I've Got Your Number (36 page)

“Looks like my cue to leave,” says David, getting to his feet. “You’ll be needing to go. Give my regards to Sam.”

“I’m not actually an employee,” I say, for accuracy’s sake. “But, yes, I do need to go. Sorry about that.”

“Really?” David shakes his head, looking mystified. “Then she’s got a point.” He jerks his head at Willow. “You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and you don’t work for this company. Who the hell are you and what have you got to do with Sam?”

“Like I said.” I can’t help smiling at his quizzical expression. “It’s … complicated.”

“I can believe it.” He raises his eyebrows, then produces a business card and presses it into my hand. “Tell Sam. Exotic mini-pets. I’ve got a great opportunity for him.”

“I’ll tell him.” I nod seriously. “Thanks.” I watch him disappear toward the exit, then carefully put his card away for Sam.

“So.” Willow looms in front of me again, arms folded. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“Are you
serious
?” I can’t hide my exasperation. “Isn’t there something
else
you need to be doing right now?” I gesture at the crowds surging into the conference room.

“Oh, nice try.” She doesn’t even flicker. “I’m hardly going to make some tedious corporate announcement my priority.”

“Believe me, this tedious corporate announcement is one you’re going to want to hear.”

“You know all about it, I suppose,” Willow shoots back sarcastically.

“Yes.” I nod, suddenly feeling despondent. “I know all about it. And … I think I’m going to get a drink.”

I stalk away to the bar. I can see Willow in the mirror, and after a few seconds she turns and heads toward the conference room, her expression mutinous. I feel drained just from talking to her.

No, I feel drained by the whole day. I order myself a large glass of wine, then slowly walk toward the conference room. Vicks is standing on the stage, talking to a rapt, shocked audience. Behind her, the massive screen is on silent TV.

“… as I say, we don’t know exactly what shape the report will take, but we have made our response, and that’s the only thing we can do at the present time. Are there any questions? Nihal?”

“Where’s Sir Nicholas now?” comes Nihal’s voice from the crowd.

“He’s in Berkshire. We’ll have to see what happens about the rest of the conference. As soon as any decisions have been made, obviously you will all be informed.”

I’m looking around at the faces. Justin is a few feet away from me, gazing up at Vicks in a pantomime of shock and concern. Now he raises his hand.

“Justin?” says Vicks reluctantly.

“Vicks, bravo.” His smooth voice travels through the room. “I can only imagine how difficult these last few hours have been for you. As a member of the senior management team, I’d like to thank you for your sterling efforts. Whatever Sir Nicholas may or may not have said, whatever the truth of the matter—and of course none of us can
really
know that—your loyalty to the company is what we value. Well done, Vicks!” He leads a round of applause.

Ooh. Snake. Clearly I’m not the only one to think this, because another hand shoots straight up.

“Malcolm!” says Vicks in plain relief.

“I’d like to make it clear to all employees that Sir Nicholas did
not
make these remarks.” Unfortunately, Malcolm’s voice is a bit rumbly and I’m not sure everyone can hear. “I received the original memo he sent, and it was
completely
different—”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt you now,” Vicks chimes in. “The bulletin’s starting. Volume up, please.”

Where’s Sam?
He should be here. He should be replying to Justin and crushing him. He should be watching the bulletin. I just don’t get it.

The familiar ITN
News at Ten
music begins, and the swirling graphics fill the massive screen onstage. I’m feeling ridiculously nervous, even though it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Maybe they won’t run the story, I keep thinking. You hear about items being bumped all the time….

Big Ben’s chimes have begun. Any second they’ll start announcing the headlines. My stomach clenches with nerves, and I take a swig of wine. Watching the news is a completely different experience when it’s something to do with you. This is what prime ministers must feel like all the time. God, I wouldn’t be them for anything. They must spend every evening hiding behind the sofa, peering through their fingers.

Bong!
“Fresh attacks in the Middle East lead to fears of instability.”
Bong!
“House prices make a surprise recovery—but will it last?”
Bong!
“A leaked memo casts doubts on the integrity of a top government adviser.”

There it is. They’re running it.

There’s an almost eerie silence in the room. No one has gasped or even reacted. I think everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for the full item. The Middle Eastern report has started and there are pictures of gunfire in a dusty street, but I’m barely taking it in. I’ve pulled out my phone and am texting Sam.

Are you watching? Everyone is in conference room. P

My phone remains silent. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he in here with everyone else?

I stare fixedly at the screen as the footage changes to house-price graphs and an interview with a family trying to move to Thaxted, wherever that is. I’m willing the presenters to speak more quickly, to get through it. Never have I been less interested in house prices in my life.
⁸⁵

And then both the first two items are done and we’re back in the studio and the newsreader is saying, with her grave face on:

“Tonight, doubts were cast on the integrity of Sir Nicholas Murray, the founder of White Globe Consulting and government adviser. In a confidential memo obtained exclusively by ITN, he refers to corrupt practices and the soliciting of bribes, apparently condoning them.”

There are a few gasps and whispers around the room. I glance at Vicks. Her face is amazingly composed as she watches the screen. I suppose she knew what to expect.

“But in a new twist, within the last few minutes ITN has discovered that another staff member at White Globe Consulting may in fact have written the words credited to Sir Nicholas, something which official company sources deny all knowledge of. Our reporter Damian Standforth asks: Is Sir Nicholas a villain—or the victim of a smear attempt?”

“What?”
Vicks’s voice rips across the room. “What the
fuck—
”

A babble has broken out, interspersed with “Shh!” and “Listen!” and “Shut up!” Someone has ramped the sound to top volume. I stare at the screen, utterly confused.

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: