I've Got Your Number

Magnus says footnotes are for things which aren’t your main concern but nevertheless hold some interest for you. So. This is my footnote about footnotes.

2 Which, actually, I never say. Just like Humphrey Bogart never said, “Play it again, Sam.” It’s an urban myth.

3 Of course, the hotel wasn’t on fire. The system had short-circuited. I found that out afterward, not that it was any consolation.

4 Did Poirot ever say “oh my God”? I bet he did. Or “sacrebleu!” which comes to the same thing. And does this not disprove Antony’s theory, since Poirot’s gray cells are clearly stronger than anyone else’s? I might point this out to Antony one day. When I’m feeling brave. (Which, if I’ve lost the ring, will be never, obviously.)

5 Weak mind.

6 I’m allowed to give myself at least a chance of getting it back safely and him never having to know, aren’t I?

2

I blink a few times and look again—but it’s still there, half hidden amid a couple of discarded conference programs and a Starbucks cup. What’s a phone doing in a bin?

I look around to see if anyone’s watching me—then reach in gingerly and pull it out. It has a couple of drops of coffee on it, but otherwise it seems perfect. It’s a good one too. A Nokia. New.

Cautiously, I turn and survey the thronging lobby. Nobody’s paying me the slightest bit of attention. No one’s rushing up and exclaiming “There’s my phone!” And I’ve been walking around this area for the last ten minutes. Whoever threw this phone in here did it a while ago.

There’s a sticker on the back of the phone, with White Globe Consulting Group printed in tiny letters and a number. Did someone just chuck it away? Is it bust? I press the on switch and the screen glows. It seems in perfect working order to me.

A tiny voice in my head is telling me that I should hand it in. Take it up to the front desk and say, “Excuse me, I think someone’s lost this phone.” That’s what I should do. March up to the desk right now, like any responsible, civic member of society… .

My feet don’t move an inch. My hand tightens protectively round the phone. Thing is, I need a phone. I bet White Globe Consulting Group, whoever that is, has millions of phones. And it’s not like I found it on the floor or in the ladies’ room, is it? It was in a bin. Things in bins are rubbish. They’re fair game. They’ve been relinquished to the world. That’s the rule.

I peer into the bin again and glimpse a red cord, just like the ones round all the delegates’ necks. I check the concierge to make sure he’s not watching, then plunge my hand in again and pull out a conference pass. A mug shot of a stunningly pretty girl stares back at me, under which is printed: Violet Russell, White Globe Consulting Group.

I’m building up a pretty good theory now. I could be Poirot. This is Violet Russell’s phone and she threw it away. For … some reason or other.

Well, that’s her fault. Not mine.

The phone buzzes and I start. Shit! It’s alive. The ring tone begins at top volume—and it’s Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.” I quickly press ignore, but a moment later it starts up again, loud and unmistakable.

Isn’t there a bloody volume control on this thing? A couple of nearby businesswomen have turned to stare, and I’m so flustered that I jab at talk instead of ignore. The businesswomen are still watching me, so I press the phone to my ear and turn away.

“The person you have called is not available,” I say, trying to sound robotic. “Please leave a message.” That’ll get rid of whoever it is.

“Where the fuck are you?” A smooth, well-educated male voice starts speaking and I nearly squeak with astonishment. It worked! He thinks I’m a machine! “I’ve just been talking to Scottie. He has a contact who reckons he can do it. It’ll be like keyhole surgery. He’s good. There won’t be any trace.”

I don’t dare breathe. Or scratch my nose, which is suddenly incredibly itchy.

“OK,” the man is saying. “So, whatever else you do, be fucking careful.”

He rings off and I stare at the phone in astonishment. I never thought anyone would actually leave a message.

Now I feel a bit guilty. This is a genuine voice mail, and Violet’s missed it. I mean, it’s not my fault she threw her phone away, but even so … On impulse I scrabble in my bag for a pen and the only thing I’ve got to write on, which is an old theater program.7 I scribble down: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.

God alone knows what that’s all about. Liposuction, maybe? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, if I ever do meet this Violet girl, I’ll be able to pass it on.

Before the phone can ring again, I hurry to the concierge’s desk, which has miraculously cleared.

“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Me again. Has anyone found my ring?”

“May I please assure you, madam,” he says with a frosty smile, “that we would have let you know if we had found it. We do have your phone number—”

“No, you don’t!” I cut him off, almost triumphantly. “That’s the thing! The number I gave you is now … er … defunct. Out of use. Very much so.” The last thing I want is him calling hoody guy and mentioning a priceless emerald ring. “Please don’t call it. Can you use this number instead?” I carefully copy the phone number from the back of the White Globe Consulting phone. “In fact, just to be sure … can I test it?” I reach for the hotel landline phone and dial the printed number. A moment later Beyonce starts blasting out of the mobile phone. OK. At