I've Got Your Number

Now we’re sitting on the ancient bumpy sofas in the drawing room, playing Scrabble. The Tavishes are complete Scrabble nuts. They have a special board that spins around, and posh wooden tiles, and even a leather- bound book where they write down the scores, dating back to 1998. Wanda is the current winner, with Magnus a close second.

Antony went first and put down OUTSTEP (74 points). Wanda made IRIDIUMS (65 points). Felix made CARYATID (80 points). Magnus made CONTUSED (65 points).40 And I made STAR (5 points).

In my family, STAR would be a good word. Five points would be a pretty decent score. You wouldn’t get pitying looks and clearing of throats and feel like a loser.

I don’t often think back about past times or reminisce. It’s not really my thing. But sitting here, rigid with failure, hunching my knees, inhaling the musty Tavish smells of books and kilims and old wood fire, I can’t help it. Just a chink. Just a tiny window of memory. Us in the kitchen. Me and my little brothers, Toby and Tom, eating toast and Marmite round the Scrabble board. I remember it distinctly; I can even taste the Marmite. Toby and Tom had got so frustrated, they made a load of extra tiles out of paper and decided you could have as many as you liked. The whole room was covered in cutout squares of paper with Biro letters scrawled on them. Tom gave himself about six Zs and Toby had ten Es And they still only scored about four points per turn and ended up in a scuffle, yelling, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

I feel a rush of tears behind my eyes and blink furiously. I’m being stupid. Ridiculous. Number one, this is my new family and I’m trying to integrate with them. Number two, Toby and Tom are both away at college now. They have deep voices and Tom has a beard. We never play Scrabble. I don’t even know where the set is. Number three—

“Poppy?”

“Right. Yes! I’m just … working it out.”

We’re into the second round. Antony has extended OUTSTEP into OUTSTEPPED. Wanda has simultaneously made both OD41 and OVARY. Felix put down ELICIT, and Magnus went for YUK, which Felix challenged, but it was in the dictionary and scored him lots of points on a double-word score. Now Felix had gone to make some coffee, and I’ve been shuffling my tiles hopelessly for about five minutes,

I almost can’t bring myself to go, I’m so humiliated. I should never have agreed to play. I’ve stared and stared at the stupid letters, and this is honestly the best possible word I can make.

“P-I-G,” enunciates Antony carefully as I put my tiles down. “Pig. As in … the mammal, I take it?”

“Well done!” says Magnus heartily. “Six points!”

I can’t look at him. I’m fumbling miserably for another two tiles. A and L. Like that’s going to help me.

“Hey, Poppy,” says Felix, coming back into the room with a tray. “Your phone’s ringing in the kitchen. What did you put down? Oh, Pig.” As he looks at the board his mouth twitches, and I see Wanda give him a warning frown.

I can’t bear this any longer.

“I’ll just go and check who called, if that’s OK,” I say. “Might be something important.”

I escape to the kitchen, haul my phone out of the bag, and lean against the comforting warmth of the Aga. There are three texts from Sam, starting with Good luck, which he sent two hours ago. Then twenty minutes ago he texted, Favor to ask, followed up by, Are you there?

That call was from him too. I guess I’d better see what’s up. I dial his number, picking morosely at the remains of the birthday cake on the counter.

“Great. Poppy. Can you do me a big favor?” he says as soon as we’re connected. “I’m away from my desk and something’s up with my phone. It won’t connect to the server. Nothing’s going out, and I need to get an email to Viv Amberley. Would you mind?”

“Oh yes, Vivien Amberley,” I begin knowledgeably—then draw myself up short.

Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal that I’ve read all the correspondence about Vivien Amberley. She works in strategy and has applied for a job at another consultancy. Sam is desperately trying to keep her, but nothing’s worked and now she’s said she’s resigning tomorrow.

OK. I know I’ve been nosy. But once you start reading other people’s emails, you can’t stop. You have to know what’s happened. It’s been quite addictive, scrolling down the endless strings of back-and-forth emails and working out the stories. Always backward. Like rewinding little spools of life.

“If you could send her a quick email, I’d be hugely grateful,” Sam’s saying. “From one of my email addresses. To vivienamberley@skyhinet.com, have you got that? I’d do it myself, but I have to be at this media seminar.”

Honestly. What am I, his PA?

“Well … all right,” I say grudgingly, clicking on her address. “What shall I say?”

“Hi, Viv. I would love to talk this through with you again. Please call to arrange a meeting whenever’s convenient tomorrow. I’m sure we can work something out. Sam.”

I type it out carefully, using my non-bandaged hand—then hesitate.

“Have you sent it?” Sam says.

My thumb is on the key, poised to press send. But I can’t do it.

“Hello?”

“Don’t call her Viv,” I blurt out. “She hates it. She likes being called Vivien.”