TEN
IT MUST BE so amazing to work in a place like this. Everything about Sam’s building is a novelty to me – from the massive escalator, to the whizzy lifts, to the laminated card with my photo on it, which got made by a machine in about three seconds. When visitors come to First Fit Physio, we just sign them in, in a book from Staples.
We go up to the sixteenth floor and along a corridor with a bright-green carpet, black and white photos of London on the wall, and funky seating in random shapes. On the right are individual, glass-fronted offices and on the left is a big, open-plan area with multicoloured desks. Everything here is so cool. There’s a water machine, like we have, but there’s also a coffee station with a real Nespresso machine and a Smeg fridge and a massive bowl of fruit.
I am so talking to Ruby about staff conditions at First Fit Physio.
‘Sam!’ A man in a navy linen jacket greets Sam and as they talk, I peer all around at the open-plan office area, wondering if I might spot Willow. That girl with wavy blonde hair, talking into a headset, sitting with her feet up on a chair. Could that be her?
‘OK.’ Sam seems to be wrapping up the conversation. ‘That’s interesting, Nihal. I’ll have a think.’
Nihal. My ears prick up. I know that name from somewhere. I’m sure I do. What was it, now? Nihal . . . Nihal . . .
‘Thanks, Sam,’ Nihal is saying. ‘I’ll just forward that document to you right now . . .’ As he’s tapping at his phone, I suddenly remember.
‘Congratulate him on his baby!’ I whisper to Sam. ‘Nihal just had a baby last week. Yasmin. Seven pounds. She’s gorgeous! Didn’t you see the email?’
‘Oh.’ Sam looks taken aback, but recovers smoothly. ‘Hey, Nihal, congrats on the baby, by the way. Fantastic news.’
‘Yasmin’s a lovely name.’ I beam at Nihal. ‘And seven pounds! What a good size! How is she doing?’
‘How’s Anita?’ joins in Sam.
‘They’re both really well, thanks! I’m sorry . . . I’m not sure we’ve met?’ Nihal glances at Sam for help.
‘This is Poppy,’ says Sam. ‘She’s here to do some . . . consulting.’
‘Right.’ Nihal shakes my hand, still looking puzzled. ‘So, how did you know about the baby?’
‘Because Sam mentioned it to me,’ I lie smoothly. ‘He was so thrilled for you, he couldn’t help telling me. Isn’t that right, Sam?’
Ha! Sam’s face!
‘That’s right,’ he says, finally. ‘Delighted.’
‘Wow.’ Nihal’s face suffuses with pleasure. ‘Thanks, Sam. I didn’t realize you’d be so . . .’ He breaks off awkwardly.
‘No problem.’ Sam lifts a hand. ‘Congratulations again. Poppy, we should really be getting on.’
As Sam and I walk away down the corridor, I want to giggle at his expression.
‘Can you cut it out, please?’ Sam murmurs without moving his head. ‘First animals, now babies. What kind of reputation are you going to give me?’
‘A good one!’ I retort. ‘Everyone will love you!’
‘Hey, Sam.’ A voice hails us from behind and we turn to see Matt Mitchell from last night, glowing with delight. ‘I just heard the news! Sir Nicholas is joining the Guatemala trip! That’s awesome!’
‘Oh, yes.’ Sam nods brusquely. ‘We spoke about it last night.’
‘Well, I just wanted to thank you,’ he says earnestly. ‘I know this was your influence. You two guys will add so much heft to the cause. Oh, and thanks for the donation. We really appreciate it.’
I stare in astonishment. Sam gave a donation to the Guatemala trip? He gave a donation?
Now Matt is beaming at me. ‘Hello again. Are you interested in the Guatemala trip?’
Oh my God, I would love to go to Guatemala.
‘Well—’ I begin enthusiastically, before Sam cuts me off firmly, ‘No. She’s not.’
Honestly. What a spoilsport.
‘Maybe next time,’ I say politely. ‘I hope it goes well!’
As Matt Mitchell heads back down the corridor and we walk on, I’m mulling hard on what I just heard.
‘You never told me Sir Nicholas was going to Guatemala,’ I say at last.
‘No?’ Sam doesn’t sound remotely interested. ‘Well, he is.’
‘And you gave them a donation,’ I add. ‘So you do think it’s a good cause. You think it’s worth supporting.’
‘I gave them a small donation.’ He corrects me with a forbidding look, but I’m undeterred.
‘So actually . . . that situation turned out really well. Not a disaster at all.’ I count off thoughtfully on my fingers. ‘And the girls in Admin think you’re wonderful and the whole ideas initiative is brilliant. And you’ve got some interesting new thoughts for the company. And Nihal thinks you’re the bee’s knees, and so does Chloe and all her department, and Rachel loves you for doing the Fun Run . . .’
‘Where exactly are you going with this?’ Sam’s expression is so ominous, I quail slightly.
‘Err . . . nowhere!’ I backtrack. ‘Just saying.’
Maybe I’ll keep quiet now, for a while.
After the lobby I was expecting to be impressed by Sam’s office – but I’m more than impressed. I’m awestruck.
It’s a huge corner space, with windows overlooking Blackfriars Bridge, a designer light sculpture hanging from the ceiling, and a massive desk. There’s another, smaller desk outside which is I guess where Violet used to sit. At the side of the office is a sleek little bar area with a fridge and a granite counter and another Nespresso machine. By the windows is a sofa, which is where Sam ushers me to.
‘The meeting’s not for twenty minutes. I’ve just got to catch up with some stuff. Make yourself comfortable.’
I sit on the sofa quietly for a few minutes – but it’s quite boring just sitting on a sofa – so at last I get up and look out of the windows, gazing down at all the little cars whizzing over the bridge. There’s a bookshelf nearby with lots of business hardbacks and a few awards. No photo of Willow, though. Nor is there one on his desk. He must have a photo of her somewhere, surely?
As I’m looking around, trying to spot it, I notice another doorway and can’t help peering at it curiously. Why does he have another door? Where does it lead to?
‘Bathroom,’ says Sam, spotting me. ‘Do you want to use it? Go ahead.’
Wow. He has an executive bathroom!
I head inside, hoping to find some amazing palace of marble – but it’s quite normal really, with a small shower and glass tiles. Still. Your own bathroom inside your office. That’s pretty cool.
I take the opportunity to redo my make-up, brush my hair and tug my denim skirt back into place. I open the door and am about to step outside when I suddenly realize there’s a soup splash on my shirt. Shit.
Maybe I can get that off.
I dampen a towel and give the stain a quick rub. No. Not wet enough. I’ll have to lean down and get it right under the tap.
As I’m bending down, I see a woman in a smart black trouser suit in the mirror, and jump. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve got a reflected view of the whole office, and she’s actually approaching Sam’s glass door. She’s tall and imposing-looking, in her forties, maybe, and is holding a piece of paper.
Her expression is fairly grim. Ooh, maybe she’s the CEO with bad personal hygiene.
No. Surely not. Look at that perfectly crisp white shirt.
Oh my God, is this Willow?
I suddenly feel even more embarrassed about my soup stain. It hasn’t come off at all, I’ve just got a big wet patch on my T-shirt. In fact, I look hideous. Should I tell Sam I can’t come to the meeting after all? Or maybe he has a spare shirt I could borrow. Don’t businessmen always keep spare shirts at the office?
No, Poppy. Don’t be ridiculous. And anyway, there’s no time. The woman in the black suit is already rapping at his door and pushing it open. I watch in the mirror, on tenterhooks.
‘Sam. I need a word.’
‘Sure. What is it?’ He looks up and frowns at her expression. ‘Vicks, what’s up?’
Vicks! Of course this is Vicks, head of PR. I should have realized at once.
I feel I already know her, from all her emails, and she’s just as I imagined. Short, sharp brown hair, businesslike manner, sensible shoes, expensive watch. And, right now, a look of massive stress on her face.
‘Only a handful of people know about this,’ she says as she closes the door. ‘An hour ago I had a call from a mate of mine at ITN. They’ve got hold of an internal memo from Nick which they’re planning to splash across the ten o’clock bulletin.’ She winces. ‘It’s . . . it’s bad, Sam.’
‘Memo?’ He looks perplexed. ‘What memo?’
‘A memo he apparently sent to you and Malcolm? Several months ago now? When you were doing that advisory work with BP? Here. Have a read.’
After about ten seconds I peep round the side of the ajar bathroom door. I can see Sam reading a printed sheet, an expression of shock on his face.
‘What the fuck—’
‘I know.’ Vicks lifts her hands. ‘I know.’
‘This is . . .’ He seems speechless.
‘It’s a disaster,’ Vicks says calmly. ‘He’s basically talking about accepting bribes. Put that together with the fact he’s on a government committee right now . . .’ She hesitates. ‘You and Malcolm could be compromised too. We’ll need to look at that.’
‘But . . . but I’ve never seen this memo in my life!’ Sam finally seems to have found his voice. ‘Nick didn’t send this to me! He didn’t write these things. He would never have written these things. I mean, he sent us a memo which began the same way, but—’
‘Yes, that’s what I gather from Malcolm too. The memo he received wasn’t word for word the same as this one.’
‘Not “word for word”?’ echoes Sam impatiently. ‘It was totally fucking different! Yes, it was about BP, yes, it raised the same issues, but it did not say these things.’ He hits the page. ‘I don’t know where the hell this has come from. Have you spoken to Nick?’
‘Of course. He says the same thing. He didn’t send this memo, he’s never seen it before, he’s as baffled as we are.’
‘So!’ Sam exclaims impatiently. ‘Head this off! Find the original memo, phone your friend at ITN, tell them they’ve been sold a pup. The IT guys will be able to prove what was written when, they’re good at that stuff . . .’ He breaks off. ‘What?’
‘We’ve tried.’ She exhales. ‘We’ve looked. We can’t find an original version of the memo anywhere.’
‘What?’ He stares at her. ‘But . . . that’s crazy. Nick must have saved it.’
‘They’re searching. Here and at his Berkshire office. So far, this is the only version they’ve managed to find on the system.’ She taps the paper in turn.
‘Bullshit!’ Sam gives an incredulous laugh. ‘Wait. I have it myself!’
He sits down and opens up a file. ‘I would have put it . . .’ He clicks a few more times. ‘Here we are! You see . . . here it is . . .’ He breaks off suddenly, breathing hard. ‘What the—’
There’s silence. I can hardly breathe.
‘No,’ expostulates Sam suddenly. ‘No way. This is not the version I received.’ He looks up, baffled. ‘What’s going on? I had it.’
‘Not there?’ Vicks’s voice is tight with disappointment.
Sam is clicking frantically at his computer mouse again.
‘This makes no bloody sense,’ he’s saying, almost to himself. ‘The memo was emailed over. It came to me and Malcolm on the system. I had it. I read it with my own eyes. It has to be here.’ He glowers at his screen. ‘Where the fuck is that fucking email?’
‘Did you print it out? Did you keep it? Do you still have that original version?’ I can see the hope in Vicks’s eyes.
‘No.’ Sam sighs. ‘I read it online. Malcolm?’
‘He didn’t print it out either. And he can only find this version on his laptop. OK.’ Vicks sags a little. ‘Well . . . we’ll keep trying.’
‘It has to be there.’ Sam sounds adamant. ‘If the techies say they can’t find it, they’re wrong. Put more of them on to it.’
‘They’re all searching. We haven’t told them why, obviously.’
‘Well, if we can’t find it, you’ll just have to tell ITN it’s a mystery to us,’ says Sam energetically. ‘We refute it. We make it crystal clear that this memo was never read by me, never written by Nick, has never been seen before by anyone in the company—’
‘Sam, it’s on the company system.’ Vicks sounds weary. ‘We can hardly claim that no one in the company has ever seen it. Unless we can find the other memo—’ Her phone bleeps with a text and she glances at it. ‘That’s Julian from Legal. They’re going to go for an injunction, but . . .’ She gives a hopeless shrug. ‘Now Nick’s a government adviser, there’s not much chance.’
Sam is peering at the sheet of paper again, a frown of distaste on his face.
‘Who wrote this crap?’ he says. ‘It doesn’t even sound like Nick.’
‘God knows.’
I’m so rapt that when my phone suddenly buzzes I nearly expire in fright. I glance at the screen and feel another jolt of fright. I can’t stay hiding here. I quickly press Talk, and hurry out of the bathroom, my legs a little wobbly.
‘Um, sorry to disturb,’ I say awkwardly, and hold out the phone. ‘Sam, it’s Sir Nicholas for you.’
Vicks’s expression of horror almost makes me want to laugh – except she looks as though she might strangle someone. And that someone could be me.
‘Who’s she?’ she snaps, eyeing the stain on my T-shirt. ‘Is this your new PA?’
‘No. She’s . . .’ Sam waves it off. ‘Long story. Nick!’ he exclaims into the receiver. ‘I’ve just heard. Jesus.’
‘Did you hear any of that?’ says Vicks to me in a savage undertone.
‘No! I mean yes. A bit.’ I’m gabbling in fright. ‘But I wasn’t really listening. I didn’t hear anything. I was brushing my hair. Really hard.’
‘OK. I’ll be in touch. Keep us posted.’ Sam switches off the phone and shakes his head. ‘When the hell will he learn to use the right number? Sorry.’
Distractedly, he puts the phone down on the desk. ‘This is ridiculous. I’m going to speak to the techies myself. If they can’t find a lost email, for fuck’s sake, they should all be fired. They should be fired anyway. They’re useless.’
‘Could it be on your phone?’ I suggest timidly.
Sam’s eyes light up for a moment – then he shakes his head.
‘No. This was months ago. The phone doesn’t store emails beyond two months. Nice idea, though, Poppy.’
Vicks looks as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
‘Again – who’s she? Does she have a pass?’
‘Yes.’ I hurriedly produce my laminated card.
‘She’s . . . OK. She’s a visitor. I’ll deal with her. Come on. We need to talk to the techies.’
Without a word in my direction, Sam hurries out into the corridor. A moment later, looking absolutely livid, Vicks follows. I can hear a stream of low-pitched invective coming from her as they walk off.
‘Sam, when exactly were you planning to tell me you had a fucking visitor in your bathroom, listening to our fucking confidential crisis? You do realize my job is to control the flow of information? Control it?’
‘Vicks, relax.’
As they disappear from view I sink down on to a chair, feeling a bit unreal. Yowzer. I have no idea what to do now. Should I stay? Should I go? Is the meeting with the CEO still going to happen?
I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere – but after about twenty minutes of sitting there alone, I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I’ve leafed through a magazine full of words I don’t understand, and I’ve thought about getting myself a coffee (and decided against it). The CEO meeting must surely be off. Sam must be tied up. I’m gearing myself up to write him a note and leave, when a blond guy taps at the glass door. He looks about twenty-three and is holding a massive rolled-up piece of blue paper.
‘Hi,’ he says shyly. ‘Are you Sam’s new PA?’
‘No. I’m just . . . err . . . helping him.’
‘Oh, OK.’ He nods. ‘Well, it’s about the competition. The ideas competition?’
Oh God. This again.
‘Yes?’ I say encouragingly. ‘Do you want to leave Sam a message?’
‘I want this to get to him. It’s a visualization of the company? A restructuring exercise? It’s self-explanatory, but I’ve attached some notes . . .’
He hands over the rolled-up paper, together with an exercise book, full of writing.
I already know there is no way Sam is going to look at any of this. I feel quite sorry for this guy.
‘OK! Well . . . I’ll make sure he sees it. Thanks!’
As the blond guy heads off, I unroll a corner of the paper out of curiosity – and I don’t believe it. It’s a collage! Like I used to do when I was about five!
I spread the whole thing out flat on the floor, anchoring the corners with chair legs. It’s in the design of a tree, with photos of staff stuck on to the branches. God only knows what it’s supposed to say about the structure of the company – I don’t care. What’s interesting for me is that under each photo is the person’s name. Which means finally I can put faces to all the people who have sent an email through Sam’s phone. This is riveting.
Jane Ellis is a lot younger than I expected, and Malcolm is fatter and Chris Davies turns out to be a woman. There’s Justin Cole . . . and there’s Lindsay Cooper . . . and there’s—
My finger stops dead.
Willow Harte.
She’s nestling on a lower branch, smiling out cheerfully. Thin
and dark-haired, with very arched black eyebrows. She’s quite pretty, I grudgingly admit, although not supermodel standard.
And she works on the same floor as Sam. Which means . . .
Oh, I’ve got to. Come on. I’ve got to have a quick peek at the psycho fiancée before I go.
I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the whole floor. I have no idea if she’ll be in the open-plan area or have her own office. I’ll just have to wander around. If anyone stops me I’ll be Sam’s new PA.
I grab a couple of files as camouflage, and cautiously venture out. A couple of people typing at their computers lift their heads and give me an uninterested glance. Skirting round the edge of the floor, I glance through windows and at names on doors, trying to catch a glimpse of a girl with dark hair; listening out for a whiny, nasal voice. She has to have a whiny, nasal voice, surely. And lots of stupid, made-up allergies, and about ten therapists—
I freeze. That’s her! It’s Willow!
She’s ten yards away. Sitting in one of the glass-walled offices. To be honest, I can’t see much of her except her profile and a hank of long hair hanging down the back of her chair and some long legs ending in black ballet pumps – but it’s definitely her. I feel as though I’ve stumbled on some mythological creature.
As I approach I start to tingle all over. I have a dreadful feeling I might suddenly giggle. This is so ridiculous. Spying on someone I’ve never met. I clutch my folders more tightly and edge forward a little more.
There are two younger women in the office with her, and they’re all drinking tea, and Willow is talking.
Damn. She doesn’t have a whiny, nasal voice. In fact, it’s quite melodious and sane-sounding – except when you start listening to what she’s actually saying.
‘Of course this is all just to get back at me,’ she’s saying. ‘This whole exercise is one big “Fuck You, Willow”. You know it was actually my idea?’
‘No!’ says one of the girls. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes.’ She turns her head briefly and I catch sight of a sorrowful, pitying smile. ‘New-idea generation is my thing. Sam ripped me off. I was planning to send out exactly the same email. Same words, everything. He probably saw it on my laptop one night.’
I’m listening, completely stunned. Is she talking about my email? I want to burst in and say, ‘He couldn’t have ripped you off, he didn’t even send it!’
‘That’s the kind of move he pulls all the time,’ she adds and takes a sip of tea. ‘That’s how he’s made his career. No integrity.’
OK, I’m completely fogged now. Either I’m all wrong about Sam or she’s all wrong about him, because in my opinion he’s the last person in the world you could imagine ripping somebody else off.
‘I just don’t know why he has to compete with me,’ Willow’s saying now. ‘What is it with men? What’s wrong with facing the world together? Side by side? What’s wrong with being a partnership? Or is that just too . . . generous for him to get his stupid male head around?’
‘He wants control,’ says the other girl, cracking a biscuit in half. ‘They all do. He’s never going to give you the credit you deserve in a million years.’
‘But can’t he see how perfect it could be if we could just get it fucking right? If we could get beyond this crappy bad patch?’ Willow sounds suddenly impassioned. ‘Working together, being together . . . the whole package . . . it could be sublime.’ She breaks off and takes a gulp of tea. ‘The question is, how long do I give him? Because I can’t go on like this much longer.’
‘Have you talked it through?’ says the first girl.
‘Please! You know Sam and “talking”.’ She makes quote marks with her fingers.
Well. I’m with her there.
‘It makes me sad.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not for me, for him. He can’t see what’s in front of his face and he doesn’t know how to value what he has, and you know what? He’s going to lose it. And then he’s going to want it, but it’ll be too late. Too late.’ She bangs her tea cup down. ‘Gone.’
I’m suddenly gripped. I’m seeing this conversation in a new light. I’m suddenly realizing that Willow has more insight than I thought. Because, if truth be told, this is just what I feel about Sam and his father. Sam can’t see what he’s losing, and when he does it may be too late. OK, I know I don’t know the whole story between them. But I’ve seen the emails, I’ve got the idea—
My thoughts stop abruptly in their tracks. Alarm bells have started to ring in my head. At first distant, but now getting loud and clangy. Oh no, oh no, oh God . . .
Sam’s father. The 24th of April. That’s today. I’d completely forgotten. How could I be so stupid?
Horror is rising up me like chill water. Sam’s dad’s going to pitch up at the Chiddingford Hotel, expecting some lovely reunion. Today. He’s probably on his way already. He’ll be all excited. And Sam won’t even be there. He’s not going to the conference until tomorrow.
Shiiiiit. I’ve really messed up. I’d forgotten all about it, what with all the other emergencies going on.
What do I do? How do I solve this? I can’t tell Sam. He’ll go absolutely mad. And he’s so stressed anyway. Do I cancel the dad? Send a quick raincheck apology email? Or will that make everything even worse between them?
There’s only one tiny ray of hope. Sam’s dad never sent any reply, which is why I forgot about it. So maybe he never even got the email. Maybe it’s all OK—
I suddenly realize I’m nodding emphatically, as though to persuade myself. One of the girls with Willow looks up and eyes me curiously. Oops.
‘Right!’ I say out loud. ‘So . . . I’ll just . . . Good. Yes.’ I hastily turn on my heel. If there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s being busted by Willow. I scurry to the safety of Sam’s office, and am about to grab the phone to email Sam’s dad when I see Sam and Vicks marching back towards the office, apparently in the middle of a blazing argument. They look a bit terrifying, and I find myself backing hastily into the bathroom.
As they stride in, neither of them even notices me.
‘We cannot release this statement,’ Sam is saying furiously. He crumples the piece of paper he’s holding and throws it in the bin. ‘It’s a travesty. You’re completely shafting Nick, you do understand that?’
‘That’s not fair, Sam.’ Vicks looks prickly. ‘I’d say it’s a reasonable and balanced official response. Nothing in our statement says he did or didn’t write the memo—’
‘But it should! You should be telling the world that he would never say these things in a million years! You know he wouldn’t!’
‘That’s for him to say in his own personal statement. What we cannot do is look as though we condone these kinds of practices—’
‘Hanging John Gregson out to dry was bad enough,’ says Sam, his voice low, as though he’s trying to keep control of himself. ‘That should never have happened. He should never have lost his job. But Nick! Nick is everything to this company.’
‘Sam, we’re not hanging him out to dry. He’s going to release his own statement. He can say what he likes in that.’
‘Great,’ says Sam sarcastically. ‘But meanwhile, his own board won’t stand by him. What kind of vote of confidence is that? Remind me not to hire you to represent me when I’m ever in a spot.’
Vicks flinches, but says nothing. Her phone buzzes, but she presses Ignore.
‘Sam . . .’ She stops – then takes a deep breath and starts again. ‘You’re being idealistic. I know you admire Nick. We all do. But he’s not everything to this company. Not any more.’ She winces at Sam’s glare, but carries on. ‘He’s one man. One brilliant, flawed, high-profile man. In his sixties.’
‘He’s our leader.’ Sam sounds livid.
‘Bruce is our chairman.’
‘Nick founded this fucking company, if you remember—’
‘A long time ago, Sam. A very long time ago.’
Sam exhales sharply and walks off a few paces, as though trying to calm himself. I’m watching, totally agog, not daring even to breathe.
‘So you side with them,’ he says at last.
‘It’s not a question of siding. You know my affection for Nick.’ She’s looking more and more uncomfortable. ‘But this is a modern business. Not some quirky family firm. We owe it to our backers, our clients, our staff—’
‘Jesus Christ, Vicks. Listen to yourself.’
There’s a sharp silence. Neither of them is looking at the other. Vicks’s face is creased and troubled-looking. Sam’s hair is more rumpled than ever and he looks absolutely furious.
I feel a bit stunned by the intensity in the room. I always thought being in PR sounded like a fun job. I had no idea it was like this.
‘Vicks.’ The unmistakable drawl of Justin Cole hits the air, and a moment later he’s in the room, wafting Fahrenheit and satisfaction. ‘Got this under control, have you?’
‘The lawyers are on it. We’re just drafting a press statement.’ She gives him a tight smile.
‘Because for the sake of the company, we need to be careful that none of the other directors are tainted with these unfortunate . . . views. You know what I’m saying?’
‘It’s all in hand, Justin.’
From Vicks’s sharp tone, I’m guessing she doesn’t like Justin any more than Sam does.
‘Great. Of course, very unfortunate for Sir Nicholas. Great shame.’ Justin looks delighted. ‘Still, he is getting on now—’
‘He is not getting on.’ Sam scowls at Justin. ‘You really are an arrogant little shit.’
‘Temper, temper!’ Justin says pleasantly. ‘Oh, tell you what, Sam. Let’s send him an e-card.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Guys!’ Vicks pleads.
I can totally understand now why Sam was talking about victories and camps. The aggression between these two is brutal. They’re like those stags who fight every autumn until they wrench each other’s antlers off.
Justin shakes his head pityingly – his expression changing briefly to surprise as he clocks me in the corner – then saunters out again.
‘That memo is a smear,’ Sam says in a low, furious voice. ‘It’s been planted. Justin Cole knows it and he’s behind it.’
‘What?’ Vicks sounds at the end of her tether. ‘Sam Roxton, you do not go around saying things like that! You’ll sound like a conspiracy nutter.’
‘It was a different. Fucking. Memo.’ Sam sounds like he’s beyond exasperation with the whole world. ‘I saw the original version. Malcolm saw it. There was no talk of bribes. Now it’s disappeared from the entire computer system. No trace. Explain that and then call me a conspiracy nutter.’
‘I can’t explain it,’ says Vicks after a pause. ‘And I’m not even going to try to. I’m going to do my job.’
‘Someone did this. You know it. You’re playing right into their hands, Vicks. They’re smearing Nick and you’re letting them.’
‘No. No. Stop.’ Vicks is shaking her head. ‘I’m not playing this game. I don’t get involved.’ She walks over to the waste-paper basket, retrieves the crumpled statement and spreads it out.
‘I can change a detail or two,’ she says. ‘But I’ve spoken to Bruce and we have to go with this.’ She holds out a pen. ‘You want to make any small amendments? Because Julian is on his way right now to approve it.’
Sam ignores the pen.
‘What if we find the original memo? What if we can prove this one is a fake?’
‘Great!’ There’s a sudden new edge to her voice. ‘Then we release it, Nick’s integrity is saved and we throw a party. Believe me, Sam, I would like nothing better than that. But we have to work with what we have. Which, right now, is a damaging memo we can’t explain away.’ Vicks rubs her face, then screws her fists into her eyes. ‘This morning I was trying to cover up that embarrassment with the drunken post guy,’ she mutters, almost to herself. ‘I was worried about that.’
She really shouldn’t do that. She’s giving herself bags under her eyes.
‘When does the statement go out?’ says Sam at length. All his tempestuous energy seems to have dissipated. His shoulders have slumped and he sounds so low I almost want to go and give him a hug.
‘That’s the one bright ray.’ Vicks’s voice is softer now, as though she wants to treat him gently in his defeat. ‘They’re keeping it for the ten o’clock bulletin, so we have a good six hours or so to play with.’
‘A lot can happen in six hours,’ I volunteer timidly, and both of them jump as though scalded.
‘She’s still here?’
‘Poppy.’ Even Sam looks taken aback. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d still be here—’
‘She heard all that?’ Vicks looks like she wants to hit someone. ‘Sam, are you out of your mind?’
‘I won’t say anything!’ I say hurriedly. ‘Promise.’
‘OK.’ Sam breathes out. ‘My mistake. Poppy, this isn’t your fault, I was the one who invited you. I’ll find someone to escort you out.’ He leans his head out of his office door. ‘Stephanie? Borrow you a sec?’
A few moments later a pleasant-looking girl with long blonde hair arrives at the office.
‘Can you take our visitor down, sign her out, sort out the pass, all that?’ says Sam. ‘Sorry, Poppy, I’d do it myself, but—’
‘No, no!’ I say at once. ‘Of course. You’re tied up, I understand—’
‘The meeting!’ says Sam as though suddenly remembering. ‘Of course. Poppy, I’m sorry. It was cancelled. But it’ll be rearranged. I’ll be in touch . . .’
‘Great!’ I muster a smile. ‘Thanks.’
He won’t. But I don’t blame him.
‘I hope it all works out well for you,’ I add. ‘And Sir Nicholas.’
Vicks’s eyes are swivelling madly in her head. She’s obviously totally paranoid that I’m about to spill the beans.
I don’t know what to do about Sam’s dad. I can’t possibly tell Sam now – he’ll explode from stress. I’ll just have to get a message to the hotel or something. And then bow out.
Like maybe I should have done in the first place.
‘Well . . . thanks again.’ I meet Sam’s eyes and feel a sudden strange pang. This really is the last goodbye. ‘Here you are.’ I proffer the phone.
‘No problem.’ He takes it from me and puts it down on his desk. ‘Sorry about all this—’
‘No! I just hope it all . . .’ I nod several times, not daring to say any more in front of Stephanie.
It’s going to be odd, not being in Sam’s life any more. I’ll never know how any of it turns out. Maybe I’ll read about this memo in the papers. Maybe I’ll read an announcement about Sam and Willow in a wedding column.
‘Bye, then.’ I turn and follow Stephanie down the corridor. A couple of people are walking along with overnight bags, and as we get into the lift they’re in mid-conversation about the hotel and how crap the mini bars are.
‘So it’s your conference today,’ I say politely as we arrive at the ground floor. ‘How come you’re not down there?’
‘Oh, we stagger it.’ She ushers me out into the lobby. ‘A whole bunch of people are already there and the second coach is leaving in a few minutes. I’ll be on that. Although actually, tomorrow’s the main event. That’s when we have the gala dinner and Santa Claus’s speech. It’s usually quite fun.’
‘Santa Claus?’ I can’t help laughing.
‘It’s what we call Sir Nicholas. You know, just a silly in-house nickname. Sir Nick . . . St Nick . . . Santa Claus . . . it’s a bit lame, I know.’ She smiles. ‘If you can just give me your security pass?’
I hand over the laminated card and she gives it to one of the security personnel. He says something about ‘nice photo’, but I’m not listening. An odd feeling is creeping over me.
Santa Claus. Wasn’t that bloke who called Violet’s phone going on about Santa Claus? Is that a coincidence?
As Stephanie leads me across the marble floor to the main doors, I’m trying to remember what he said. It was all about surgery. Incisions. Something about ‘no trace’—
I stop dead, my heart suddenly thumping. That’s the same phrase Sam used, just now. No trace.
‘OK?’ Stephanie notices I’ve stopped.
‘Fine! Sorry.’ I shoot her a smile and resume walking along, but my mind is wheeling. What else did that guy say? What exactly was it about Santa Claus? Come on, Poppy, think.
‘Well, bye! Thanks for visiting!’ Stephanie smiles once more.
‘Thank you!’ And as I step outside on to the pavement, I feel a jolt inside. I have it. Adios, Santa Claus.
More people are coming out of the building and I step aside, to where a window cleaner is swooshing suds all over the glass. I reach into my bag and start scrabbling around for the Lion King programme. Please don’t say I’ve lost it, please—
I haul it out and stare at my scribbled words:
18 April – Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.
20 April – Scottie rang. It’s done. Surgical strike.
No trace. Genius stuff. Adios, Santa Claus.
It’s as though the voices are playing back in my mind. It’s as though I’m listening to them again. I’m hearing the young, reedy voice and the older, sophisticated drawl.
And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt who left the first message. It was Justin Cole.
Oh. My God.
I’m quivering all over. I have to get back in and show these messages to Sam. They mean something, I don’t know what, but it’s something. I push the big glass doors open, and the concierge girl immediately appears in front of me. When I was with Sam she waved us through, but now she smiles at me remotely as though she hasn’t just seen me walking along with Stephanie.
‘Hello. Do you have an appointment?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I need to see Sam Roxton at White Globe Consulting. Poppy Wyatt.’
I wait while she turns away and makes a call on her cell phone. I’m trying to stand there patiently but I’m barely able to contain myself. Those messages are something to do with this whole memo thing. I know they are.
‘I’m sorry.’ The girl faces me with professional pleasantness. ‘Mr Roxton is unavailable right now.’
‘Could you tell him it’s urgent?’ I shoot back. ‘Please?’
Clearly restraining a desire to tell me to get lost, the girl turns away and makes another call, which lasts all of thirty seconds.
‘I’m sorry.’ Another frozen smile. ‘Mr Roxton is busy for the remainder of the day, and most of the other staff are away at the company conference. Perhaps you should phone his assistant and make an appointment. Now, if you could please make way for our other guests?’
She’s ushering me out of the main doors. ‘Make way’ clearly means ‘Piss off’.
‘Look, I need to see him.’ I duck round her and start heading for the escalators. ‘Please let me go up there. It’ll be fine.’
‘Excuse me!’ she says, grabbing me by the sleeve. ‘You can’t just march in there! Thomas?’
Oh, you have to be kidding. She’s calling over the security guard. What a wimp.
‘But it’s a real emergency.’ I appeal to both of them. ‘He’ll want to see me.’
‘Then call and make an appointment!’ she snaps back, as the security guard leads me to the main doors.
‘Fine!’ I snap back. ‘I will! I’ll call right now! See you in two minutes!’ I stomp on to the pavement and reach into my pocket.
And then the full horror hits me. I don’t have a phone.
I’m powerless. I can’t get into the building and I can’t ring Sam. I can’t tell him about this. I can’t do anything. Why didn’t I buy a new phone earlier? Why don’t I always walk around with a spare phone? It should be the law, like having a spare tyre.
‘Excuse me?’ I hurry over to the window cleaner. ‘Do you have a phone I can borrow?’
‘Sorry, love.’ He clicks his teeth. ‘I do, but it’s out of battery.’
‘Right.’ I smile, breathless with anxiety. ‘Thanks anyway – oh!’
I stop mid-stream, peering through the glass into the building. God loves me! There’s Sam! He’s standing twenty yards away in the lobby, talking animatedly to some guy in a suit holding a leather briefcase.
I push open the main doors, but Thomas the security guard is waiting for me.
‘I don’t think so,’ he says, blocking my way.
‘But I need to get in.’
‘If you could step aside—’
‘But he’ll want to see me! Sam! Over here! It’s Poppy! Saaam!’ I yell, but someone’s moving a sofa in the reception area and the scraping sound on the marble drowns me out.
‘No you don’t!’ says the security guard firmly. ‘Out you go.’ His hands are around my shoulders and the next thing, I find myself back on the pavement, panting in outrage.
I can’t believe that just happened. He threw me out! I’ve never been physically thrown out of anywhere in my life. I didn’t think they were allowed to do that.
A crowd of people has arrived at the entrance and I stand aside to let them go in, my thoughts skittering wildly. Should I hurry down the street and try to find a payphone? Should I try to get in again? Should I make a run for it into the lobby and see how far I get before I’m tackled to the ground? Sam’s standing in front of the lifts now, still talking to the guy with the leather briefcase. He’ll be gone in a few moments. It’s torture. If I could only attract his attention—
‘No luck?’ says the window cleaner sympathetically from the top of his ladder. He’s covered an entire massive pane of glass with suds and is about to wipe them off with his scraper thing.
And then it comes to me.
‘Wait!’ I call urgently up to him. ‘Don’t wipe! Please!’
I’ve never written in soap suds in my life before, but luckily I’m not aiming for anything very ambitious. Just ‘M A ‘. In six-foot-high letters. A bit wobbly – but who’s fussing?
‘Nice job,’ says the window cleaner approvingly from where he’s sitting. ‘You could come into business with me.’
‘Thanks,’ I say modestly, and wipe my brow, my arm aching.
If Sam doesn’t see that; if someone doesn’t notice it and poke him on the shoulder and say, ‘Hey, look at that—’
‘Poppy?’
I turn and look down from my perch on the window cleaner’s ladder. Sam’s standing there on the pavement, looking up at me incredulously.
‘Is that addressed to me?’
We take the lift upstairs in silence. Vicks is waiting in Sam’s office and as she sees me she bangs her forehead with the heel of her hand.
‘This had better be good,’ says Sam tersely, closing the glass door behind us. ‘I have five minutes. There’s a bit of an emergency going on—’
I feel a flash of anger. Does he think I don’t realize that? Does he think I wrote ‘SAM’ in six-foot sudsy letters just on a whim?
‘I appreciate that,’ I say, matching his curt tone. ‘I just thought you might be interested in these messages which came into Violet’s phone last week. This phone.’ I reach for the phone, still lying on his desk.
‘Whose phone is that?’ says Vicks, eyeing me with suspicion.
‘Violet’s,’ replies Sam. ‘My PA? Clive’s daughter? Shot off to be a model?’
‘Oh, her.’ Vicks frowns again and jerks a thumb at me. ‘Well, what was she doing with Violet’s phone?’
Sam and I exchange glances.
‘Long story,’ says Sam at last. ‘Violet threw it away. Poppy was . . . babysitting it.’
‘I got a couple of messages which I wrote down.’ I put the Lion King programme down between them, and read the messages out for good measure, as I know my writing isn’t that clear. ‘“Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.”’ I point at the programme. ‘This second message was two days later, from Scottie himself. “It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adios, Santa Claus.”’ I let the words sink in a moment before I add, ‘The first message was from Justin Cole.’
‘Justin?’ Sam looks alert.
‘I didn’t recognize his voice at the time, but I do now. It was him talking about “keyhole surgery” and “no trace”.’
‘Vicks.’ Sam is looking at her. ‘Come on. You’ve got to see now—’
‘I see nothing! Just a few random words. How can we even be sure it was Justin?’
Sam turns to me. ‘Are these voice-mails? Can we still listen to them?’
‘No. They were just . . . you know. Phone messages. They left them and I wrote them down.’
Vicks looks perplexed. ‘OK, this makes no sense. Did you introduce yourself? Why would Justin have left a message with you?’ She exhales angrily. ‘Sam, I don’t have time for this . . .’
‘He didn’t realize I was a person,’ I explain, flushing. ‘I pretended to be an answering machine.’
‘What?’ She stares at me, uncomprehending.
‘You know.’ I put on my voice-mail-lady voice. ‘“I’m afraid the person you’ve called is not available. Please leave a message.’’ And then he left the message and I wrote it down.’
Sam gives a muffled snort of laughter, but Vicks looks speechless. She picks up the Lion King programme for a moment, frowning at the words, then flicks through to the inside pages, although the only information she’ll find there is the actors’ biographies. At last she puts it back down on the table. ‘Sam, this means nothing. It changes nothing.’
‘It does not mean nothing.’ He shakes his head adamantly. ‘This is it! Right here.’ He jabs a thumb at the programme. ‘This is what’s been going on.’
‘But what’s been going on?’ Her voice rises in exasperation. ‘Who’s Scottie, for fuck’s sake?’
‘He called Sir Nicholas “Santa Claus”.’ Sam’s face is screwed up in thought. ‘Which means it’s likely to be someone in the company. But where? In IT?’
‘Is Violet anything to do with it?’ I venture. ‘It was her phone, after all.’
There’s silence for a moment – then Sam shakes his head, almost regretfully.
‘She was only here for about five minutes, her father’s a good friend of Sir Nicholas . . . I just can’t believe she’s involved.’
‘So why did they leave messages for her? Did they have the wrong number or something?’
‘Unlikely.’ Sam wrinkles his nose. ‘I mean, why this number?’
Automatically I look at the phone, flashing away on the desk. I wonder in a detached way if I’ve got any voice-mails. But somehow, right at this minute, the rest of my life seems a million miles away. The world has shrunk to this room. Both Sam and Vicks have sunk into chairs and I follow suit.
‘Who had Violet’s phone before her?’ says Vicks suddenly. ‘It’s a company phone. She was only here for, what, three weeks? Could it have been someone else’s number previously and those messages were left by mistake?’
‘Yes!’ I look up, galvanized. ‘People are always calling the wrong number by mistake. And emailing the wrong address. I even do it myself. You forget to delete it and press the contact’s name and the old number pops up and you don’t realize. Especially if you go to some generic voice-mail.’
I can see Sam’s mind working overtime.
‘Only one way to find out,’ he says, reaching for a landline phone on the desk. He jabs in a three-digit speed-dial and waits.
‘Hi, Cynthia. Sam here,’ he says easily. ‘Just a quick question about the cell phone that was allocated to Violet, my PA. I was wondering: did anyone else have it before her? Did anyone else ever have that number?’
As he listens, his face changes. He makes a fierce, silent gesture at Vicks, who shrugs back helplessly.
‘Great,’ he says. ‘Thanks, Cynthia—’
From the stream of tinny sound coming from the phone, it’s clear this Cynthia likes to talk.
‘I’d better go . . .’ Sam is rolling his eyes desperately. ‘Yes, I know the phone should have been delivered back. No, we haven’t misplaced it, don’t worry . . . Yes, very unprofessional. No warning. I know, company property . . . I’ll pop it along . . . yes . . . yes . . .’
At last he manages to extricate himself. He puts the receiver down and is silent for an agonizing three seconds before turning to Vicks.
‘Ed.’
‘No.’ Vicks breathes out slowly.
Sam has picked up the phone and is staring incredulously at it. ‘This was Ed’s company phone till four weeks ago. Then it was reassigned to Violet. I had no idea.’ Sam turns to me. ‘Ed Exton was—’
‘I remember.’ I nod. ‘Finance Director. Fired. Suing the company.’
‘Jesus.’ Vicks seems genuinely shell-shocked. She’s sagged back against her chair. ‘Ed.’
‘Who else?’ Sam seems absolutely wired by this discovery. ‘Vicks, this isn’t just an orchestrated plan, it’s a bloody three-movement symphony. Nick is smeared. Bruce axes him, because he’s a pusillanimous arsehole. The board needs another CEO, quick. Ed kindly announces he’ll drop his lawsuit and step back in to save the day, Justin’s nest is feathered . . .’
‘They’d really go to all that trouble?’ says Vicks sceptically.
Sam’s mouth twists into a half-smile. ‘Vicks, do you have any idea quite how much Ed loathes Nick? Some hacker was paid good money to change that memo and remove the old one from the system. I reckon Ed would spend a hundred grand to ruin Nick’s reputation. Two hundred, even.’
Vicks’s face twists with distaste.
‘This would never happen if the company was run by women,’ she says at last. ‘Never. Bloody macho . . . twats.’ She gets to her feet and heads over to the window, staring out at the traffic, her arms wrapped around her body.
‘The question is: who made this happen? Who actually executed it?’ Sam is sitting on his desk, tapping his pen against his knuckles in an urgent drumbeat, his face taut with concentration. ‘“Scottie”. Who’s that? Someone Scottish?’
‘He didn’t actually sound Scottish,’ I volunteer. ‘Maybe his nickname’s a joke?’
Sam suddenly focuses on me, the light dawning on his face. ‘That’s it. Of course. Poppy, would you know his voice again if you heard it?’
‘Sam!’ Vicks interjects sharply before I can answer. ‘No way. You can’t be serious.’
‘Vicks, would you step out of denial for just one second?’ Sam rises to his feet, erupting in fury. ‘The faked memo wasn’t an accident. The leak to ITN wasn’t an accident. This is happening. Someone did this to Nick. This isn’t just a matter of hushing up a little bit of embarrassing . . .’ He gropes for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Facebook activity. It’s a smear. It’s fraud.’
‘It’s a theory.’ She squares up to him. ‘Nothing more, Sam. A few words on a fucking Lion King programme.’
I feel a bit hurt. It’s not my fault all I had with me was a Lion King programme.
‘We need to identify this guy Scottie.’ Sam turns to me again. ‘Would you know his voice again if you heard it?’
‘Yes,’ I say, a little nervous at his intensity.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes!’
‘Right. Well, let’s do it. Let’s go and find him.’
‘Sam, stop right now!’ Vicks sounds furious. ‘You’re insane! What are you going to do, just get her to listen to every staff member talk till she hears that voice?’
‘Why not?’ says Sam mutinously.
‘Because it’s the most ridiculous fucking idea I’ve ever heard!’ Vicks explodes. ‘That’s why not!’
Sam regards her steadily for a moment, then turns to me. ‘Come on, Poppy. We’ll trawl the building.’
Vicks is shaking her head. ‘And if she does recognize his voice? Then what? Citizen’s arrest?’
‘Then it’ll be a start,’ says Sam. ‘Ready, Poppy?’
‘Poppy.’ Vicks comes over and faces me head-on. Her cheeks are pink and she’s breathing hard. ‘I have no idea who you are. But you don’t have to listen to Sam. You don’t have to do this. You owe him nothing. This is all nothing to do with you.’
‘She doesn’t mind,’ says Sam. ‘Do you, Poppy?’
Vicks ignores him. ‘Poppy, I strongly advise you to leave. Now.’
‘That’s not the kind of girl Poppy is,’ says Sam with a scowl. ‘She doesn’t bail out on people. Do you?’ He meets my eye and his gaze is so unexpectedly warm, I feel an inward glow.
I turn to Vicks. ‘You’re wrong, I do owe Sam one. And Sir Nicholas is a potential patient at my physio practice, actually. So he is something to do with me, too.’
I quite liked dropping that in, although I bet Sir Nicholas never does make it down to Balham.
‘And anyway,’ I continue, lifting my chin nobly. ‘Whoever it was, whether I knew them or not, if I could help in some way, I would. I mean, if you can help, you have to help. Don’t you think?’
Vicks stares at me for a moment, as though trying to work me out – then gives a strange, wry smile.
‘OK. Well, you got me. I can’t argue against that.’
‘Let’s go.’ Sam makes for the door.
I grab my bag and wish yet again that my T-shirt didn’t have a huge great splotch on it.
‘Hey, Wallander,’ Vicks chimes in sarcastically. ‘Small point. In case you’d forgotten, everyone’s either already at the conference or on their way to the conference.’
There’s another silence apart from Sam tapping his pen furiously again. I don’t dare speak. I certainly don’t dare look at Vicks.
‘Poppy,’ says Sam at last. ‘Do you have a few hours? Could you come down to Hampshire?’
. Or me, for that matter. Not that anyone’s asked me.