I've Got Your Number

thought makes me want to giggle more.

I wonder if this is a bad day or if she’s always this intense. I can’t resist typing Willow in the search engine, and a whole series of emails pop up. There’s one from yesterday, with the title Are you trying to fuck me or fuck WITH me, Sam? Or CAN’T YOU DECIDE???, and I get another fit of the giggles. Yikes. They must have one of those up and down relationships. Maybe they throw things at each other and shriek and bellow, then have mad passionate sex in the kitchen—

Beyonce blasts out from the phone, and I nearly drop it as I see Sam Mobile appear on the screen. I have a mad thought that he’s psychic and knows I’ve been spying on his love life.

No more snooping, I hastily promise myself. No more Willow searches. I count to three—then press answer.

“Oh, hi there!” I try to sound relaxed and guiltless, like I was just thinking about something else altogether and not at all imagining him screwing his fiancee amongs a pile of broken crockery.

“Did I have an email from Ned Murdoch this morning?” he launches in without so much as a “Hi.”

“No. I’ve sent all your emails over. Good morning to you too,” I add brightly. “I’m really well, how about you?”

“I thought you might have missed one.” He completely ignores my little dig. “It’s extremely important.”

“Well, I’m extremely thorough,” I retort pointedly. “Believe me, everything that’s coming in to this phone, you’re getting. And there wasn’t anything from Ned Murdoch. Someone called Willow just emailed, by the way,” I add casually. “I’ll forward it on. There’s an attachment, which sounded quite important. But obviously I didn’t look at it at all. Or read it or anything.”

“Hrrrmm.” He gives a kind of noncommittal growl. “So, have you found your ring?”

“Not yet,” I admit reluctantly. “But I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

“You should inform your insurers anyway, you know. They sometimes have a time limit for claiming. Colleague of mine got caught out that way.”

Insurers? Time limits?

I suddenly feel clammy with guilt. I’ve given this no thought at all. I haven’t checked up on my insurance or the Tavishes’ insurance or anything. Instead, I’ve been standing at a pedestrian crossing, missing my chance to walk, reading other people’s emails and laughing at them. Priorities, Poppy.

“Right,” I manage at last. “Yes, I knew that. I’m on it.”

I ring off and stand motionless for a moment, the traffic whizzing in front of me. It’s like he’s pricked my bubble. I have to come clean. It’s the Tavishes’ ring. They should know it’s lost. I’ll have to tell them.

Hi there! It’s me, the girl you don’t want to marry your son, and, guess what? I’ve lost your priceless family ring!

I’ll give myself twelve more hours, I abruptly decide, pressing the pedestrian button again. Just in case. Just in case.

And then I’ll tell them.

I always thought I might be a dentist. Several of my family are dentists, and it always seemed like a pretty decent career. But then, when I was fifteen, my school sent me on a weeklong work experience placement at the physio unit at our local hospital. All the therapists were so enthusiastic about what they did that focusing only on teeth suddenly felt a bit narrow for me. And I’ve never regretted my decision for a moment. It just suits me, being a physio.

First Fit Physio Studio is exactly eighteen minutes’ walk from my flat in Balham, past Costa, and next to Greggs, the baker. It’s not the grandest practice in the world—I’d probably earn more if I went to some smart sports center or a big hospital. But I’ve been working there ever since I qualified and can’t imagine working anywhere else. Plus, I work with friends. You wouldn’t give that up in a hurry, would you?

I arrive at nine o’clock, expecting to have the usual staff meeting. We have one every Thursday morning, where we discuss patients and targets, new therapies, the latest research, stuff like that.24 There’s one particular patient I want to talk about, actually: Mrs. Randall, my sweet sixty-five-year-old with the ligament problem. She’s pretty much recovered—but last week she came in twice, and this week she’s booked three appointments. I’ve told her she just needs to exercise at home with her Dyna-Bands, but she insists she needs my help. I think she’s become totally dependent on us—which might be good for the cash register but is not good for her.

So I’m quite looking forward to the meeting. But, to my surprise, the meeting room is set up differently from usual. The table has been pulled to one end of the room, with two chairs behind it—and there’s a sole chair facing it in the middle of the room. It looks like an interview setup.

The reception door pings to signal that someone’s entered, and I turn to see Annalise coming in with a Costa coffee tray. She’s got some complicated braided arrangement in her long blond hair, and she looks like a Greek goddess.

“Hi, Annalise! What’s up?”

“You’d better talk to Ruby.” She gives me a sidelong look, without smiling.

“What?”

“I don’t think I should say.” She takes a sip of cappuccino, eyeing me secretively over the top.

What’s up now? Annalise’s quite prickly—in fact, she’s a bit of a child. She goes all quiet and sulky, and then it comes out that yesterday you asked her for that file too impatiently and hurt her feelings.

Ruby is the opposite. She’s got smooth latte-colored skin, a huge, motherly bust, and is packed so full of common sense it’s practically wafting out of her ears. The minute you’re in her company, you feel saner, calmer, jollier, and stronger. No wonder this physio practice has been a success. I mean, Annalise and I are OK at what we do, but Ruby is the star turn. Everyone loves her. Men, women, grannies, kids. She also put up the money for the business,25 so she’s officially my boss.

“Morning, babe.” Ruby comes breezing out from her treatment room, beaming her usual wide smile. Her hair