I've Got Your Number

But on the other hand … she wants it printed out, doesn’t she? And put on Sam’s desk, where anyone could read it if they walked by. And it’s not like I’m indiscreet. I won’t mention this to anyone; no one will ever even know I’ve seen it… .

My fingers seem to have a life of their own. Already I’m clicking on the attachment. It takes me a moment to focus on the text, it’s so heavy with capital letters.

Sam

You still haven’t answered me.

Are you intending to? Do you think this is NOT IMPORTANT?????

Jesus.

It’s only the most important thing IN OUR LIFE. And how you can go about your day so calmly … I don’t know. It makes me want to weep.

We need to talk, so, so badly. And I know some of this is my fault, but until we start untying the knots TOGETHER, how will we know who’s pulling which string? How?

The thing is, Sam, sometimes I don’t even know if you have a string. It’s that bad. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU HAVE A STRING.

I can see you shaking your head, Mr. Denial. But it is. It’s THAT BAD, OK???

If you were a human being with a shred of emotion, you’d be crying by now. I know I am. And that’s another thing—I have a ten o’clock with Carter, which you have now FUCKED UP as I left my FUCKING MASCARA at home.

So, be proud of yourself.

Willow

My eyes are like saucers. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

I read it over again—and suddenly find myself giggling. I know I shouldn’t. It’s not funny. She’s obviously really upset. And I know I’ve said some pretty screwy things to Magnus when I’ve been pissed and hormonal. But I would never, ever put them in an email and get his assistant to print it out

My head bobs up in realization. Shit! There’s no Violet anymore. No one’s going to print it out and put it on Sam’s desk. He won’t know about it and he won’t reply and Willow will get even more livid. The awful thing is, this thought makes me want to giggle more.

I wonder if this is a bad day or if she’s always this intense. I can’t resist typing Willow in the search engine, and a whole series of emails pop up. There’s one from yesterday, with the title Are you trying to fuck me or fuck WITH me, Sam? Or CAN’T YOU DECIDE???, and I get another fit of the giggles. Yikes. They must have one of those up and down relationships. Maybe they throw things at each other and shriek and bellow, then have mad passionate sex in the kitchen—

Beyoncé blasts out from the phone, and I nearly drop it as I see Sam Mobile appear on the screen. I have a mad thought that he’s psychic and knows I’ve been spying on his love life.

No more snooping, I hastily promise myself. No more Willow searches. I count to three—then press answer.

“Oh, hi there!” I try to sound relaxed and guiltless, like I was just thinking about something else altogether and not at all imagining him screwing his fiancée amongs a pile of broken crockery.

“Did I have an email from Ned Murdoch this morning?” he launches in without so much as a “Hi.”

“No. I’ve sent all your emails over. Good morning to you too,” I add brightly. “I’m really well, how about you?”

“I thought you might have missed one.” He completely ignores my little dig. “It’s extremely important.”

“Well, I’m extremely thorough,” I retort pointedly. “Believe me, everything that’s coming in to this phone, you’re getting. And there wasn’t anything from Ned Murdoch. Someone called Willow just emailed, by the way,” I add casually. “I’ll forward it on. There’s an attachment, which sounded quite important. But obviously I didn’t look at it at all. Or read it or anything.”

“Hrrrmm.” He gives a kind of noncommittal growl. “So, have you found your ring?”

“Not yet,” I admit reluctantly. “But I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

“You should inform your insurers anyway, you know. They sometimes have a time limit for claiming. Colleague of mine got caught out that way.”

Insurers? Time limits?

I suddenly feel clammy with guilt. I’ve given this no thought at all. I haven’t checked up on my insurance or the Tavishes’ insurance or anything. Instead, I’ve been standing at a pedestrian crossing, missing my chance to walk, reading other people’s emails and laughing at them. Priorities, Poppy.

“Right,” I manage at last. “Yes, I knew that. I’m on it.”

I ring off and stand motionless for a moment, the traffic whizzing in front of me. It’s like he’s pricked my bubble. I have to come clean. It’s the Tavishes’ ring. They should know it’s lost. I’ll have to tell them.