I've Got Your Number (28 page)

“But it should! You should be telling the world that he would never say these things in a million years! You
know
he wouldn’t!”

“That’s for him to say in his own personal statement. What
we
cannot do is look as though we condone these kinds of practices—”

“Hanging John Gregson out to dry was bad enough,” says Sam, his voice low, as though he’s trying to keep control of himself. “That never should have happened. He never should have lost his job. But Nick! Nick is everything to this company.”

“Sam, we’re not hanging him out to dry. He’s going to release his own statement. He can say what he likes in that.”

“Great,” says Sam sarcastically. “But meanwhile his own board won’t stand by him. What kind of vote of confidence is that? Remind me
not
to hire you to represent me if I’m ever in a spot.”

Vicks flinches but says nothing. Her phone buzzes, but she presses
ignore
.

“Sam—” She stops, then takes a deep breath and starts
again. “You’re being idealistic. I know you admire Nick. We all do. But he’s not everything to this company. Not anymore.” She winces at Sam’s glare but carries on. “He’s one man. One brilliant, flawed, high-profile man. In his sixties.”

“He’s our
leader
.” Sam sounds livid.

“Bruce is our chairman.”

“Nick
founded
this fucking company, if you remember.”

“A long time ago, Sam. A very long time ago.”

Sam exhales sharply and walks a few paces off, as though trying to calm himself. I’m watching, agog, not daring even to breathe.

“So you side with them,” he says at last.

“It’s not a question of
siding
. You know my affection for Nick.” She’s looking more and more uncomfortable. “But this is a modern business. Not some quirky family firm. We owe it to our backers, our clients, our staff—”

“Jesus Christ, Vicks. Listen to yourself.”

There’s a sharp silence. Neither of them is looking at the other. Vicks’s face is creased and troubled-looking. Sam’s hair is more rumpled than ever, and he looks absolutely furious.

I feel a bit stunned by the intensity in the room. I always thought being in PR sounded like a
fun
job. I had no idea it was like this.

“Vicks.” The unmistakable drawl of Justin Cole hits the air, and a moment later he’s in the room, wafting Fahrenheit and satisfaction. “Got this under control, have you?”

“The lawyers are on it. We’re just drafting a press statement.” She gives him a tight smile.

“Because, for the sake of the company, we need to be careful that none of the other directors are tainted with these unfortunate … views. You know what I’m saying?”

“It’s all in hand, Justin.”

From Vicks’s sharp tone, I’m guessing she doesn’t like Justin any more than Sam does.
⁷⁷

“Great. Of course, very unfortunate for Sir Nicholas.
Great
shame.” Justin looks delighted. “Still, he is getting on now—”

“He is not getting on.” Sam scowls at Justin. “You really are an arrogant little shit.”

“Temper, temper!” Justin says pleasantly. “Oh, tell you what, Sam. Let’s send him an e-card.”

“Fuck you.”

“Guys!” Vicks sounds close to the edge.

I can totally understand now why Sam was talking about victories and camps. The aggression between these two is brutal. They’re like those stags who fight every fall until they wrench each other’s antlers off.

Justin shakes his head pityingly—his expression changing briefly to surprise as he clocks me in the corner—then saunters out again.

“That memo is a smear,” Sam says in a low, furious voice. “It’s planted. Justin Cole knows it and he’s behind it.”

“What?”
Vicks sounds at the end of her tether. “Sam Roxton, you do
not
go around saying things like that! You’ll sound like a conspiracy nutter.”

“It was a Different. Fucking. Memo.” Sam sounds like he’s beyond exasperation with the whole world. “I saw the original version. Malcolm saw it. There was no talk of bribes. Now it’s disappeared from the whole computer system. No trace. Explain that and
then
call me a conspiracy nutter.”

“I can’t explain it,” says Vicks after a pause. “And I’m not even going to try. I’m going to do my job.”

“Someone did this. You know it. You’re playing right into their hands, Vicks. They’re smearing Nick and you’re letting them.”

“No. No. Stop.” Vicks is shaking her head. “I’m not playing this game. I don’t get involved.” She walks over to the wastepaper basket, retrieves the crumpled statement, and spreads it out.

“I can change a detail or two,” she says. “But I’ve spoken to Bruce and we have to go with this.” She holds out a pen. “You want to make any small amendments? Because Julian is on his way right now to approve it.”

Sam ignores the pen.

“What if we find the original memo? What if we can prove this one is a fake?”

“Great!” There’s a sudden edge to her voice. “Then we release it, Nick’s integrity is saved, and we throw a party. Believe me, Sam, I would like nothing more than that. But we have to work with what we have. Which, right now, is a damaging memo we can’t explain away.” Vicks rubs her face, then screws her fists in her eyes. “This morning I was trying to cover up that embarrassment with the drunken post-guy,” she mutters, almost to herself. “I was worried about
that
.”

She really shouldn’t do that. She’s giving herself bags under her eyes.

“When does the statement go out?” says Sam at length. All his tempestuous energy seems to have dissipated. His shoulders have slumped and he sounds so low I almost want to go and give him a hug.

“That’s the one bright ray.” Vicks’s voice is softer now,
as though she wants to treat him gently in his defeat. “They’re keeping it for the ten o’clock, so we have a good six hours or so to play with.”

“A lot can happen in six hours,” I volunteer timidly, and both of them jump as though scalded.

“
She’s
still here?”

“Poppy.” Even Sam looks taken aback. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d still be here—”

“She
heard
all that?” Vicks looks like she wants to hit someone. “Sam, are you out of your
mind
?”

“I won’t say anything!” I say hurriedly. “Promise.”

“OK.” Sam breathes out. “My mistake. Poppy, this isn’t your fault; I was the one who invited you. I’ll find someone to escort you out.” He leans his head out of his office door. “Stephanie? Borrow you a sec?”

A few moments later a pleasant-looking girl with long blond hair arrives at the office.

“Can you take our visitor down, sign her out, sort out the pass, all that?” says Sam. “Sorry, Poppy, I’d do it myself, but—”

“No, no!” I say at once. “Of course. You’re tied up, I understand—”

“The meeting!” says Sam, as though suddenly remembering. “Of course. Poppy, I’m sorry. It was canceled. But it’ll be rearranged. I’ll be in touch.”

“Great!” I muster a smile. “Thanks.”

He won’t. But I don’t blame him.

“I hope it all works out well for you,” I add. “And Sir Nicholas.”

Vicks’s eyes are swiveling madly in her head. She’s obviously paranoid that I’m about to spill the beans.

I don’t know what to do about Sam’s dad. I can’t possibly
tell Sam now—he’ll explode from stress. I’ll just have to get a message to the hotel or something. And then bow out.

Like maybe I should have done in the first place.

“Well … thanks again.” I meet Sam’s eyes and feel a strange pang. This really is the last goodbye. “Here you are.” I proffer the phone.

“No problem.” He takes it from me and puts it down on his desk. “Sorry about all this—”

“No! I hope it all …” I nod several times, not daring to say any more in front of Stephanie.

It’s going to be odd, not being in Sam’s life anymore. I’ll never know how any of it turns out. Maybe I’ll read about this memo in the papers. Maybe I’ll read an announcement about Sam and Willow in a wedding column.

“Bye, then.” I turn and follow Stephanie down the corridor. A couple of people are walking along with overnight bags, and as we get into the lift they’re in mid-conversation about the hotel and how crap the minibar is.

“So it’s your conference today,” I say politely as we arrive at the ground floor. “How come you’re not down there?”

“Oh, we stagger it.” She ushers me out into the lobby. “A whole bunch of people are already there, and the second coach is leaving in a few minutes. I’ll be on that. Although actually tomorrow’s the main event. That’s when we have the gala dinner and Santa Claus’s speech. It’s usually quite fun.”

“Santa Claus?”
I can’t help laughing.

“It’s what we call Sir Nicholas. You know, a silly in-house nickname. Sir Nick, St. Nick, Santa Claus—it’s a bit lame, I know.” She smiles. “If you can give me your security pass?”

I hand over the laminated card and she gives it to one of
the security personnel. He says something about “nice photo,” but I’m not listening. An odd feeling is creeping over me.

Santa Claus. Wasn’t that bloke who called Violet’s phone going on about Santa Claus? Is that a coincidence?

As Stephanie leads me across the marble floor to the main doors, I’m trying to remember what he said. It was all about surgery. Incisions. Something about
no trace—

I stop dead, my heart thumping. That’s the same phrase Sam used just now.
No trace
.

“OK?” Stephanie notices I’ve stopped.

“Fine! Sorry.” I shoot her a smile and resume walking along, but my mind is wheeling. What else did that guy say? What exactly was it about Santa Claus? Come on, Poppy,
think
.

“Well, bye! Thanks for visiting!” Stephanie smiles once more.

“Thank you!” And as I step outside onto the pavement, I feel a jolt inside. I have it:
Adios, Santa Claus
.

More people are coming out of the building, and I step aside to where a window cleaner is swooshing suds all over the glass. I reach into my bag and start scrabbling around for the
Lion King
program.
Please
don’t say I’ve lost it,
please—

I haul it out, and stare at my scribbled words.

April 18: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful
.

April 20: Scottie rang. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adios, Santa Claus
.

It’s as though the voices are playing back in my mind. It’s as though I’m listening to them again. I’m hearing the older drawl and the young, reedy voice.

And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt who left the first message. It was Justin Cole.

Oh. My God.

I’m quivering all over. I have to get back in and show these messages to Sam. They mean something, I don’t know what, but
something
. I push the big glass doors open, and the concierge girl immediately appears in front of me. When I was with Sam she waved us through, but now she smiles remotely at me, as though she hasn’t just seen me walking along with Stephanie.

“Hello. Do you have an appointment?”

“Not exactly,” I say breathlessly. “I need to see Sam Roxton at White Globe Consulting. Poppy Wyatt.”

I wait while she turns away and makes a call on her cell phone. I’m trying to stand there patiently, but I’m barely able to contain myself. Those messages are something to do with this whole memo thing. I
know
they are.

“I’m sorry.” The girl faces me with professional pleasantness. “Sam is unavailable right now.”

“Could you tell him it’s urgent?” I shoot back. “Please?”

Clearly restraining a desire to tell me to go away, the girl turns and makes another call, which lasts all of thirty seconds.

“I’m sorry.” Another frozen smile. “Mr. Roxton is busy for the remainder of the day, and most of the other staff are away at the company conference. Perhaps you should phone his assistant and make an appointment. Now, if you could please make way for our other guests?”

She’s ushering me out of the main doors.
Make way
clearly means
piss off
.

“Look, I need to see him.” I duck round her and start
heading for the escalators. “Please let me go up there. It’ll be fine.”

“Excuse me!” she says, grabbing me by the sleeve. “You can’t just march in there! Thomas?”

Oh, you have to be
kidding
. She’s calling over the security guard. What a wimp.

“But it’s a real emergency.” I appeal to both of them. “He’ll
want
to see me.”

“Then call and make an appointment!” she snaps, as the security guard leads me to the main doors.

“Fine!” I snap back. “I will! I’ll call right now! See you in two minutes!” I stomp onto the pavement and reach into my pocket.

And then the full horror hits me. I don’t have a phone.

I don’t have a phone
.

I’m powerless. I can’t get into the building and I can’t ring Sam. I can’t tell him about this. I can’t do anything. Why didn’t I buy a new phone earlier? Why don’t I always walk around with a spare phone? It should be the
law
, like having a spare tire.

“Excuse me?” I hurry over to the window cleaner. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”

“Sorry, love.” He clicks his teeth. “I do, but it’s out of battery.”

“Right.” I smile, breathless with anxiety. “Thanks anyway—oh!”

I stop midstream, peering through the glass into the building. God loves me! There’s Sam! He’s standing twenty yards away in the lobby, talking animatedly to some guy in a suit holding a leather briefcase. Maybe that’s Julian from legal.

As they head toward the lifts, I push open the main doors, but Thomas the security guard is waiting for me.

“I don’t think so,” he says, blocking my way.

“But I need to get in.”

“If you could step aside—”

“But he’ll want to see me! Sam! Over here! It’s Poppy! Saaam!” I yell, but someone’s moving a sofa in the reception area, and the scraping sound on the marble drowns me out.