Sophie Kinsella: I've Got Your Number

“Ooh, there was a phone message earlier,” I say, suddenly remembering. “About liposuction or something, I think. That wasn’t for you?”

“Liposuction?” he echoes incredulously. “Not that I’m aware of.”

He doesn’t need to sound so scoffing. I was only asking. It must have been for Violet. Not that she’s likely to need liposuction, if she’s off modeling.

“So … we’re on? We have a deal?”

For a while he doesn’t reply, and I have an image of him glowering at his cell phone. I don’t exactly get the feeling he’s relishing this arrangement. But then, what choice does he have?

“I’ll get the PA email address transferred back to my inbox,” he says grouchily, almost to himself. “I’ll speak to the tech guys tomorrow. But the texts will keep coming to you. If I miss any of them—”

“You won’t! Look, I know this isn’t ideal,” I say, trying to mollify him. “And I’m sorry. But I’m really desperate. All the hotel staff have this number … all the cleaners … it’s my only hope. Just for a couple of days. And I promise I’ll send every single message on. Brownie’s honor.”

“Brownie’s what?” He sounds mystified.

“Honor! Brownie Guides? Like Scouts? You hold up one hand and you make the sign and you swear an oath … Hang on, I’ll show you… .” I disconnect the phone.

There’s a sheet of grimy mirror opposite me on the bus. I pose in front of it, holding the phone in one hand, making the Brownie sign with the other, and wearing my best “I’m a sane person’ smile. I take a picture and text it at once to Sam Mobile.

Five seconds later a text message pings back.

I could send this to the police and have you arrested.

I feel a little whoosh of relief. Could. That means he’s not going to.

I really, really appreciate it, I text back. Thx

But there’s no reply.

7 The Lion King. Natasha got free tickets. I thought it would be some lame kids’ thing, but it was brilliant.

8 Which I think you can.

9 I’ve never been quite sure what that means.

10 Maybe not a pervert, then.

11 OK, not just like Beyoncé. Like me imitating Beyoncé.

12 Not books with plots, by the way. Books with footnotes. Books about subjects, like history and anthropology and cultural relativism in Turkmenistan.

13 I wonder if they all take fish oil. I must remember to ask.

14 Don’t ask me. I listened really carefully and I still couldn’t work out how they disagreed. I don’t think the presenter could follow either.

15 Magnus said afterward he was joking. But it didn’t sound like a joke.

16 I’ve never even read any Proust. I don’t know why I had to bring him up.

17 I know. I’ve told him, a million times.

18 Not ponytail long, which would be gross. Just on the long side.

19 I don’t think Annalise’s ever forgiven me. In her head, if she hadn’t switched appointments, she’d be marrying him now.

20 You see? It’s all about the footnotes.

21 Assuming he lives in a little cottage. He sounds like he does. All alone, with maybe just a faithful dog for company.

3

The next morning I wake abruptly to see the phone flashing with a new text from the Berrow Hotel and feel so relieved I almost want to cry. They’ve found it! They’ve found it!

My fingers are fumbling as I unlock the phone, my mind galloping ahead. An early-morning cleaner found the ring clogging up a Hoover … discovered it in the ladies’ room … saw a glint on the carpet … now securely locked in the hotel safe …

Dear Guest,

Summer breaks, half price.

Please visit www.berrowhotellondon.co.uk. for details.

Kind regards,

The Berrow Team

I sag back on the bed, leaden with disappointment. Not to mention anger at whoever put me on the mailing list. How could they do that? Are they trying to play with my neuroses?

At the same time, a nasty realization is turning around and around in my stomach. Another eight hours have passed since I lost the ring. The longer it’s not found—

What if—

I can’t even finish my thoughts. Abruptly, I get out of bed and pad through to the kitchen. I’ll make a cup of tea and send on some more messages to Sam Roxton. That’ll take my mind off things.

The phone has started buzzing again with texts and emails, so I turn on the kettle, perch on the window seat, and start scrolling through, trying desperately not to hope. Sure enough, every message is just some friend asking if I’ve found the ring yet and making suggestions like have you checked your handbag pockets?

There’s nothing from Magnus, even though I sent him a couple of texts last night, asking what else his parents had said about me and when was he planning to tell me, and how was I going to face them now, and was he ignoring me on purpose? 22

At last I turn to Sam’s messages. He clearly hasn’t had the email function transferred yet, because there are about fifty, just from overnight and this morning. Crikey Moses, he was right. His PA evidently does handle his whole life.

There’s everything and everyone in here. His doctor, colleagues, charity requests, invitations … It’s like a mainline into the universe of Sam. I can see where he buys his shirts (Turnbull & Asser). I can see where he went to university (Durham). I can see the name of his plumber (Dean).

As I scroll down, I start to I feel uncomfortable. I’ve never had so much access to someone else’s phone before. Not my friends’; not even Magnus’s. There are some things you just don’t share. I mean, Magnus has seen every inch of my body, including the dodgy bits, but I would never, ever let him near my phone.

Sam’s text messages are randomly mixed up with mine, which feels weird too. I scroll down two messages for me, then about six for Sam, then another for me. All side by side; all touching one another. I’ve never shared an in-box with anyone in my life. I didn’t expect it to feel so … intimate. It’s as if we’re suddenly sharing an underwear drawer or something.

Anyway. No big deal. It’s not for long.

I make my tea and fill a bowl with Shreddies. Then, as I munch, I slowly pick through the messages, working out which ones are for Sam and forwarding them on.

I’m not going to spy on him or anything. Obviously not. But I have to click on each message in order to forward it, and sometimes my fingers automatically press open by mistake and I catch a glimpse of the text. Just sometimes.

Clearly it’s not only his father who’s having a hard time getting in touch with him. He must be really, really bad at answering emails and texts, there are so many plaintive requests to Violet: Is this a good way to reach Sam? … Hi! Apologies for bothering you, but I have left several messages for Sam … . Hi, Violet, could you nudge Sam about an email I sent last week? I’ll reprise the main points here … .

It’s not like I’m reading through every single email fully or anything. Or scrolling down to read all the previous correspondence. Or critiquing all his answers and rewriting them in my head. After all, it’s none of my business what he writes or doesn’t write. He can do what he likes. It’s a free country. My opinion is neither here nor there—

God, his replies are abrupt! It’s driving me nuts! Does everything have to be so short? Does he have to be so curt and unfriendly? As I clock yet another brief email, I can’t help exclaiming out loud, “Are you allergic to typing or something?”