I've Got Your Number
I stare at him in bewilderment. What does he mean, sell them? He surely doesn’t mean …
“Have I spelled your name right?” He looks up from writing on the folder, and I gape at it. Why is he writing my name on the front of a folder entitled Mr. Wombat Official Franchise Agreement ?
“What you’d do is take a small consignment at first. Say … a hundred units.” He waves a hand airily. “You’ll sell that in a day, easy. Especially with our new free gift, Mr. Magical.” He places a plastic wizard on the table and twinkles at me. “The next step is the exciting one. Recruitment!”
“Stop!” I rip the glove puppet off. “I don’t want to sell glove puppets! I’m not doing this!”
David doesn’t even seem to hear me. “Like I say, it’s totally flexible. It’s all profit, direct to you, into your pocket—”
“I don’t want any profit in my pocket!” I lean across the bar table. “I don’t want to join! Thanks anyway!” For good measure I take his pen and cross through Poppy Wyatt on the folder, and David flinches as though I’ve wounded him.
“Well! No need for that! Just trying to do you a favor.”
“I appreciate it.” I try to sound polite. “But I don’t have time to sell wombats. Or … ” I pick up the wizard. “Who’s this? Dumbledore?”
It’s all so random. What’s a magician got to do with a wombat, anyway?
“No!” David seems mortally offended. “It’s not Dumbledore. This is Mr. Magical. New TV series. Next big thing. It was all lined up.”
“Was? What happened?”
“It’s been temporarily canceled,” he says stiffly. “But it’s still a very exciting product. Versatile, unbreakable, popular with both girls and boys. I could let you have five hundred units for … two hundred pounds?”
Is he nuts?
“I don’t want any plastic wizards,” I say as politely as I can. “Thanks anyway.” A thought suddenly crosses my mind. “How many of these Mr. Magicals have you got, then?”
David looks as though he doesn’t want to answer the question. At last he says, “I believe my current stock is ten thousand,” and takes a glug of whiskey.
Ten thousand? Oh my God. Poor David Robinson. I feel quite sorry for him now. What’s he going to do with ten thousand plastic wizards? I dread to ask how many wombats he’s got.
“Maybe Sam will know someone who wants to sell them,” I say encouragingly. “Someone with children.”
“Maybe.” David raises his eyes lugubriously from his drink. “Tell me something. Does Sam still blame me for flooding his house?”
“He hasn’t mentioned it,” I say honestly.
“Well, maybe the damage wasn’t as bad as it looked. Bloody Albanian fish tanks.” David looks downcast. “Absolute tat. And the fish weren’t much better. Word of advice, Poppy: Steer clear of fish.”
I have an urge to giggle and bite my lip hard.
“OK.” I nod as seriously as I can. “I’ll remember that.”
He polishes off the last taco chip, exhales noisily, and looks around the lobby. Uh-oh. He seems to be getting restless. I can’t let him go wandering around.
“So, what was Sam like at college?” I ask, to spin out the conversation a little more.
“Highflier.” David looks a little grouchy. “You know the type. Rowed for the college. Always knew he’d end up doing well. Went off the rails a bit in his second year. Got in a bit of trouble. But that was understandable.”
“How come?” I frown, not following,
“Well, you know.” David shrugs. “After his mum died.”
I freeze, my glass halfway to my lips. What did he just say?
“I’m sorry.” I’m trying—not very well—to conceal my shock. “Did you say Sam’s mother died?”
“Didn’t you know?” David seems surprised. “Beginning of the second year. Heart disease, I think it was. She’d not been well, but no one was expecting her to peg it so soon. Sam took it badly, poor bloke. Though I always say to him, you’re welcome to my old lady, any time you want … ”
I’m not listening. My head is buzzing with confusion. He said it was a friend of his. I know he did. I can hear him now: My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a lot of nights talking with him. Lot of nights … . And it never goes away … .
“Poppy?” David is waving his hand in front of my face. “You all right?”