I've Got Your Number

I stare at my phone, galvanized. Clare thought she saw it? Where?

I crawl out from under the table and wave my phone around, but the rest of the text resolutely refuses to come through. The signal in here is rubbish. How can this call itself a five-star hotel? I’ll have to go outside.

“Hi!” I approach the gray-haired cleaner, raising my voice above the Hoover’s roar. “I’m popping out to check a text. But if you do find the ring, call me—I’ve given you my mobile number. I’ll just be on the street.”

“Right you are, dear,” says the cleaner patiently.

I hurry through the lobby, dodging groups of conference delegates, slowing slightly as I pass the concierge’s desk.

“Any sign of—”

“Nothing handed in yet, madam.”

The air outside is balmy, with a hint of summer, even though it’s only mid April. I hope the weather will still be like this in ten days’ time, because my wedding dress is backless and I’m counting on a fine day.

There are wide shallow steps in front of the hotel, and I walk up and down them, swishing my phone back and forth, trying to get some signal, with no success. At last I head down onto the actual pavement, waving my phone around more wildly, holding it over my head, then leaning into the quiet Knightsbridge street, my phone in my outstretched fingertips.

Come on, phone, I mentally cajole it. You can do it. Do it for Poppy. Fetch the message. There must be a signal somewhere… . You can do it… .

“Aaaaaaah!” I hear my own yell of shock before I even clock what’s happened. There’s a twisting pain in my shoulder. My fingers feel scratched. A figure on a bike is pedaling swiftly toward the end of the road. I only have time to register an old gray hoodie and skinny black jeans before the bike turns the corner.

My hand’s empty. What the hell—

I stare at my palm in numb disbelief. It’s gone. That guy stole my phone. He bloody stole it.

My phone’s my life. I can’t exist without it. It’s a vital organ.

“Madam, are you all right?” The doorman is hurrying down the steps. “Did something happen? Did he hurt you?”

“I … I’ve been mugged,” I somehow manage to stutter. “My phone’s been nicked.”

The doorman clicks sympathetically. “Chancers, they are. Have to be so careful in an area like this … ”

I’m not listening. I’m starting to shake all over. I’ve never felt so bereft and panicky. What do I do without my phone? How do I function? My hand keeps automatically reaching for my phone in its usual place in my pocket. Every instinct in me wants to text someone OMG, I’ve lost my phone! but how can I do that without a bloody phone?

My phone is my people. It’s my friends. It’s my family. It’s my work. It’s my world. It’s everything. I feel like someone’s wrenched my life support system away from me.

“Shall I call the police, madam?” The doorman is peering at me anxiously.

I’m too distracted to reply. I’m consumed with a sudden, even more terrible realization. The ring. I’ve handed out my mobile number to everyone: the cleaners, the ladies’ room attendants, the Marie Curie people, everyone. What if someone finds it? What if someone’s got it and they’re trying to call me right this minute and there’s no answer because hoody guy has already chucked my SIM card into the river?

Oh God.⁵ I need to talk to the concierge. I’ll give my home number instead—

No. Bad idea. If they leave a message, Magnus might hear it.⁶

OK, so … so … I’ll give my work number. Yes.

Except no one will be at the physio clinic this evening. I can’t go and sit there for hours, just in case.

I’m starting to feel seriously freaked out now. Everything’s unraveling.

To make matters even worse, as I run back in to the lobby, the concierge is busy. His desk is surrounded by a large group of conference delegates talking about restaurant reservations. I try to catch his eye, hoping he’ll beckon me forward as a priority, but he studiously ignores me, and I feel a twinge of hurt. I know I“ve taken up quite a lot of his time this afternoon—but doesn’t he realize what a hideous crisis I’m in?

“Madam.” The doorman has followed me into the lobby, his brow creased with concern. “Can we get you something for the shock? Arnold!” He briskly calls over a waiter. “A brandy for the lady, please, on the house. And if you’ll talk to our concierge, he’ll help you with the police. Would you like to sit down?”

“No, thanks.” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Maybe I should phone my own number! Call the mugger! I could ask him to come back, offer him a reward … What do you think? Could I borrow your phone?”

The doorman almost recoils as I thrust out a hand.

“Madam, I think that would be a very foolhardy action,” he says severely. “And I’m sure the police will agree you should do no such thing. I think you must be in shock. Kindly have a seat and try to relax.”