I've Got Your Number

In conference hall.

Anyone know you’re texting me?

Vicks is talking volubly to some guy while holding a phone to her ear. She happens to look my way, and I don’t know if it’s my expression, but her eyes narrow a smidgen. She glances at my phone, then at my face again. I feel a dart of apprehension.

Don’t think so. Yet.

Can you get away without anyone noticing?

I count to three, then casually scan the room as though I’m interested in the light fittings. Vicks is in my peripheral vision. Now she’s gazing straight at me. I lower my phone out of sight and text:

Where are you exactly?

Outside.

Doesn’t help much.

All I’ve got. No idea where I am.

A moment later another one arrives:

It’s dark, if that’s a clue. Grass underfoot.

Are you in big trouble?

There’s no reply. I guess that’s a yes.

OK. I won’t look at Vicks. I will simply yawn, scratch my nose—yes, good, unconcerned—turn on my heel, and move behind this group of people. Then I’ll duck down behind this big fat pillar.

Now I’ll peek out.

Vicks is looking around with a frustrated expression. People are trying to get her attention, but she’s batting them away. I can almost see the calculation in her eyes—how much brain space does she allocate the strange girl who might know something but might also be a red herring?

Within five seconds I’m in the corridor. Ten seconds, through the deserted lobby, avoiding the eye of the disconsolate-looking barman. He’ll be getting enough business in a minute. Fifteen seconds, I’m outside, ignoring the doorman, running over the gravel drive, round the corner, until grass is underfoot and I feel as though I’ve got away.

I walk slowly, waiting for my breath to return. I’m still in shock over what’s just happened.

Are you going to lose your job over this?

Another silence. I walk a little more, adjusting to the night sky, the cool air with a little breeze, the soft grass. The hotel is a good four hundred yards away by now, and I start to unwind.

Maybe.

He sounds quite relaxed about the fact. If a one-word text can sound relaxed.86

I’m outside now. Where should I head?

God knows. I went out back of hotel and walked into oblivion.

That’s what I’m doing now.

So we’ll meet.

You never said your mum had died.

I’ve typed it and pressed send before I can stop myself. I stare at the screen, cringing at my own crassness. I can’t believe I said that. Of all the times. Like this is going to be his priority right now.

No. I never did.

I’ve reached the edge of what seems to be a croquet lawn. There’s a wooded area ahead. Is that where he is? I’m about to ask him, when another text bleeps into my phone.

I just get tired of telling people. The awkward pause. You know?

I blink at the screen. I can’t believe someone else knows about the awkward pause.

I understand.

I should have told you.

There’s no way I’m guilt-tripping him over this. That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I wanted him to feel. As quickly as I can, I type a reply:

No. No should. Never any should. That’s my rule.

That’s your rule for life?

Rule for life? That’s not exactly what I meant. But I like the idea that he thinks I have a rule for life.

No, my rule for life is …

I pause, trying to think. A rule for life. That’s quite a huge one. I can think of quite a few good rules, but for life …

On tenterhooks here.