I've Got Your Number

He looks fit. He can do a Fun Run, for God’s sake.

On a roll now, I scroll down to that guy in IT who’s been politely asking about sending Sam his CV and ideas for the company. I mean, surely Sam should be encouraging people who want to get ahead?

Dear James,

I would be very glad to see your CV and hear about your ideas. Please make an appointment with Jane Ellis, and well done for being so proactive!

Sam

And now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. As the bus chugs along, I email the guy wanting to assess Sam’s workstation for health and safety, set up a time, then email Jane to tell her to put it in the schedule.⁵⁹ I email Sarah, who has been off with shingles, and ask her if she’s better.

All those unanswered emails that have been nagging away at me. All those poor ignored people trying to get in touch with Sam. Why shouldn’t I answer them? I’m doing him such a service! I feel like I’m repaying him for his favor with the ring. At least, when I hand this phone back, his in-box will have been dealt with.

In fact, what about a round-robin email telling everyone they’re fab? Why not? Who can it hurt?

Dear Staff,

I just wanted to say that you’ve all done a great job so far this year.

As I’m typing, an even better thought comes to me.

As you know, I value all your views and ideas. We are lucky to have such talent at White Globe Consulting and want to make the most of it. If you have any ideas for the company you would like to share, please send them to me. Be honest!

All best wishes and here’s to a great year ahead.

Sam

I press send with satisfaction. There. Talk about motivational. Talk about team spirit! As I sit back, my fingers are aching from so much typing. I take a sip of latte, reach for my muffin, stuff a massive chunk into my mouth—and my phone starts ringing.

Shit. Of all the times.

I press talk, lift the receiver to my ear, and try to say “Just a moment,” but it comes out as “Gobblllllg.” My whole mouth is full of claggy muffin. What do they put in these things?

“Is that you?” A youthful, reedy male voice is speaking. “It’s Scottie.”

Scottie? Scottie?

Something sparks in my mind. Scottie. Wasn’t that the name mentioned by Violet’s friend who rang before? The one who was talking about liposuction?

“It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself. Adiós, Santa Claus.”

I’m chewing my muffin as frantically as I can, but I still can’t utter a sound.

“Are you there? Is this the right—Oh, fucking—” The voice disappears as I manage to swallow.

“Hello? Can I take a message?”

He’s gone. I check the caller ID, but it’s Unknown Number.

You’d think all Violet’s friends would know her new number by now. Clicking my tongue, I reach inside my bag for the Lion King program, which is still there.

Scottie rang, I scribble next to the first message. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa Claus.

If I ever meet this Violet, I hope she’s grateful for all my efforts. In fact, I hope I do meet her. I haven’t been taking all these messages for nothing.

I’m about to put the phone away when a crowd of new emails arrives in a flashing bunch. Replies to my round robin already? I scroll down—and to my disappointment, most of them are standard company messages or ads. But the second-to-last makes me stop in my tracks. It’s from Sam’s dad.

I’ve been wondering about him.

I hesitate—then click the email open.

Dear Sam,

Just wondering if you got my last email. You know I’m not much of a technological expert, probably sending it off to the wrong place. But here goes again.

Hope all is well and you are flourishing in London as ever. You know how proud we are of your success. I see you in the business pages. Amazing. I always knew you were destined for big things, you know that.

As I said, there is something I’d love to talk to you about. Are you ever down Hampshire way? It’s been so long and I do miss the old days.

Yours ever,

Your old

Dad

As I get to the end, I feel rather hot around the eyes. I can’t quite believe it. Did Sam not even reply to that last email? Doesn’t he care about his dad? Have they had a big row or something?

I have no idea what the story is. I have no idea what could have happened between them. All I know is, there’s a father sitting at a computer, putting out feelers to his son, and they’re being ignored, and I can’t bear it. I just can’t. Whatever’s gone before, life’s too short not to make amends. Life’s too short to bear a grudge.

On impulse, I press reply. I don’t dare reply in Sam’s voice to his own father; that would be going too far. But I can make contact. I can let a lonely old man know that his voice is being heard.

Hello.

This is Sam’s PA. Just to let you know, Sam will be at his company conference at the Chiddingford Hotel in Hampshire next week, April 24 . I’m sure he’d love to see you.

Best,

Poppy Wyatt