I’ve Got Your Number by Sophie Kinsella (6)

SIX

OK. A FAKE ring is a bad idea. There are a million reasons why. Such as:

1. It’s dishonest.

2. It probably won’t look convincing.

3. It’s unethical.

Nevertheless, here I am in Hatton Garden at ten the following morning, sauntering along, trying to hide the fact that my eyes are on stalks. I’ve never been to Hatton Garden before, I didn’t even know it existed. A whole street of jewellers?

There are more diamonds here than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. Signs everywhere are boasting best prices, highest carats, superb value and bespoke design. Obviously this is engagement-ring city. Couples are wandering along and girls are pointing in through the windows and the men are smiling but all look slightly sick whenever their girlfriends turn away.

I’ve never even been into a jewellery shop. Not a grown-up, proper one like these. The only jewellery I’ve ever had has come from markets and Topshop, places like that. My parents gave me a pair of pearl studs for my thirteenth birthday, but I didn’t go into the shop with them. Jewellery shops have been places I’ve walked past, thinking they’re for other people. But now, since I’m here, I can’t help having a good old look.

Who would buy a brooch made out of yellow diamonds in the shape of a spider for £12,500? It’s a mystery to me, like who buys those revolting sofas with swirly arms they advertise on the telly.

Sam’s friend’s shop is called Mark Spencer Designs, and thankfully doesn’t have any yellow spiders. Instead, it has lots of diamonds set in platinum bands, and a sign saying ‘Free champagne for engaged couples. Make your ring-choosing experience a special one.’ There’s nothing about replicas or fakes and I start to feel nervous. What if Sam misunderstood? What if I end up buying a real emerald ring out of embarrassment and have to spend the rest of my life paying it off?

And where is Sam, anyway? He promised to pop along and introduce me to his friend. Apparently he works just round the corner – though he didn’t reveal exactly where. I turn and survey the street. It’s kind of weird that we’ve never met properly, face to face.

There’s a man with dark hair walking briskly on the other side of the road, and for a brief moment I think perhaps that’s him, but then a deep voice says, ‘Poppy?’

I turn – and of course, that’s him: the guy with the dark, rumpled hair striding towards me. He’s taller than I remember from my glimpse of him in the hotel lobby, but has the same distinctive thick eyebrows and deep-set eyes. He’s wearing a dark suit and immaculate white shirt and a charcoal tie. He flashes me a brief smile and I notice that his teeth are very white and even.

Well. They won’t be for much longer if he doesn’t go to the dentist.

‘Hi. Poppy.’ As he approaches he hesitates, then extends a hand. ‘Good to meet you properly.’

‘Hi.’ I smile back tentatively and we shake hands. He has a nice handshake. Warm and positive.

‘So, Vivien’s definitely staying with us.’ He tilts his head. ‘Thanks again for your insight.’

‘No problem!’ I shrug awkwardly. ‘It was nothing.’

‘Seriously. I appreciate it.’

This is odd, talking face to face. I’m distracted by seeing the contours of his brow and his hair rippling in the breeze. It was easier by text. I wonder if he feels the same way.

‘So.’ He gestures at the jewellery shop. ‘Shall we?’

This shop is seriously cool and expensive. I wonder if he and Willow came to choose their ring here. They must have done. I’m almost tempted to ask him – but somehow I can’t quite bring myself to mention her. It’s too embarrassing. I know far too much about them.

Most couples, you meet at the pub or at their house. You talk about anodyne stuff. Holidays, hobbies, Jamie Oliver recipes. Only gradually do you venture on to personal stuff. But with these two, I feel as if I’ve been pitched straight into some fly-on-the-wall documentary and they don’t even know it. I found an old email last night from Willow which just said, ‘Do you know how much PAIN you have caused me, Sam? Quite apart from all the fucking BRAZILIANS??’

Which is something I really wish I hadn’t read. If I ever meet her, that’s the only thing I’m going to be able to think about. Brazilians.

Sam has pressed the buzzer and is ushering me into the smart, dimly lit shop. At once a girl in a dove-grey suit comes up.

‘Hello, may I help?’ She has a soft, honey-like voice which completely suits the muted décor of the shop.

‘We’re here to see Mark,’ Sam says. ‘It’s Sam Roxton.’

‘That’s right.’ Another girl in dove grey nods. ‘He’s waiting for you. Take them through, Martha.’

‘May I get you a glass of champagne?’ says Martha, giving me a knowing smile as we walk along. ‘Sir? Champagne?’

‘No thanks,’ says Sam.

‘Me neither,’ I chime in.

‘Are you sure?’ She twinkles at me. ‘It’s a big moment for the two of you. Just a little glass to take care of the nerves?’

Oh my God! She thinks we’re an engaged couple. I glance at Sam for help – but he’s typing something on his phone. And there’s no way I’m launching into the story of losing my priceless heirloom ring in front of a bunch of strangers, and hearing all the gasps of horror.

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I smile awkwardly. ‘It’s not— I mean, we’re not—’

‘That’s a wonderful watch, sir!’ Martha’s attention has been distracted. ‘Is that vintage Cartier? I’ve never seen one quite like it.’

‘Thanks.’ Sam nods. ‘Got it at an auction in Paris.’

Now I notice it, Sam’s watch is quite amazing. It’s got an old leather strap and the dull-gold dial has the patina of another age. And he got it in Paris. That’s pretty cool.

‘Goodness.’ As we walk, Martha takes my arm and leans in, lowering her voice, girl to girl. ‘He has exquisite taste. Lucky you! You can’t say the same of all the men who come in here. Some of them go for absolute horrors. But a man who buys himself vintage Cartier has got to be on the right track!’

This is painful. What do I say?

‘Err . . . right,’ I mumble, staring at the floor.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you,’ says Martha charmingly. ‘Please let me know if you change your mind about the champagne. Have a wonderful session with Mark!’ She ushers us into a large back room with a concrete floor, lined with metal-fronted cabinets. A guy in jeans and rimless specs gets up from a trestle table and greets Sam warmly.

‘Sam! Been too long!’

‘Mark! How are you doing?’ Sam claps Mark on the back, then steps aside. ‘This is Poppy.’

‘Good to meet you, Poppy.’ Mark shakes my hand. ‘So, I understand you need a replica ring.’

I feel an immediate lurch of paranoia and guilt. Did he have to say it out loud like that, for anyone to hear?

‘Just very temporarily.’ I keep my voice almost to a whisper. ‘Just while I find the real thing. Which I will, really, really soon.’

‘Understood.’ He nods. ‘Useful to have a replica anyway. We do a lot of replacements for travel and so forth. Normally we only make replicas of jewellery we’ve designed ourselves, but we can make the odd exception for friends.’ Mark winks at Sam. ‘Although we do try to be a little discreet about it. Don’t want to undermine our core business.’

‘Yes!’ I say quickly. ‘Of course. I want to be discreet too. Very much so.’

‘Do you have a picture? A photo?’

‘Here.’ I haul out a photo which I printed off my computer this morning. It’s of me and Magnus at the restaurant where he proposed. We got the couple at the next table to take a picture of us, and I’m holding up my left hand proudly, with the ring clearly visible. I look absolutely giddy – which, to be fair, is how I was feeling.

Both men stare at it in silence.

‘So, that’s the guy you’re marrying,’ says Sam at last. ‘The Scrabble fiend.’

‘Yes.’

There’s something in his tone which makes me feel defensive. I have no idea why.

‘His name’s Magnus,’ I add.

‘Isn’t he the academic?’ Sam’s frowning at the photo. ‘Had the TV series?’

‘Yes.’ I feel a flash of pride. ‘Exactly.’

‘That’s a four-carat emerald, I’d guess?’ Mark Spencer looks up from squinting at the photo.

‘Maybe,’ I say helplessly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know how many carats your engagement ring is?’

Both men shoot me an odd look.

‘What?’ I feel myself flush. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know I’d lose it.’

‘That’s very sweet,’ says Mark with a wry little smile. ‘Most girls know it down to the nearest decimal. Then they round up.’

‘Oh. Well.’ I shrug, to cover my embarrassment. ‘It’s a family ring. We didn’t really talk about it.’

‘We have a lot of mounts in stock. Let me look . . .’ Mark pushes his chair away and starts searching through the metal drawers.

‘So he still doesn’t know you’ve lost it?’ Sam jerks a thumb at the picture of Magnus.

‘Not yet.’ I bite my lip. ‘I’m hoping it’ll turn up and . . .’

‘He’ll never have to know you ever lost it,’ Sam finishes for me. ‘You’ll keep the secret safe till your deathbed.’

I look away, feeling twingey with guilt. I don’t like this. I don’t like having secrets from Magnus. I don’t like being the kind of person who has assignations behind their fiancé’s back. But there’s no other way.

‘So, I’m still getting Violet’s emails on this.’ I gesture at him with the phone, to distract myself. ‘I thought the tech people were sorting it out?’

‘So did I.’

‘Well, you’ve got some new ones. You’ve been asked about the Fun Run four times, now.’

‘Hmm.’ He barely nods.

‘Aren’t you going to answer? And what about your hotel room for this conference in Hampshire? Do you need it for one night or two?’

‘I’ll see. Not sure yet.’ Sam seems so unmoved, I feel a stab of frustration.

‘Don’t you answer your emails?’

‘I prioritize.’ He calmly taps at his screen.

‘Ooh, it’s Lindsay Cooper’s birthday!’ Now I’m reading a round-robin email. ‘Lindsay in marketing. Do you want to say Happy Birthday to her?’

‘No, I do not.’ He sounds so adamant, I feel a bit affronted.

‘What’s wrong with saying Happy Birthday to a colleague?’

‘I don’t know her.’

‘Yes, you do! You work with her.’

‘I work with 243 people.’

‘But isn’t she the girl who came up with that website-strategy document the other day?’ I say, suddenly remembering an old email correspondence. ‘Weren’t you all really pleased?’

‘Yes,’ he says blankly. ‘What’s that got to do with this?’

God, he’s stubborn. Giving up on Lindsay’s birthday, I scroll down to the next email.

‘Peter has finalized the Air France deal. He wants to give you his full report on Monday straight after the team meeting. Is that OK?’

‘Fine.’ Sam barely glances up. ‘Just forward it. Thanks.’

If I forward it, he’ll just let it sit there all day without answering.

‘Why don’t I reply?’ I offer. ‘Since you’re here and I’ve got the email open? It’ll only take a minute.’

‘Oh.’ He seems surprised. ‘Thanks. Just say “Yes”.’

‘Yes,’ I carefully type. ‘Anything else?’

‘Put “Sam”.’

I stare at the screen, dissatisfied. ‘Yes, Sam’. It looks so bare. So curt.

‘What about adding something like, “Well done”?’ I suggest. ‘Or “You did it! Yay!” Or just “Best wishes and thanks for everything”?’

Sam looks unimpressed. ‘“Yes, Sam” will be plenty.’

‘Typical,’ I mutter under my breath. Except perhaps it wasn’t quite as submerged under my breath as I’d intended, because Sam looks up.

‘Excuse me?’

I know I should bite my tongue. But I’m so frustrated I can’t stop myself.

‘You’re so abrupt! Your emails are so short! They’re awful!’

There’s a long pause. Sam looks as astonished as if the chair had started to speak.

‘Sorry,’ I add at last, giving an awkward shrug. ‘But it’s true.’

‘OK,’ says Sam at last. ‘Let’s just get things straight. In the first place, borrowing this phone does not give you a licence to read and critique my emails.’ He hesitates. ‘In the second place, short is good.’

I’m already regretting having spoken. But I can’t back down now.

‘Not that short,’ I retort. ‘And you ignore most people completely! It’s rude!’

There. Said it.

Sam is glowering at me. ‘Like I said, I prioritize. Now, since your ring situation is sorted, maybe you’d like to hand the phone back and my emails won’t have to bother you any more.’ He holds out his hand.

Oh God. Is that why he’s helping me? So I give the phone back?

‘No!’ I clutch the phone. ‘I mean . . . please. I still need it. The hotel might phone me any minute, Mrs Fairfax will have this number . . .’

I know it’s irrational, but I feel like the moment I give this phone up, I’m saying goodbye to any chance of finding the ring.

I put it behind my back for good measure and gaze beseechingly at him.

‘Jesus.’ Sam exhales. ‘This is ridiculous. I’m interviewing for a new PA this afternoon. That’s a company phone. You can’t just keep it!’

‘I won’t! But can I have it just a few more days? I won’t critique your emails any more,’ I add tamely. ‘Promise.’

‘OK, guys!’ Mark interrupts us. ‘Good news. I’ve found a mount. Now I’ll select some stones for you to look at. Excuse me a moment . . .’

As he heads out of the room, my phone bleeps with a new text.

‘It’s from Willow,’ I say, glancing down. ‘Look.’ I gesture at my hands. ‘Forwarding. Not passing any comment. None at all.’

‘Hrrmm.’ Sam gives the same noncommittal growl he gave before when I mentioned Willow.

There’s an odd little pause. What should happen now is I ask something polite like, ‘So, how did you two meet?’ and ‘When are you getting married?’ and we start a conversation about wedding lists and the price of caterers. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to. Their relationship is so peculiar, I just don’t want to go there.

I know he can be growly and curt, but I still can’t see him with a self-obsessed, whingey bitch like Willow. Especially now I’ve met him in the flesh. She must be really, really, really attractive, I decide. Like, supermodel standard. Her dazzling looks have blinded him to everything else about her. It’s the only explanation.

‘Loads of people are replying to the email about Lindsay’s birthday,’ I observe, to fill the silence. ‘They obviously don’t have a problem with it.’

‘Round-robin emails are the work of the devil.’ Sam barely misses a beat. ‘I’d rather shoot myself than reply to one.’

Well, that’s a nice attitude.

This Lindsay is obviously popular. Every twenty seconds some fresh, Reply All message arrives on the screen, like ‘Happy Birthday Lindsay! Have a wonderful celebration, whatever you’re doing.’ The phone keeps buzzing and flashing. It’s like a party in here. And only Sam is refusing to join in.

Oh, I can’t stand it. How hard is it to type ‘Happy Birthday’? Why wouldn’t you? It’s two words.

‘Can’t I write “Happy Birthday” from you?’ I beg. ‘Go on. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll type it.’

‘Fuck’s sake!’ Sam looks up from his own phone. ‘OK. Whatever. Say Happy Birthday. But no smiley faces or kisses,’ he adds warningly. ‘Just “Happy Birthday. Sam”.’

‘Happy Birthday, Lindsay!’ I type defiantly. ‘Hope you’re having a great time today. Well done again on that website strategy, it was awesome. Best wishes, Sam.’

Hurriedly I send it, before he can wonder why I’m typing so much.

‘What about the dentist?’ I decide to push my luck.

‘What about the dentist?’ he echoes, and I feel an almighty surge of exasperation. Is he pretending he doesn’t know what I’m talking about or has he genuinely forgotten?

‘Here we are!’ The door opens and Mark reappears, holding out a dark-blue velvet tray. ‘These are our simulated emeralds.’

‘Wow,’ I breathe, my attention torn away from the phone.

In front of me are ten rows of gleaming emeralds. I mean, I know they’re not real but quite frankly, I couldn’t tell the difference.

‘Is there any stone which strikes you as having a particular resemblance to the one you’ve lost?’

‘That one.’ I point to an oval rock in the middle. ‘It’s almost exactly the same. It’s amazing!’

‘Great.’ He picks it up with a pair of tweezers and places it on a small plastic dish. ‘The diamonds are obviously smaller and less noticeable, so I’m fairly confident of a match. You want a little distressing?’ he adds. ‘Take the shine off?’

‘Can you do that?’ I say in amazement.

‘We can do anything,’ he says confidently. ‘We once made the Crown Jewels for a Hollywood movie. Looked absolutely genuine, although they never even used them in the end.’

‘Wow. Well . . . yes, please!’

‘No problem. We should get this knocked up in . . .’ He glances at his watch. ‘Three hours?’

‘Great!’

As I stand up, I’m astounded. I can’t believe this was so easy. In fact, I feel quite exhilarated with relief. This will see me through a couple of days and then I’ll get the real thing back and it’ll all be OK.

As we move back into the showroom, I sense a rustle of interest. Martha’s head pops up from the book she was writing in, and a couple of girls in dove grey are whispering and nodding at me from their position by the door. Mark leads us over to Martha again, who beams at me even more widely than before.

‘Look after these lovely people for me, Martha, will you?’ he says, giving her a folded piece of paper. ‘Here are the details. Bye, again.’

He and Sam shake hands warmly, then Mark disappears off to the rear of the shop.

‘You look happy!’ Martha says to me with a twinkle.

‘I’m so happy!’ I can’t contain my delight. ‘Mark’s brilliant. I just can’t believe what he can do!’

‘Yes, he is rather special. Oh, I’m so pleased for you.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘What a wonderful day for you both!’

Oh . . . shit. Suddenly I realize what she means. I glance sharply at Sam but he’s stepped aside to read something on his phone and is oblivious.

‘So, we’re all dying to know.’ Martha’s eyes are sparkling. ‘What are you getting?’

‘Err . . .’

This conversation has definitely lurched in the wrong direction. But I can’t think how to steer it back.

‘Martha told us about the vintage Cartier watch!’ Another girl in dove grey joins the conversation, and I can see two other girls edging forward to listen.

‘We’ve all been guessing, out here.’ Martha nods. ‘I think Mark will have made you something really special and bespoke. With some wonderful, romantic touch.’ She clasps her hands. ‘Maybe a flawless diamond—’

‘Those princess-cut ones are exquisite,’ one of the girls in dove grey gushes.

‘Or an antique,’ chimes in another girl eagerly. ‘Mark has some amazing old diamonds with stories attached to them. There’s an incredible pale-pink one, did he show you that?’

‘No!’ I say quickly. ‘Um . . . you don’t understand. I’m not— I mean—’

Oh God. What can I say? I’m not getting into the whole story.

‘We love a beautiful ring.’ Martha sighs happily. ‘It doesn’t matter what it is, really, as long as it’s magical for you. Oh, come on.’ She gives an impish smile. ‘I have to know.’ She opens the paper with a beaming flourish. ‘And the answer is . . .’

As she reads the words on the page, Martha’s voice cuts off in a sort of gasp. For a moment she seems unable to speak. ‘Oh! A simulated emerald,’ she manages at last, sounding strangled. ‘Lovely. And simulated diamonds too. So pretty.’

There’s nothing I can say. I’m aware of four crestfallen faces gazing at me. Martha looks most devastated of all.

‘We thought it was a lovely ring,’ I offer lamely.

‘It is! It is!’ Martha is obviously forcing herself to nod animatedly. ‘Well . . . congratulations! So sensible of you to go for simulations.’ She exchanges looks with the other girls in dove grey, who all hastily chime in.

‘Absolutely!’

‘Very sensible!’

‘Lovely choice!’

The bright voices so don’t match the faces. One girl almost looks like she wants to cry.

Martha seems slightly fixated by Sam’s vintage gold Cartier. I can practically read her mind: He can afford vintage Cartier for himself and he bought his girlfriend a FAKE?

‘Can I just see the price?’ Sam has finished tapping at his phone and takes the paper from Martha. As he reads it, he frowns. ‘Four hundred and fifty pounds. That’s a lot. I thought Mark promised a discount.’ He turns to me. ‘Don’t you think that’s too much?’

‘Maybe.’ I nod, a bit mortified.

‘Why’s it so expensive?’ He turns to Martha and her eyes flick yet again to his Cartier watch before she addresses him with a professional smile.

‘It’s the platinum, sir. It’s a precious, timeless material. Most of our customers value a material that will last a lifetime.’

‘Well, can we have something cheaper? Silver-plate?’ Sam turns to me. ‘You agree, don’t you, Poppy? As cheap as possible?’

Across the shop I hear a couple of stifled gasps. I catch a glimpse of Martha’s horrified face and can’t help flushing.

‘Yes! Of course,’ I mutter. ‘Whatever’s cheapest.’

‘I’ll just check with Mark,’ says Martha after rather a long pause. She moves away and makes a brief phone call. As she returns to the till point, she’s blinking fast and can’t look me in the eye. ‘I’ve spoken to Mark and the ring can be made in silver-plated nickel, which brings the price down to . . .’ She taps again. ‘To £112. Would you prefer that option?’

‘Well, of course we would.’ Sam glances at me. ‘No-brainer, right?’

‘I see. Of course.’ Martha’s bright smile has frozen solid. ‘That’s . . . fine. Silver-plated nickel it is.’ She seems to gather control of herself. ‘In terms of presentation, sir, we offer a deluxe leather ring box at £30, or a simpler, wooden box, for £10. Each option will be lined with rose petals and can have a personalization. Perhaps initials or a little message?’

‘A message?’ Sam gives an incredulous laugh. ‘No, thanks. And no packaging. We’ll just have it as it is. D’you want a carrier bag or something, Poppy?’ He glances at me.

Martha is breathing harder and harder. Just for a moment I think she might lose it.

‘Fine!’ she says at last. ‘Absolutely fine. No box, no rose petals, no message . . .’ She taps at her computer. ‘And how will you be paying for the ring, sir?’ She’s obviously mustering all her energies to stay pleasant.

‘Poppy?’ Sam nods at me expectantly.

As I pull out my purse, Martha’s expression is so aghast, I nearly expire with embarrassment.

‘So . . . you’ll be paying for the ring, madam.’ She can obviously barely get the words out. ‘Wonderful! That’s . . . wonderful. No problem at all.’

I tap in my PIN and take the receipt. Yet more girls in dove grey have appeared in the showroom, and they’re standing in clusters, whispering and staring at me. My entire body is drenched in mortification.

Sam, of course, has noticed nothing.

‘Will we see you both later?’ Martha clearly makes a supreme effort to recover herself as she ushers us to the door. ‘We’ll have champagne waiting and we’ll take a photo for your album, of course.’ A tiny glow comes back into her eyes. ‘It’s such a special moment when you first take the ring, and slide it on to her finger . . .’

‘No, I’ve spent far too long here already,’ says Sam, absently glancing at his watch. ‘Can’t you just bike it round to Poppy?’

This seems to be the last straw for Martha. When I’ve given her my details and we’re walking out, she suddenly exclaims, ‘Could I have a little word about care and upkeep, madam? Just very quickly?’ She grabs my arm and pulls me back into the shop, her grip surprisingly strong. ‘In seven years of selling engagement rings, I’ve never done this before,’ she whispers urgently into my ear. ‘I know he’s a friend of Mark’s. And I know he’s very handsome. But . . . are you sure?’

As I eventually emerge on to the street, Sam is waiting for me, looking impatient.

‘What was that about? Everything OK?’

‘Yes! All fine!’

My face is scarlet and I just want to get out of here. As I glance back towards the shop, I can see Martha talking animatedly to the other girls in dove grey and gesticulating towards Sam, a look of outrage on her face.

‘What’s going on?’ Sam frowns. ‘She didn’t try to sell you the expensive ring, did she? Because I’ll have a word with Mark—’

‘No! Nothing like that.’ I hesitate, almost too embarrassed to tell him.

‘Then what?’ Sam looks at me.

‘She thought you were my fiancé and you were making me buy my own engagement ring,’ I admit at last. ‘She told me not to marry you. She was very worried for me.’

I won’t go into Martha’s theory about generosity in the jewellery shop and generosity in bed and how they relate.

I can see the light slowly dawning on Sam’s face.

‘Oh, that’s funny.’ He bursts into laughter. ‘That’s very funny. Hey.’ He hesitates. ‘You didn’t want me to pay for it, did you?’

‘No, of course not!’ I say, shocked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I just feel terrible that the whole shop thinks you’re a cheapskate, when you were actually doing me a massive favour. I’m really sorry.’ I wince.

Sam looks baffled. ‘What does that matter? I don’t care what they think of me.’

‘You must care a bit.’

‘Not one bit.’

I peer at him closely. His face is calm. I think he means it. He doesn’t care. How can you not care?

Magnus would care. He always flirts with shop assistants and tries to work out if they recognize him from TV. And one time, when his card was declined in our local supermarket, he made a point of going back in there the next day and telling them about how his bank completely cocked up yesterday.

Oh well. Now I don’t feel quite so bad.

‘I’m going to grab a Starbucks.’ Sam starts heading off down the street. ‘Want one?’

‘I’ll get them.’ I hurry after him. ‘I owe you one. Big time.’

I don’t have to be back at the clinic till after lunch, because I got Annalise to swap her morning off with mine. For a hefty bribe.

‘You remember I mentioned a man called Sir Nicholas Murray?’ Sam says as he swings the coffee-shop door open. ‘He’s sending over a document. I’ve told him to use my own email address, but if by any chance he sends it your way by mistake, please let me know at once.’

‘OK. He’s quite famous, isn’t he?’ I can’t resist adding. ‘Wasn’t he number 18 on the world’s movers and shakers list in 1985?’

I did some Googling last night, and I’m totally on top of the whole subject of Sam’s company. I know everything. I could go on Mastermind. I could do a PowerPoint presentation. In fact, I wish someone would ask me to do one! Facts I know about White Globe Consulting, in no particular order:

‘Well done on the recycling, by the way,’ I add, eager to display my knowledge. ‘I saw your statement about “environmental responsibility is a fundamental linchpin for any company that aspires to excellence”. So true. We recycle, too.’

‘What?’ Sam seems taken aback; even suspicious. ‘How did you see that?’

‘Google. It’s not against the law!’ I add, at his expression. ‘I was just interested. Since I’m sending on emails all the time, I thought I’d find out a bit about your company.’

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Sam shoots me a dubious look. ‘Double tall cappuccino, please.’

‘So, Sir Nicholas is advising the Prime Minister! That’s really cool!’

This time, Sam doesn’t even answer. Honestly. He’s not exactly a great ambassador.

‘Have you been to Number Ten?’ I persist. ‘What’s it like?’

‘They’re waiting for your coffee order.’ Sam gestures at the barista.

Obviously he’s going to give away absolutely nothing. Typical. You’d think he’d be pleased I’m interested in what he does.

‘Skinny latte for me.’ I haul out my purse. ‘And a chocolate-chip muffin. You want a muffin?’

‘No, thanks.’ Sam shakes his head.

‘Probably for the best,’ I nod wisely. ‘Since you refuse to go to the dentist.’

Sam gives me a blank look, which could mean, ‘Don’t go there’, or ‘I’m not listening’, or, again, ‘What do you mean, the dentist?’

I’m beginning to learn how he works. It’s like he has an ‘on’ switch and an ‘off’ switch. And he only turns the ‘on’ switch on when he can be bothered.

I click on my browser, search for another revolting picture of many teeth and forward it to him silently.

‘This Savoy reception, by the way,’ I say as we go to pick up our drinks. ‘You need to send your acceptance.’

‘Oh, I’m not going to that,’ he says, as though it’s obvious.

‘Why not?’ I stare at him.

‘I have no particular reason to.’ He shrugs. ‘And it’s a heavy week for social events.’

I don’t believe this. How can he not want to go to the Savoy? God, it’s all right for top businessmen, isn’t it? Free champagne, yawn, yawn. Goody bags, yet another party, yawn, how tedious and dull.

‘Well, you should let them know, then.’ I barely hide my disapproval. ‘In fact, I’ll do it right now. “Dear Blue, Thanks so much for the invitation,”’ I read out as I type. ‘“Unfortunately Sam will be unable to attend on this occasion. Best wishes, Poppy Wyatt.”’

‘You don’t have to do that.’ Sam is staring at me, bemused. ‘One of the PAs at the office is helping me out now. Girl called Jane Ellis. She can do that.’

Yes, but will she do it? I want to retort. I’m aware of this Jane Ellis, who has started making an occasional appearance in Sam’s in-box. But her real job is working for Sam’s colleague Malcolm. I’m sure the last thing she wants to be doing is wrangling with Sam’s diary on top of her usual workload.

‘It’s OK.’ I shrug. ‘It’s been really bugging me.’ Our coffees have arrived on the counter and I hand him his. ‘So . . . thanks again.’

‘No trouble.’ He holds the door open for me. ‘Hope you find the ring. As soon as you’ve finished with the phone—’

‘I know.’ I cut him off. ‘I’ll bike it round. The same nanosecond.’

‘Fine.’ He allows me a half-smile. ‘Well, I hope everything goes well for you.’ He extends a hand and I shake it politely.

‘Hope everything goes well for you too.’

I haven’t even asked him when his wedding is. Perhaps it’s a week tomorrow, like ours. In the same church, even. I’ll arrive, and see him on the steps with Willow the Witch on his arm, telling him he’s toxic.

He strides away and I hurry off towards the bus stop. There’s a 45 disgorging passengers, and I climb on board. It’ll take me to Streatham Hill and I can walk from there.

As I take my seat, I look out and see Sam walking swiftly along the pavement, his face impassive, almost stony. I don’t know if it’s the wind or if he’s been knocked by a passer-by, but somehow his tie has gone skew-whiff, and he doesn’t even seem to have noticed. Now that’s bugging me. I can’t resist sending him a text.

Your tie’s crooked.

I wait about thirty seconds then watch his face jolt in surprise. As he’s looking around, searching the pedestrians on the pavement, I text again:

On the bus.

The bus has moved off by now, but the traffic’s heavy and I’m pretty much keeping pace with Sam. He looks up, straightening his tie, and flashes me a smile.

I’ll have to admit, he really does have quite a smile. Kind of heart-stopping, especially as it comes out of nowhere.

I mean . . . you know. If your heart was in the kind of place to be stopped.

Anyway. An email has just come in from Lindsay Cooper and I briskly open it.

Dear Sam

Thank you so much! Your words mean a lot to me – it’s so nice to know you are appreciated!! I’ve told the whole team who helped me with the strategy document, and it’s really boosted morale!

Best

Lindsay

It’s cc-ed to his other address too, so he’ll have got it on his phone. A moment later my phone bleeps with a text from Sam.

What did you write to Lindsay??

I can’t help giggling as I type back:

Happy birthday. Just like you said.

What else??

I don’t see why I need to answer. Two can play at selective deafness. I counter:

Have you contacted the dentist yet?

I wait a while – but we’re back to radio silence. Another email has just arrived in the phone, this time from one of Lindsay’s colleagues, and as I read it I can’t help feeling vindicated.

Dear Sam

Lindsay passed on your kind words about the website strategy. We were so honoured and delighted you took the time to comment. Thanks, and look forward to chatting about more initiatives, maybe at the next monthly meeting.

Adrian (Foster)

Ha. You see? You see?

It’s all very well sending off two-word emails. It might be efficient. It might get the job done. But no one likes you. Now that whole website team will feel happy and wanted and work brilliantly. And it’s all because of me! Sam should have me doing his emails all the time.

On a sudden impulse, I scroll down to Rachel’s zillionth email about the Fun Run, and press Reply.

Hi Rachel

Count me in for the Fun Run. It’s a great endeavour and I look forward to supporting it. Well done!

Sam

He looks fit. He can do a Fun Run, for God’s sake.

On a roll now, I scroll down to that guy in IT who’s been politely asking about sending Sam his CV and ideas for the company. I mean, surely Sam should be encouraging people who want to get ahead?

Dear James

I would be very glad to see your CV and hear about your ideas. Please make an appointment with Jane Ellis and well done for being so proactive!

Sam

And now I’ve started, I can’t stop. As the bus chugs along, I email the guy wanting to assess Sam’s workstation for health and safety, set up a time, then email Jane to tell her to put it in the diary. I email Sarah who’s been off with shingles and ask her if she’s feeling better.

All those unanswered emails that have been nagging away at me. All those poor ignored people, trying to get in touch with Sam. Why shouldn’t I answer them? I’m doing him such a service! I feel like I’m repaying him for his favour with the ring. At least, when I hand this phone back, his in-box will have been dealt with.

In fact, what about a round-robin email telling everyone they’re fab? Why not? Who can it hurt?

Dear Staff

I just wanted to say that you’ve all done a great job so far this year.

As I’m typing, an even better thought comes to me.

As you know, I value the views and ideas of you all. We are lucky to have such talent at White Globe Consulting and want to make the most of it. If you have any ideas for the company you would like to share with me, please send them to me. Be honest!

All best wishes and here’s to a great rest of the year.

Sam

I press Send with satisfaction. There. Talk about motivational. Talk about team spirit! As I sit back, my fingers are aching from so much typing. I take a sip of latte, reach for my muffin and stuff a massive chunk into my mouth, just as my phone starts ringing.

Shit. Of all the times.

I press Talk, lift the receiver to my ear and try to say, ‘Just a moment’, but it comes out as ‘gobblllllg’. My whole mouth is full of claggy muffin. What do they put in these things?

‘Is that you?’ A youthful, reedy male voice is speaking. ‘It’s Scottie.’

Scottie? Scottie?

Something suddenly sparks in my mind. Scottie. Wasn’t that the name mentioned by Violet’s friend who rang before? The one who was talking about liposuction?

‘It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff, though I say it myself. Adios, Santa Claus.’

I’m chewing my muffin as frantically as I can, but I still can’t utter a sound.

‘Are you there? Is this the right— Oh fucking—’ The voice disappears as I manage to swallow.

‘Hello? Can I take a message?’

He’s gone. I check the caller ID, but it’s Unknown Number.

You’d think all Violet’s friends would know her new number by now. Clicking my tongue, I reach inside my bag for the Lion King programme, which is still there.

‘Scottie rang,’ I scribble next to the first message. ‘It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adios, Santa Claus.’

If I ever meet this Violet, I hope she’s grateful for all my efforts. In fact, I hope I do meet her. I haven’t been taking all these messages for nothing.

I’m about to put the phone away when a crowd of new emails arrives in a flashing bunch. Replies to my round robin already? I scroll down – and to my disappointment, most of them are standard company messages or adverts. But the second-to-last makes me stop in my tracks. It’s from Sam’s dad.

I’ve been wondering about him.

I hesitate – then click the email open.

Dear Sam

Just wondering if you got my last email? You know I’m not much of a technological expert, probably sent it off to the wrong place. But here goes again.

Hope all is well and you are flourishing in London as ever. You know how proud we are of your success. I see you in the business pages. Amazing. I always knew you were destined for big things, you know that.

As I said, there is something I’d love to talk to you about. Are you ever down Hampshire way? It’s been so long and I do miss the old days.

Yours ever

Your old

Dad

As I get to the end I feel rather hot round the eyes. I can’t quite believe it. Did Sam not even reply to that last email? Doesn’t he care about his dad? Have they had a big row or something?

I have no idea what the story is. I have no idea what could have happened between them. All I know is, there’s a father sitting at a computer, putting out feelers to his son and they’re being ignored and I can’t bear it. I just can’t. Whatever’s gone before, life’s too short not to make amends. Life’s too short to bear a grudge.

On impulse I press Reply. I don’t dare reply in Sam’s voice to his own father, that would be going too far. But I can make contact. I can let a lonely old man know that his voice is being heard.

Hello

This is Sam’s PA. Just to let you know, Sam will be at his company conference at the Chiddingford Hotel in Hampshire next week, April 24th. I’m sure he’d love to see you.

Best

Poppy Wyatt

I press Send before I can chicken out, then sit back for a few moments, a bit breathless at what I’ve just done. I’ve masqueraded as Sam’s PA. I’ve contacted his father. I’ve waded right into his personal life. He’d be livid if he knew – in fact the very thought of it makes me quail.

But sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes you have to show people what’s important in life. And I have this very strong gut instinct that what I’ve done is the right thing. Maybe not the easy thing – but the right thing.

I have a vision of Sam’s dad sitting at his desk, his grey head bowed. The computer beeping with a new email, the light of hope in his face as he opens it . . . a sudden smile of joy . . . turning to his dog, patting his head, saying, ‘We’re going to see Sam, boy!’

Yes. It was the right thing to do.

Exhaling slowly, I open the last email, which is from Blue.

Hello

We’re so sorry to hear that Sam can’t make the Savoy reception. Would he like to nominate another person to attend in his place? Please email over the name and we will be sure to add them to the guest list.

Kind regards

Blue

The bus has come to a halt; it’s juddering at a set of traffic lights. I take another bite of muffin and stare silently at the email.

Another person. That could be anybody.

I’m free on Monday night. Magnus has a late seminar in Warwick.

OK. Here’s the thing. There’s no way I’d ever be invited to anything glitzy like this in the normal way of things. Physiotherapists just aren’t. And Magnus’s events are all academic book launches or stuffy college dinners. They’re never at the Savoy. There are never goody bags or cocktails or jazz bands. This is my one and only chance.

Maybe this is karma. I’ve come into Sam’s life, I’ve made a difference for the good – and this is my reward.

My fingers are moving almost before I’ve made a decision.

‘Thank you so much for your email,’ I find myself typing. ‘Sam would like to nominate Poppy Wyatt.’

. Is unethical the same as dishonest? This is the kind of moral debate I could have asked Antony about. In different circumstances.

. Which is a shame, because what I’m dying to ask is: why does Willow keep sending messages via me when she must know I’m not Violet by now? And what’s with all this communication through his PA, anyway?

. Which makes me wonder: if man can make emeralds these days, why do we all keep on spending loads of money on real ones? Also: should I get some earrings?

. I did actually think it was quite a lot. But I figured that was the hit I had to take. I would certainly never query the price of a ring in a posh shop, never in a million years.

. ‘I could draw you a graph, Poppy. A graph.’

. Aha! Clearly the same Ed who was in the Groucho Club, the worse for wear. Just call me Poirot.

. Daily Mail gossip column.

. I actually half-remember seeing that story in the paper.

. Good thing he isn’t my boss, is all I can say.

. I know he’s free a week on Wednesday for lunch because someone has just cancelled.

. I know he may not have a dog. I just feel pretty sure that he does.