I've Got Your Number (24 page)

She goes through each item and, needless to say, I stop concentrating immediately. So by the end I have no idea what’s available except butternut squash soup.

“Butternut squash soup, please.” I smile.

“Steak baguette, rare, and a green salad. Thanks.” I don’t think Sam was listening either. He checks something
on his phone and frowns, and I feel a pang of guilt. I must have increased his workload a ton with all this.

“I just want to say, I’m really, really sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry about the e-card. I’m sorry about Guatemala. I got carried away. I know I’ve caused you a lot of grief, and if I can help in any way I will. I mean … shall I send some emails for you?”

“No!” Sam sounds like he’s been scalded. “Thank you,” he adds more calmly. “You’ve done enough.”

“So, how are you managing?” I venture. “I mean, processing everyone’s ideas.”

“Jane’s taken charge for now. She’s sending out my brush-off email.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Your brush-off email? What’s that?”

“You know the sort of thing.
Sam is delighted to have received your email. He’ll get back to you as soon as he possibly can. Meanwhile, thanks for your interest
. Translation:
Don’t expect to hear from me anytime soon
.” He raises his eyebrows. “You must have a brush-off email. They come in pretty useful for fending off unwanted advances too.”

“No, I don’t,” I say, a little offended. “I never want to brush people off. I answer them!”

“OK, that explains a
lot
.” He tears off a chunk of bread and chews it. “If I’d known that, I never would have agreed to share a phone.”

“Well, you don’t have to anymore.”

“Thank God. Where is it?”

I rummage in my bag, take the phone out, and put it on the table between us.

“What the hell is
that
?” Sam exclaims, looking horrified.

“What?” I follow his gaze, puzzled, then realize. There were some diamante phone stickers in the Marie Curie goody bag, and I stuck them on the phone the other day.

“Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes at his expression. “They come off.”

“They’d better.” He still seems stunned by the sight of it. Honestly. Doesn’t anyone at his company bother to decorate their phone?

Our food arrives, and for a while we’re distracted with pepper mills and mustard and some side dish of parsnip chips which they seem to think we ordered.

“You in a hurry?” inquires Sam as he’s about to bite into his steak baguette.

“No. I took a few days off to do wedding stuff, but actually it turns out there’s not a lot to do.”

The truth is, I was a bit taken aback when I spoke to Lucinda this morning. I’d told her
ages
ago that I was taking a few days off to help with the wedding. I’d thought we could go and sort out some of the fun stuff together. But she basically said no, thanks. She had some long story about having to go see the florist in Northwood and needing to drop in at another client first and implied I’d be in the way.
⁷⁵
So I’ve had the morning off. I mean, I wasn’t about to go to work for the sake of it.

As I sip my soup, I wait for Sam to volunteer some wedding talk of his own—but he doesn’t. Men just aren’t into it, are they?

“Is your soup cold?” Sam suddenly focuses on my bowl. “If it’s cold, send it back.”

It
is
a bit less than piping hot—but I really don’t feel like making a fuss.

“It’s fine, thanks.” I flash him a smile and take another sip.

The phone suddenly buzzes, and on reflex I pull it to me. It’s Lucinda, telling me she’s at the warehouse and could I please confirm that I want only four strands of gypsophila per bouquet?

I have no idea. Why would I specify something like that? What does four strands look like, anyway?

Yes, fine. Thanks so much, Lucinda, I really appreciate it! Not long now!!! Love, Poppy xxxxx

There’s a new email from Willow, too, but I can’t bring myself to read it in front of Sam. I forward it quickly and put the phone down.

“There was a message from Willow just now.”

“Uh-uh.” He nods with an off-putting frown.

I’m
dying
to find out more about her. But how do I start without sounding unnatural?

I can’t even ask, “How did you meet?” because I already know, from one of her email rants. They met at her job interview for White Globe Consulting. Sam was on the panel, and he asked her some tricky question about her CV and she should have known THEN that he was going to fuck her life up. She should have stood up and WALKED AWAY. Because does he think a six-figure salary is what her life is about? Does he think everyone’s like him? Doesn’t he realize that to build a life together you have to KNOW WHAT THE BUILDING BLOCKS ARE, Sam????

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I have honestly given up reading to the end.

“Haven’t you got yourself a new phone yet?” says Sam, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m going to the shop this afternoon.” It’ll be a real hassle, starting afresh with a new phone, but there’s not much I can do about it. Except …

“In fact, I was wondering,” I add casually. “You don’t want to sell it, do you?”

“A company phone, full of business emails?” He gives an incredulous laugh. “Are you nuts? I was mad letting you have access to it in the first place. Not that I had a choice, Ms. Light-fingers. I should have set the police on you.”

“I’m not a thief!” I retort, stung. “I didn’t
steal
it. I found it in a
bin
.”

“You should have handed it in.” He shrugs. “You know it and I know it.”

“It was common property! It was fair game!”

” ‘Fair game’? You want to tell that to the judge? If I drop my wallet and it falls momentarily into a bin, does that give Joe Bloggs the right to steal it?”

I can’t tell if he’s winding me up or not, so I take a drink of water, avoiding the issue. I’m turning the phone around and around in my hand, not wanting to relinquish it. I’ve got used to this phone now. I like the feel of it. I’ve even got used to sharing my in-box.

“So, what will happen to it?” At last I look up. “The phone, I mean.”

“Jane will forward everything of any relevance to her account. Then it’ll get wiped. Inside and out.”

“Right. Of course.”

The idea of all my messages being wiped makes me want to whimper. But there’s nothing I can do. This was the deal. It was only a loan. Like he said, it’s not my phone.

I put it down again, about two inches from my bowl.

“I’ll let you know my new number as soon as I get it,” I say. “If I get any texts or messages—”

“I’ll forward them.” He nods. “Or, rather, my new PA will do it.”

“When does she start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Great!” I smile a little wanly and take a sip of my soup, which really is the wrong side of tepid.

“She is great,” he says with enthusiasm. “Her name is Lizzy; she’s very bright.” He starts to attack his green salad. “Now. While we’re here, you have to tell me. What was the deal with Lindsay? What the hell did you write to her?”

“Oh. That.” I feel warm with embarrassment. “I think she misunderstood the situation because … Well. It was nothing, really. I just complimented her and then I put some kisses from you. At the end of an email.”

Sam puts his fork down. “You added kisses to an email of
mine
? A business email?” He looks almost more scandalized by this than by anything else.

“I didn’t mean to!” I say defensively. “They just slipped out. I always put kisses on emails. It’s friendly.”

“Oh. I see.” He raises his eyes to heaven. “You’re one of
those
ridiculous people.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” I retort. “It’s being nice.”

“Let me see.” He reaches for the phone.

“Stop it!” I say in horror. “What are you
doing
?”

I make a swipe, but it’s too late. He’s got the phone and he’s scrolling through all the messages and emails. As he reads, he lifts an eyebrow, then frowns, then gives a sudden laugh.

“What are you looking at?” I try to sound frosty. “You should respect my confidentiality.”

He totally ignores me. Does he have no idea of privacy? What’s he reading, anyway? It could be anything.

I take another sip of soup, but it’s so cold I can’t face any more. As I look up, Sam’s still reading my messages avidly. This is hideous. I feel like he’s rifling through my underwear drawer.

“Now you know what it’s like, having someone else critiquing your emails,” he says, glancing up.

“There’s nothing to critique,” I say, a little haughtily. “Unlike you, I’m charming and polite and
don’t
brush people off with two words.”

“You call it charming. I call it something else.”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. Of course he doesn’t want to admit I have superior communication skills.

Sam reads another email, shaking his head, then looks up and surveys me silently.

“What?” I say, nettled. “What is it?”

“Are you so scared people will hate you?”

“What?” I stare at him, not knowing how to react. “What are you
talking
about?”

He gestures at the phone. “Your emails are like one big cry.
Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, please like me, please like me!
”

“What?”
I feel like he’s slapped me round the face. “That’s absolute … crap.”

“Take this one:
Hi, Sue! Can I possibly change my wedding updo consultation to a later time, like five p.m.? It’s with Louis. Let me know. But if not, no worries. Thanks so much! I really appreciate it! Hope all is well. Love, Poppy xxxxxxxxxx
Who’s Sue? Your oldest, dearest friend?”

“She’s the receptionist at my hairdresser.” I glare at him.

“So she gets thanks and appreciation and a zillion kisses, just for doing her job?”

“I’m being
nice
!” I snap.

“It’s not being nice,” he says firmly, “it’s being ridiculous. It’s a business transaction. Be businesslike.”

“I love my hairdresser!” I say furiously. I take a spoonful of soup, forgetting how revolting it is, and quell a shudder.

Sam’s still scrolling through my messages, as if he has every right to. I never should have let him get his hands on that phone. I should have wiped it myself.

“Who’s Lucinda?”

“My wedding planner,” I answer reluctantly.

“That’s what I thought. Isn’t she supposed to be working for
you
? What
is
all this shit she’s laying on you?”

For a moment I’m too flustered to reply. I butter myself a piece of baguette, then put it down without eating it.

“She
is
working for me,” I say at last, avoiding his eye. “I mean, obviously I help out a little when she needs it….”

“You’ve done the cars for her.” He’s counting off on his fingers incredulously. “You’ve organized the confetti, the buttonholes, the organist….”

I can feel a flush creeping over my face. I know I’ve ended up doing more for Lucinda than I intended. But I’m not going to admit that to him.

“I wanted to! It’s fine.”

“And her tone’s pretty bossy, if you ask me.”

“It’s only her manner. I don’t mind….” I’m trying to throw him off this path, but he’s relentless.

“Why don’t you just tell her straight, ‘You’re working for me, cut out the attitude’?”

“It’s not as simple as that, OK?” I feel on the back foot. “She’s not simply a wedding planner. She’s an old friend of the Tavishes.”

“The Tavishes?” He shakes his head as though the name means nothing to him.

“My future in-laws! The
Tavishes
. Professor Antony Tavish? Professor Wanda Brook-Tavish? Their parents are great friends and Lucinda’s part of that whole world, and she’s one of them and I can’t—” I break off and rub my nose. I’m not sure where I was going with that.

Sam picks up a spoon, leans over, takes a sip of my soup, and winces.

“Freezing. Thought so. Send it back.”

“No, really.” I flash him an automatic smile. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not. Send it back.”

“No! Look—it doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry anyway.”

Sam is gazing at me, shaking his head. “You are a big surprise, you know that?
This
is a big surprise.” He taps the phone.

“What?”

“You’re pretty insecure for someone who’s so feisty on the outside.”

“I’m not!” I retort, rattled.

“Not insecure? Or not feisty?”

“I—” I’m too confused to answer. “I dunno. Stop it. Leave me alone.”

“You talk about the Tavishes as if they’re God.”

“Well, of
course
I do! They’re in a different
league
—”

I’m cut off midstream by a man’s voice.

“Sam! My main man!” It’s Justin, clapping Sam on the back. He’s wearing a black suit, black tie, and dark glasses. He looks like one of the Men in Black. “Steak baguette again?”

“You know me too well.” Sam gets to his feet and taps a passing waiter. “Excuse me, could we have a fresh soup for my guest? This one’s cold. Did you meet Poppy the other night? Poppy, Justin Cole.”

“Enchante.”
Justin nods at me, and I catch a waft of Fahrenheit aftershave.

“Hi.” I manage to smile politely, but I still feel stirred up inside. I need to tell Sam how wrong he is. About everything.

“How was the meeting with P&G?” Sam’s saying to Justin.

“Good! Very good! Although of course they miss you on the team, Sam.” He makes a reproving gesture with his finger.

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“You know this man is the star of our company?” Justin says to me, gesturing at Sam. “Sir Nicholas’s heir apparent. ‘One day, dear boy, all this will be yours.’ “

“Now, that’s just bullshit,” Sam says pleasantly.

“Of course it is.”

There’s a beat of silence. They’re smiling at each other—but it’s a bit more like animals baring teeth.

“So, I’ll see you around,” says Justin at length. “Going to the conference tonight?”

“Tomorrow, in fact,” Sam replies. “Lot of stuff to catch up on here.”