I've Got Your Number

I've Got Your Number Page 92

Talk to you when you’re a grown-up.

Willow

I touch my hair defensively. I did blow-dry it this morning. It’s just hard to get to the back bits. I mean, not that I care what she thinks, but I can’t help feeling a little stung—

My thoughts are interrupted mid-flow and I stare at the screen. I don’t believe it. An email has arrived in the phone from Sam. He’s responded to Willow. He’s actually replied to her! Except he’s pressed reply all, so it’s come to me too.

I glance up in astonishment and see that he’s still talking to the gray-haired men, apparently engrossed. He must have rattled it off very quickly. I open up the email and see a single line.

Cut it out, Willow. You’re not impressing anyone.

I blink at the screen. She won’t like that.

I wait for her to launch some further scathing attack on Sam—but no more emails arrive. Maybe she’s as taken aback as I am.

“Great. We’ll talk later.” Sam’s voice rises above the hubbub. “Poppy, few more people I’d like you to meet.”

“OK.” I snap to attention, thrusting my phone away. “Let’s do it.”

We circulate around the rest of the room. Sam’s list is covered with ticks. I must have listened to nearly every male voice in the company, and I haven’t heard anybody who sounds anything like the guy on the phone. I’m even starting to wonder whether I’m remembering him right. Or whether I hallucinated the whole thing.

As we head along a carpeted corridor toward the open terrace doors, I can tell Sam is low. I feel pretty low myself.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Not your fault.” He looks up and seems to clock my mood. “Poppy, seriously. I know you’re doing your best.” His face crinkles for a moment. “Hey, and I’m sorry about Willow.”

“Oh.” I brush it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

We walk in silence for a few moments. I want to say something like, “Thanks for sticking up for me,’ but I’m too awkward. I feel like I shouldn’t really have been inside that email exchange.

The terrace is covered in lanterns, and there are a few clusters of people but not nearly as many as there were inside. I suppose it’s too cold. But it’s shame, because there’s actually quite a nice partylike atmosphere out here. There’s a bar, and a couple of people are even dancing. On the corner of the terrace, a guy holding a TV camera seems to be interviewing a pair of giggling girls.

“So, maybe we’ll strike lucky.” I try to sound upbeat.

“Maybe.” Sam nods, but I can tell he’s given up.

“What happens if we don’t find him out here?”

“Then … we tried.” Sam’s face is taut, but for the briefest of moments his smile pops out. “We tried.”

“OK. Well, let’s do it.” I put on my best motivational you- can -get-mobility-back-into-that-hip-joint voice. “Let’s try.”

We head out and Sam launches into the same old routine.

“Hi there, gang! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is James. James, why don’t you tell Poppy what your line is? And here’s Brian, and this is Rhys.”

It’s not James or Brian or Rhys. Or Martin or Nigel.

Every name on Sam’s list is ticked off. I almost want to cry when I look at his face. At last we step away from a group of interns who weren’t even on the list and can’t possibly be Scottie.

We’re done.

“I’ll phone Vicks,” Sam says, his voice a little heavy. “Poppy, thanks for giving up your time. It was a stupid plan.”

“It wasn’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “It … could have worked.”

Sam looks up and for a moment we just stand there.

“You’re very kind,” he says at last.

“Hi, Sam! Hi, guys!” A girl’s raised voice makes me flinch. Maybe I’m sensitive because I’ve been listening more carefully to the way people speak—but this voice is setting my teeth on edge. I turn to see a bubbly-looking girl with a pink scarf tied in her hair approaching us with the TV camera guy, who has a dark crew cut and jeans.

Uh-oh.

“Hi, Amanda.” Sam nods. “What’s up?”

“We’re filming all the conference guests,” she says cheerfully. “Just a little shout-out, say hi, we’ll show it at the gala dinner.”

The TV camera is pointing in my face, and I flinch. I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t do a “little shout-out.”

“Anything you like,” Amanda prompts me. “A personal message, a joke … ” She consults her list, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what department you’re in… .”