I've Got Your Number (27 page)

“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.

“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, 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, his face baffled. “What’s going on? I
had
it.”

“Not there?” Vicks’s voice is tight with disappointment.

Sam is clicking frantically at his computer again.

“This makes no bloody sense,” he’s saying, almost to himself. “The memo was emailed over. It came to Malcolm and me 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.

There’s a long silence.

“No.” Sam exhales. “I read it online. Malcolm?”

“He didn’t print it out either. And he can only find this version on his system. 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 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 that 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 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 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 wants to 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 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 onto 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 … er … 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 onto 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 I can finally 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 fiancee before I go.

I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the 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 round. If anyone stops me, I’ll be Sam’s new PA.

I grab a few 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 the edge of the floor, I glance through windows and peer 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 stop dead.
That’s her! It’s Willow!

She’s ten yards away. Sitting in one of the glass-doored 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 other 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 saying.

“Of course this is all 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. “What is that with men? What’s wrong with facing the world together? Side by side? What’s wrong with being a partnership? Or is that too …
generous
for him to get his stupid male head round?”

“He wants control,” says one of the other girls, cracking a chocolate 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 would be if we could get it fucking
right
? If we could get
beyond
this crappy bad patch?” Willow sounds 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 third 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 teacup down. “Gone.”

I’m suddenly gripped. I’m seeing this conversation in a new light. I’m realizing that Willow has more insight than I gave her credit for. 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. First distant, but now getting loud and clangy. Oh no, oh no, oh God.

Sam’s father. April 24. That’s today. I’d
completely
forgotten. How could I be so
stupid
?

Horror is rising up in 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 rain-check 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 toward 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 realize 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—”