I've Got Your Number

I've Got Your Number Page 97

“Been far, far too long!” He envelops Sam in a bear hug. “What can I get you, my old mucker? Or is it all on the house? In which case, mine’s a double!” He gives a high-pitched laugh that makes me cringe.

I glance desperately at Sam’s tight face.

“Who’s this?” says Vicks, looking astonished.

“Long story. College friend.”

“I know all Sam’s secrets!” David Robinson bangs Sam on the back. “You want me to dish the dirt, cross my hand with a fifty. Only joking! I’ll take a twenty!” He roars with laughter again.

This is officially unbearable.

“Sam.” Vicks can barely conceal her impatience. “We have to go.”

“Go?” David Robinson makes a mock stagger backward. “ Go? When I’ve only just arrived?”

“David.” Sam’s politeness is so chill I want to shiver. “Sorry about this. Change of schedule. I’ll try to catch up with you later.”

“After I’ve driven for forty minutes?” David shakes his head in a pantomime of disappointment. “Can’t even spare ten minutes for your old mate. What am I supposed to do, drink here on my own?”

I’m feeling worse and worse. I’ve totally landed Sam in this. I have to do something about it.

“I’ll have a drink with you!” I chime in hurriedly. “Sam, you go. I’ll entertain David. I’m Poppy Wyatt, hi!” I thrust my hand out and try not to wince at his clammy touch. “Go.” I meet eyes with Sam. “Go on.”

“OK.” Sam hesitates a moment, then nods. “Thanks. Use the company tab.” Already he and Vicks are hurrying away.

“Well!” David seems a bit unsure how to react. “That’s a fine thing! Some people get a bit too big for their boots, if you ask me.”

“He’s very busy at the moment,” I say apologetically. “I mean really busy.”

“So where do you fit in? Sam’s PA?”

“Not exactly. I’ve kind of been helping Sam out. Unofficially.”

“Unofficially.” David gives a great big wink. “Say no more. All on expenses. Got to look kosher.”

OK, now I get it: This man is a nightmare. No wonder Sam spends his life avoiding him.

“Would you like another drink?” I say as charmingly as I can. “And then maybe you could tell me what you do. Sam said you were an investor? In … fitness equipment?”

David scowls and drains his glass. “I was in that line for a while. Too much health and safety, that’s the problem with that game. Too many inspectors. Too many namby-pamby rules. Another double whiskey, if you’re buying.”

I order the whiskey and a large glass of wine for myself, rigid with mortification. I still can’t believe how wrong I called this. I am never interfering in anyone’s emails ever, ever again.

“And after fitness equipment?” I prompt him. “What did you do then?”

“Well.” David Robinson leans back and cracks his knuckles. “Then I went down the self-tanning route … ”

Half an hour later, my mind is numbed. Is there any business this man hasn’t been in? Each story seems to follow the same pattern. The same phrases have been rolled out every time. Unique opportunity, I mean, unique, Poppy  …  serious investment  …  on the brink  …  megabucks, I mean, megabucks, Poppy  …  events outside my control  …  damn stupid banks  …  shortsighted investors  …  bloody regulation  …

There’s been no sign of Sam. No sign of Vicks. Nothing in my phone. I’m almost beside myself with tension, wondering what’s going on. Meanwhile, David has sunk two whiskeys, torn into three packets of crisps, and is now scooping up a dish of hummus with taco chips.

“Interested in children’s entertainment, are you, Poppy?” he suddenly says.

Why would I be interested in children’s entertainment?

“Not really,” I say politely, but he ignores me. He’s produced a brown furry animal glove puppet from his briefcase and is dancing it round the table.

“Mr. Wombat. Goes down a storm with the kids. Want to have a go?”

No, I do not want to have a go. But, in the interests of keeping the conversation going, I shrug. “OK.”

I have no idea what to do with a glove puppet, but David seems galvanized as soon as I have it on my hand.

“You’re a natural! You take these along to a kids’ party, playground, whatever, they fly. And the beauty is the profit margin. Poppy, you would not believe it.” He smacks the table. “Plus, it’s flexible. You can sell them around your daytime job. I’ll show you the whole kit… .” He reaches into his briefcase again and produces a plastic folder.