I've Got Your Number

I know I’m storing up problems for the future. I know Sam Roxton won’t always be on the end of my phone to feed me words. I know I couldn’t possibly repeat the feat. Which is why I’m planning to retire from family Scrabble, as of tomorrow. It was a short, brilliant career. And now it’s over.

The only person who wasn’t entirely fulsome in his praise was Magnus, which was a bit surprising. I mean, he said, “Well done,” along with everyone else—but he didn’t give me a special hug or even ask me how come I knew all those words. And when Wanda said, “Magnus, you didn’t tell us Poppy was so talented!” he flashed her this quick smile and said, “I told you, Poppy’s brilliant at everything.” Which was nice—but kind of meaningless too.

The thing is … he came in second.

He can’t be jealous of me, surely?

It’s about eleven now, and we’re back in my flat. I’m half-tempted to go and talk to Magnus about it, but he’s disappeared off to do some preparation for a lecture on Symbols and Symbolic Thought in Dante44 which he’s giving tomorrow. So instead I curl up on the sofa and forward some emails which came in earlier for Sam.

After a few I can’t help clicking my tongue with frustration. Half of these emails are reminders and chasers. He still hasn’t replied about the conference accommodation at Chiddingford Hotel, or the Fun Run, or the dentist. Or the new James & James bespoke suit waiting for him to pick up at his convenience. How can you ignore new clothes?

There are only a few people he ever seems to reply to immediately. One is a girl called Vicks, who runs the PR department. She’s very businesslike and curt, just like him, and has been consulting him about some press launch they’re doing together. She often cc’s Violet’s address, but by the time I forward the email, Sam’s already replied to her. Another is a guy called Malcolm, who asks Sam’s opinion about something nearly every hour. And, of course, Sir Nicholas Murray, who’s clearly very senior and important and is doing some work for the government at the moment.45 He and Sam get on incredibly well, if their emails are anything to go by. They zing back and forth like conversation between old friends. I can’t really understand half of what they’re saying—especially all the in-jokes— but the tone is obvious, and so is the fact that Sam has more emails to and from Sir Nicholas than anybody else.

Sam’s company is evidently some kind of consultancy. They tell companies how to run their businesses and they do a lot of facilitating, whatever that is. I guess they’re like negotiators or mediators or something. They must be pretty successful at it, because Sam seems very popular. He’s been invited to three drinks parties this week alone and to a shooting event with a private bank next weekend. And a girl called Blue has emailed for the third time, asking if he’d like to attend a special reception to celebrate the merger of Johnson Ellison with Greene Retail. It’s at the Savoy, with a jazz band and canapes and goody bags.

And he still hasn’t replied. Still.

I don’t understand him. If I’d been invited to something so amazing, I would have replied instantly, Yes, please! Thank you so much! I can’t wait! . Whereas he hasn’t even acknowledged it.

Rolling my eyes, I forward every single email, then type him a text:

Thx again for Scrabble! Have just sent on some new emails. Poppy

A moment later my phone rings. It’s Sam.

“Oh, hi—” I start.

“OK, you’re a genius,” he interrupts. “I had a hunch Vivien would be working late. I called her for a chat and mentioned the issues we discussed. It all came out. You were right. We’re going to talk again tomorrow, but I think she’s staying.”

“Oh,” I say, pleased. “Cool.”

“No,” he says firmly. “Not only cool. Awesome. Incredible. Do you know how much time and money and trouble you have saved me? I owe you, big-time.” He pauses. “Oh, and you’re right, she hates being called Viv. So I owe you twice.”

“No problem! Anytime.”

“So … that’s all I had to say. I won’t keep you.”

“Good night. Glad it all worked out.” As I ring off, I remember something and quickly type a text.

Have u booked dentist yet? U will get manky teeth!!!

A few seconds later the phone bleeps with a reply:

I’ll take my chances.

Take his chances? Is he nuts? My aunt is a dental nurse, so I know what I’m talking about.

I search the Web for the most gross, revolting photo of decaying teeth I can find. They’re all blackened and some have fallen out. I click on send/share and text it to him.

The phone almost immediately bleeps with a reply:

You made me spill my drink.

I giggle and text back:

Be afraid!!!!

I nearly add: Willow won’t be impressed when your teeth fall out!!! But then I stop, feeling awkward. You have to draw a line. Despite all the texting back and forth, I don’t know this guy. And I certainly don’t know his fiancee.

Although the truth is, I feel as though I do know her. And not in a good way.

I’ve never come across anyone or anything like Willow before. She’s unbelievable. I would say she’s sent twenty emails to Sam since I’ve had this phone. Each screwier than the last. At least she’s given up sending messages addressed directly to Violet. But, still, she keeps cc’ing her emails to the PA address, as though she