“Excuse me?” I hurry over to the window cleaner. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”
“Sorry, love.” He clicks his teeth. “I do, but it’s out of battery.”
“Right.” I smile, breathless with anxiety. “Thanks anyway—oh!”
I stop midstream, peering through the glass into the building. God loves me! There’s Sam! He’s standing twenty yards away in the lobby, talking animatedly to some guy in a suit holding a leather briefcase. Maybe that’s Julian from legal.
As they head towards the lifts, I push open the main doors, but Thomas the security guard is waiting for me.
“I don’t think so,” he says, blocking my way.
“But I need to get in.”
“If you could step aside—”
“But he’ll want to see me! Sam! Over here! It’s Poppy! Saaam!” I yell, but someone’s moving a sofa in the reception area, and the scraping sound on the marble drowns me out.
“No, you don’t!” says the security guard firmly. “Out you go.” His hands are around my shoulders and, the next thing, I find myself back on the pavement, panting in outrage.
I can’t believe that just happened. He threw me out! I’ve never been physically thrown out of anywhere in my life. I didn’t think they were allowed to
A crowd of people has arrived at the entrance and I stand aside to let them go in, my thoughts skittering wildly. Should I hurry down the street and try to find a pay phone? Should I try to get in again? Should I make a run for it into the lobby and see how far I get before I’m tackled to the ground? Sam’s standing in front of the lifts now, still talking to the guy with the leather briefcase. He’ll be gone in a few moments. It’s torture. If I could only attract his attention …
“No luck?” says the window cleaner sympathetically from the top of his ladder. He’s covered an entire massive pane of glass with suds and is about to wipe them off with his scraper thing.
And then it comes to me.
“Wait!” I call urgently up to him. “Don’t wipe! Please!”
I’ve never written in soap suds in my life before, but luckily I’m not aiming for anything very ambitious. Just
“Nice job,” says the window cleaner approvingly from where he’s sitting. “You could come into business with me.”
“Thanks,” I say modestly, and wipe my brow, my arm aching.
If Sam doesn’t see that, if
I turn and look down from my perch on the window cleaner’s ladder. Sam’s standing there on the pavement, looking up at me incredulously.
“Is that addressed to me?”
We travel upstairs in silence. Vicks is waiting in Sam’s office, and as she sees me she bangs her forehead with the heel of her hand.
“This had better be good,” says Sam tersely, closing the glass door behind us. “I have five minutes. There’s a bit of an emergency going on—”
I feel a flash of anger. Does he think I don’t realize that? Does he think I wrote
“I appreciate that,” I say, matching his curt tone. “I just thought you might be interested in these messages, which came in to Violet’s phone last week. This phone.” I reach for the phone, still lying on his desk.
“Whose phone is that?” says Vicks, eyeing me with suspicion.
“Violet’s,” replies Sam. “My PA? Clive’s daughter? Shot off to be a model?”
“Oh, her.” Vicks frowns again and jerks a thumb at me. “Well, what was
Sam and I exchange glances.
“Long story,” says Sam at last. “Violet threw it away. Poppy was … babysitting it.”
“I got a couple of messages, which I wrote down.” I put the
“I didn’t recognize his voice at the time, but I do now. It was him talking about
“Vicks.” Sam is looking at her. “Come on. You’ve got to see now—”
“I see nothing! Just a few random words. How can we even be sure it was Justin?”
Sam turns to me. “Are these voice mails? Can we still listen to them?”