too embarrassed. It’s different by text.