I've Got Your Number

I press send before I can chicken out, then sit for a few moments, a bit breathless at what I’ve done. I’ve masqueraded as Sam’s PA. I’ve contacted his father. I’ve waded right into his personal life. He’d be livid if he knew—in fact, the very thought of it makes me quail.

But sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes you have to show people what’s important in life. And I have this very strong gut instinct that what I’ve done is the right thing. Maybe not the easy thing—but the right thing.

I have a vision of Sam’s dad sitting at his desk, his gray head bowed. The computer beeping with a new email, the light of hope in his face as he opens it … a sudden smile of joy … turning to his dog, patting his head, saying, “We’re going to see Sam, boy!”⁶⁰

Yes. It was the right thing to do.

Exhaling slowly, I open the last email, which is from Blue:

Hello.

We’re so sorry to hear that Sam can’t make the Savoy reception. Would he like to nominate another person to attend in his place? Please email over the name and we will be sure to add them to the guest list.

Kind regards,

Blue.

The bus has come to a halt, chugging at a set of traffic lights. I take a bite of muffin and stare silently at the email.

Another person. That could be anybody.

I’m free on Monday night. Magnus has a late seminar in Warwick.

OK. Here’s the thing. There’s no way I’d ever be invited to anything glitzy like this in the normal way of things. Physiotherapists just aren’t. And Magnus’s events are all academic book launches or stuffy college dinners. They’re never at the Savoy. There are never goody bags or cocktails or jazz bands. This is my one and only chance.

Maybe this is karma. I’ve come into Sam’s life, I’ve made a difference for the good—and this is my reward.

My fingers are moving almost before I’ve made a decision.

Thank you so much for your email, I find myself typing. Sam would like to nominate Poppy Wyatt.

50 Is unethical the same as dishonest? This is the kind of moral debate I could have asked Antony about. In different circumstances.

51 Which is a shame, because what I’m dying to ask is: Why does Willow keep sending messages via me when she must know I’m not Violet by now? And what’s all this communication through his PA, anyway?

52 Which makes me wonder: If man can make an emerald these days, why do we all keep on spending loads of money on real ones? Also: Should I get some earrings?

53 I did actually think it was quite a lot. But I figured that was the hit I had to take. I would certainly never query the price of a ring in a posh shop, never in a million years.

54 “I could draw you a graph, Poppy. A graph.”

55 Aha! Clearly the same Ed who was in the Groucho Club, the worse for wear. Just call me Poirot.

56 Daily Mail gossip column.

57 I actually half-remember seeing that story in the paper.

58 Good thing he isn’t my boss, is all I can say.

59 I know he’s free on Wednesday at lunchtime, because someone has just canceled.

60 I know he may not have a dog. I just feel pretty sure that he does.

7

The fake ring’s perfect!

OK, not perfect. It’s a tad smaller than the original. And a bit tinnier. But who’s going to know without the other one to compare? I’ve worn it most of the afternoon and it feels really comfortable. In fact, it’s lighter than the real thing, which is an advantage.

Now I’ve finished my last appointment of the day and am standing with my hands spread out on the reception desk. All the patients have gone, even sweet Mrs. Randall, with whom I’ve just had to be quite firm. I told her not to come back here for two weeks. I told her she was perfectly capable of exercising at home alone, and there was no reason she shouldn’t be back on the tennis court.

Then, of course, it all came out. It turned out she was nervous of letting down her doubles partner, and that’s why she was coming in so often: to give herself confidence. I told her she was absolutely ready and I wanted her to text me her next score before she came back to see me. I said if it came to it, I’d play tennis with her, at which point she laughed and said I was right, she was being nonsensical.

Then, when she’d gone, Angela told me that Mrs. Randall is some shit-hot player who once played in Junior Wimbledon. Yowser. Probably a good thing we didn’t play, since I can’t even hit a backhand.

Angela’s gone home too now. It’s just Annalise, Ruby, and me, we’re surveying the ring in silence except for a spring storm outside. One minute it was a bright breezy day; the next, rain was hammering at the windows.

“Excellent.” Ruby is nodding energetically. Her hair is up in a ponytail today, and it bounces as she nods. “Very good. You’d never know.”

“I’d know,” Annalise retorts at once. “It’s not the same green.”

“Really?” I peer at it in dismay.

“The question is, how observant is Magnus?” Ruby raises her eyebrows. “Does he ever look at it?”

“I don’t think so …”

“Well, maybe keep your hands away from him for a while, to be on the safe side.”