I've Got Your Number (26 page)

I let my bag drop down onto the table and rub my nose. Sam patiently waits while I get my thoughts in order.

“It’s all very well you telling me that,” I say finally. “It’s all very well saying ‘get it out there.’ What am I supposed to say to them?”

” ‘Them’ being …”

“I dunno. His parents, I guess.”

I suddenly feel disloyal, talking about Magnus’s family behind his back. But it’s a bit late for that.

Sam doesn’t hesitate for a minute.

“You say, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Tavish, you’re making me feel inferior. Do you really think I’m inferior or is this just in my mind?’ “

“What
planet
do you live on?” I stare at him. “I can’t say that! People don’t say things like that!”

Sam laughs. “Do you know what I’m about to do this afternoon? I’m about to tell an industry CEO that he doesn’t work hard enough, that he’s alienating his fellow board members, and that his personal hygiene is becoming a management issue.”

“Oh my God.” I’m cringing at the thought. “No way.”

“It’s going to be fine,” says Sam calmly. “I’ll take him through, point by point, and by the end he’ll be agreeing with me. It’s just technique and confidence. Awkward conversations are kind of my specialism. I learned a lot from Nick,” he adds. “He can tell people that their company is a pile of shit, and they lap out of his hand. Or even that their
country
is a pile of shit.”

“Wow.” I’m a bit awestruck.

“Come and sit in on the meeting. If you’re not busy. There’ll be a couple of other people.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “It’s how you learn.”

I had no idea you could be a specialist at awkward conversations. I’m trying to picture myself telling someone that their personal hygiene is an issue. I can’t imagine finding the words to do that in a million years.

Oh, come on. I
have
to see this.

“OK!” I find myself smiling. “I will. Thanks.”

He hasn’t picked up the phone, I suddenly notice. It’s still lying on the table.

“So … shall I bring this along to your office?” I say casually.

“Sure.” He’s shrugging on his jacket. “Thanks.”

Excellent. I get to check my texts again. Result!

⁷²
soup, duck
, etc. Which I know looks all cool and streamlined, but what
sort
of soup? What
sort
of duck?

⁷³
Isn’t that illegal? What if I wanted to pay in dollars? Would they have to let me?

⁷⁴
OK, this is ridiculous. You write a menu which no one understands and then you pay someone to explain it.

⁷⁵
Why are all her suppliers in such odd places? Whenever I ask her, she talks vaguely about
sourcing
. Ruby reckons it’s so she can charge more for driving hours.

⁷⁶
Magnus was a gasper. Then he gripped me tight between both hands and said he’d known I was vulnerable and that just added to my beauty.

I
t 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 with 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 multicolored 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 blond 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’s wife 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 very 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 … consultation.”

“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 across the office, 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, glowing with delight. “I just heard the news! Sir Nicholas is joining the Guatemala trip! That’s awesome!”

“Yes.” Sam nods brusquely. “We spoke about it last night.”

“Well, I 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.

“Er … 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 I guess is where Violet used to sit. By the window is a sofa, which is where Sam ushers me.

“The meeting’s not for twenty minutes. I’ve 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. At last I get up and wander to the window, 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 for it, I notice another doorway and can’t help peering at it curiously. Why does he have a 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 makeup, brush my hair, and tug my denim skirt back into place. I open the door and am about to step outside when I realize there’s a soup splash on my shirt. Shit.

Maybe I can get that off.

I dampen a towel and give it 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 I 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. Sharply cut brunette 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 has 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 may have been about BP, yes, it may have 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.”