I've Got Your Number

“What the hell is that?” Sam exclaims, looking horrified.

“What?” I follow his gaze, puzzled, then realize. There were some diamante phone stickers in the Marie Curie goody bag, and I stuck them on the phone the other day.

“Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes at his expression. “They come off.”

“They’d better.” He still seems stunned by the sight of it. Honestly. Doesn’t anyone at his company bother to decorate their phone?

Our food arrives, and for a while we’re distracted with pepper mills and mustard and some side dish of parsnip chips which they seem to think we ordered.

“You in a hurry?” inquires Sam as he’s about to bite into his steak baguette.

“No. I took a few days off to do wedding stuff, but actually it turns out there’s not a lot to do.”

The truth is, I was a bit taken aback when I spoke to Lucinda this morning. I’d told her ages ago that I was taking a few days off to help with the wedding. I’d thought we could go and sort out some of the fun stuff together. But she basically said no, thanks. She had some long story about having to go see the florist in Northwood and needing to drop in at another client first and implied I’d be in the way.75 So I’ve had the morning off. I mean, I wasn’t about to go to work for the sake of it.

As I sip my soup, I wait for Sam to volunteer some wedding talk of his own—but he doesn’t. Men just aren’t into it, are they?

“Is your soup cold?” Sam suddenly focuses on my bowl. “If it’s cold, send it back.”

It is a bit less than piping hot—but I really don’t feel like making a fuss.

“It’s fine, thanks.” I flash him a smile and take another sip.

The phone suddenly buzzes, and on reflex I pull it to me. It’s Lucinda, telling me she’s at the warehouse and could I please confirm that I want only four strands of gypsophila per bouquet?

I have no idea. Why would I specify something like that? What does four strands look like, anyway?

Yes, fine. Thanks so much, Lucinda, I really appreciate it! Not long now!!! Love, Poppy xxxxx

There’s a new email from Willow too, but I can’t bring myself to read it in front of Sam. I forward it quickly and put the phone down.

“There was a message from Willow just now.”

“Uh-uh.” He nods with an off-putting frown.

I’m dying to find out more about her. But how do I start without sounding unnatural?

I can’t even ask, “How did you meet?” because I already know, from one of her email rants. They met at her job interview for White Globe Consulting. Sam was on the panel, and he asked her some tricky question about her CV and she should have known THEN that he was going to fuck her life up. She should have stood up and WALKED AWAY. Because does he think a six-figure salary is what her life is about? Does he think everyone’s like him? Doesn’t he realize that to build a life together you have to KNOW WHAT THE BUILDING BLOCKS ARE, Sam????

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I have honestly given up reading to the end.

“Haven’t you got yourself a new phone yet?” says Sam, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m going to the shop this afternoon.” It’ll be a real hassle, starting afresh with a new phone, but there’s not much I can do about it. Except …

“In fact, I was wondering,” I add casually. “You don’t want to sell it, do you?”

“A company phone, full of business emails?” He gives an incredulous laugh. “Are you nuts? I was mad letting you have access to it in the first place. Not that I had a choice, Ms. Light-fingers. I should have set the police on you.”

“I’m not a thief!” I retort, stung. “I didn’t steal it. I found it in a bin.”

“You should have handed it in.” He shrugs. “You know it and I know it.”

“It was common property! It was fair game!”

“ ‘Fair game’? You want to tell that to the judge? If I drop my wallet and it falls momentarily into a bin, does that give Joe Bloggs the right to steal it?”

I can’t tell if he’s winding me up or not, so I take a drink of water, avoiding the issue. I’m turning the phone around and around in my hand, not wanting to relinquish it. I’ve got used to this phone now. I like the feel of it. I’ve even got used to sharing my in-box.

“So, what will happen to it?” At last I look up. “The phone, I mean.”

“Jane will forward everything of any relevance to her account. Then it’ll get wiped. Inside and out.”

“Right. Of course.”

The idea of all my messages being wiped makes me want to whimper. But there’s nothing I can do. This was the deal. It was only a loan. Like he said, it’s not my phone.

I put it down again, about two inches from my bowl.

“I’ll let you know my new number as soon as I get it,” I say. “If I get any texts or messages—”

“I’ll forward them.” He nods. “Or, rather, my new PA will do it.”

“When does she start?”