I've Got Your Number

“OK! Well … I’ll make sure he sees it. Thanks!”

As the blond guy heads off, I unroll a corner of the paper out of curiosity—and I don’t believe it. It’s a collage! Like I used to do when I was about five!

I spread the whole thing out flat on the floor, anchoring the corners with chair legs. It’s in the design of a tree, with photos of staff stuck onto the branches. God only knows what it’s supposed to say about the structure of the company—I don’t care. What’s interesting for me is that under each photo is the person’s name. Which means I can finally put faces to all the people who have sent an email through Sam’s phone. This is riveting.

Jane Ellis is a lot younger than I expected, and Malcolm is fatter, and Chris Davies turns out to be a woman. There’s Justin Cole … and there’s Lindsay Cooper … and there’s—

My finger stops dead.

Willow Harte.

She’s nestling on a lower branch, smiling out cheerfully. Thin and dark-haired, with very arched black eyebrows. She’s quite pretty, I grudgingly admit, although not supermodel standard.

And she works on the same floor as Sam. Which means …

Oh, I’ve got to. Come on. I’ve got to have a quick peek at the psycho fiancee before I go.

I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the floor. I have no idea if she’ll be in the open-plan area or have her own office. I’ll just have to wander round. If anyone stops me, I’ll be Sam’s new PA.

I grab a couple of files as camouflage and cautiously venture out. A couple of people typing at their computers lift their heads and give me an uninterested glance. Skirting the edge of the floor, I glance through windows and peer at names on doors, trying to catch a glimpse of a girl with dark hair, listening out for a whiny, nasal voice. She has to have a whiny, nasal voice, surely. And lots of stupid, made-up allergies, and about ten therapists—

I stop dead. That’s her! It’s Willow!

She’s ten yards away. Sitting in one of the glass-doored offices. To be honest, I can’t see much of her except her profile and a hank of long hair hanging down the back of her chair and some long legs ending in black ballet pumps—but it’s definitely her. I feel as though I’ve stumbled on some mythological creature.

As I approach, I start to tingle all over. I have a dreadful feeling I might suddenly giggle. This is so ridiculous. Spying on someone I’ve never met. I clutch my folders more tightly and edge forward a little more.

There are two other women in the office with her, and they’re all drinking tea, and Willow is talking.

Damn. She doesn’t have a whiny, nasal voice. In fact, it’s quite melodious and sane- sounding—except when you start listening to what she’s saying.

“Of course this is all to get back at me,” she’s saying. “This whole exercise is one big Fuck You, Willow. You know it was actually my idea?”

“No!” says one of the girls. “Really?”

“Oh yes.” She turns her head briefly and I catch sight of a sorrowful, pitying smile. “New-idea generation is my thing. Sam ripped me off. I was planning to send out exactly the same email. Same words, everything. He probably saw it on my laptop one night.”

I’m listening, completely stunned. Is she talking about my email? I want to burst in and say, “He couldn’t have ripped you off; he didn’t even send it!”

“That’s the kind of move he pulls all the time,” she adds, and takes a sip of tea. “That’s how he’s made his career. No integrity.”

OK, I’m completely fogged now. Either I’m all wrong about Sam or she’s all wrong about him, because in my opinion he’s the last person in the world you could imagine ripping somebody else off.

“I just don’t know why he has to compete with me,” Willow’s saying. “What is that with men? What’s wrong with facing the world together? Side by side? What’s wrong with being a partnership? Or is that too … generous for him to get his stupid male head round?”

“He wants control,” says of one the other girls, cracking a chocolate biscuit in half. “They all do. He’s never going to give you the credit you deserve in a million years.”

“But can’t he see how perfect it would be if we could get it fucking right? If we could get beyond this crappy bad patch?” Willow sounds impassioned. “Working together, being together … the whole package … it could be sublime.” She breaks off and takes a gulp of tea. “The question is, how long do I give him? Because I can’t go on like this much longer.”

“Have you talked it through?” says the third girl.

“Please! You know Sam and ‘talking.’ ” She makes quote marks with her fingers.

Well. I’m with her there.

“It makes me sad.” She shakes her head. “Not for me, for him. He can’t see what’s in front of his face and he doesn’t know how to value what he has, and, you know what? He’s going to lose it. And then he’s going to want it, but it’ll be too late. Too late.” She bangs her teacup down. “Gone.”

I’m suddenly gripped. I’m seeing this conversation in a new light. I’m realizing that Willow has more insight than I gave her credit for. Because, if truth be told, this is just what I feel about Sam and his father. Sam can’t see what he’s losing, and when he does it may be too late. OK, I know I don’t know the whole story between them. But I’ve seen the emails, I’ve got the idea—

My thoughts stop abruptly in their tracks. Alarm bells have started to ring in my head. First distant, but now getting loud and clangy. Oh no, oh no, oh God.

Sam’s father. April 24. That’s today. I’d completely forgotten. How could I be so stupid?