I've Got Your Number

“Yes!” I try to smile. “Sorry. I’m just … I thought it was a friend of his who lost his mother. Not Sam himself. I must have got confused. Silly me. Um, do you want another whiskey?”

David doesn’t reply to my offer. He’s silent awhile, then shoots me an appraising look, cradling his empty drink in his hands. His fleshy thumbs are tracing a pattern on the glass, and I watch them, mesmerized.

“You weren’t confused,” he says at last. “Sam didn’t tell you, did he? He said it was a friend.”

I stare at him, taken aback. I’d written this guy off as a boorish moron. But he’s totally nailed it.

“Yes,” I admit at last. “He did. How did you know?”

“He’s private like that, Sam.” David nods. “When it happened—the death—he didn’t tell anyone at college for days. Only his two closest friends.”

“Right.” I hesitate doubtfully. “Is that … you?”

“Me!” David gives a short, rueful laugh. “No, not me. I’m not in the inner sanctum. It’s Tim and Andrew. They’re his right-hand men. All rowed in the same boat together. Know them?”

I shake my head.

“Joined at the hip, even now, those three guys are. Tim’s over at Merrill Lynch; Andrew’s a barrister in some chambers or other. And of course Sam’s pretty close to his brother, Josh,” David adds. “He’s two years older. Used to come and visit. Sorted Sam out when things went wrong for him. Spoke to his tutors. He’s a good guy.”

I didn’t know Sam had a brother either. As I sit there, digesting all this, I feel a bit chastened. I’ve never even heard of Tim or Andrew or Josh. But then, why would I have heard of them? They probably text Sam directly. They’re probably in touch like normal people. In private. Not like Willow the Witch and old friends trying to hustle some money.

All this time I’ve thought I could see Sam’s entire life. But it wasn’t his entire life, was it? It was one in-box. And I judged him on it.

He has friends. He has a life. He has a relationship with his family. He has a whole load of stuff I have no idea about. I was an idiot if I thought I’d got to know the whole story. I know a single chapter. That’s all.

I take a swig of wine, numbing the strange wistfulness that suddenly washes over me. I’ll never know all of Sam’s other chapters. He’ll never tell me and I’ll never ask. We’ll part ways and I’ll just have the impression I’ve already got. The version of him that lives in his PA’s in-box.

I wonder what impression he’ll have of me. Oh God. Better not go there.

The thought makes me snort with laughter, and David eyes me curiously.

“Funny girl, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” My phone buzzes and I pull it to me, not caring if I’m rude. It’s telling me I have a voice mail from Magnus.

Magnus?

I missed a call from Magnus?

Abruptly my thoughts swoop away from Sam, away from David and this place, to the rest of my life. Magnus. Wedding. Anonymous text. Your fiancée has been unfaithful … . Jumbled thoughts pile into my brain all at once, as though they’ve been clamoring at the door. I leap to my feet, pressing voice mail, jabbing at the keys, impatient and nervous all at once. Although what am I expecting? A confession? A rebuttal? Why would Magnus have any idea that I received an anonymous message?

“Hey, Pops!” Magnus’s distinctive voice is muffled by a background thump of music. “Could you call Professor Wilson and remind her I’m away? Thanks, sweets. Number’s on my desk. Ciao! Having a great time!”

I listen to it twice over for clues, even though I have no idea what kind of clues I’m hoping to glean.83 As I ring off, my stomach is churning. I can’t bear it. I don’t want this. If I’d never got that text message, I’d be happy now. I’d be looking forward to my wedding and thinking about the honeymoon and practicing my new signature. I’d be happy.

I’ve run out of conversational gambits, so I kick off my shoes, draw my feet up onto the bench, and hug my knees morosely. I’m aware that around us, in the bar, the White Globe Consulting employees have started to cluster. I can hear snatches of low, anxious conversation, and I’ve caught the word memo a few times. The news must be seeping out. I glance at my watch and feel a clench of alarm. It’s 9:40 p.m. Only twenty minutes till the ITN bulletin.

For the millionth time I wonder what Vicks and Sam are up to. I wish I could help. I wish I could do something. I feel powerless sitting out here—“OK!” A sharp female voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see Willow standing in front of me, glaring down. She’s changed into a halter-neck evening dress, and even her shoulders are twitchy. “I’m going to ask you this straight, and I hope you’ll answer it straight. No games. No playing around. No little tricks.”