Sophie Kinsella - I’ve Got Your Number

I blink a few times and look again—but it’s still there, half hidden amid a couple of discarded conference programs and a Starbucks cup. What’s a phone doing in a bin?

I look around to see if anyone’s watching me—then reach in gingerly and pull it out. It has a couple of drops of coffee on it, but otherwise it seems perfect. It’s a good one too. A Nokia. New.

Cautiously, I turn and survey the thronging lobby. Nobody’s paying me the slightest bit of attention. No one’s rushing up and exclaiming “There’s my phone!” And I’ve been walking around this area for the last ten minutes. Whoever threw this phone in here did it a while ago.

There’s a sticker on the back of the phone, with White Globe Consulting Group printed in tiny letters and a number. Did someone just chuck it away? Is it bust? I press the on switch and the screen glows. It seems in perfect working order to me.

A tiny voice in my head is telling me that I should hand it in. Take it up to the front desk and say, “Excuse me, I think someone’s lost this phone.” That’s what I should do. March up to the desk right now, like any responsible, civic member of society… .

My feet don’t move an inch. My hand tightens protectively round the phone. Thing is, I need a phone. I bet White Globe Consulting Group, whoever that is, has millions of phones. And it’s not like I found it on the floor or in the ladies’ room, is it? It was in a bin. Things in bins are rubbish. They’re fair game. They’ve been relinquished to the world. That’s the rule.

I peer into the bin again and glimpse a red cord, just like the ones round all the delegates’ necks. I check the concierge to make sure he’s not watching, then plunge my hand in again and pull out a conference pass. A mug shot of a stunningly pretty girl stares back at me, under which is printed: Violet Russell, White Globe Consulting Group.

I’m building up a pretty good theory now. I could be Poirot. This is Violet Russell’s phone and she threw it away. For … some reason or other.

Well, that’s her fault. Not mine.

The phone buzzes and I start. Shit! It’s alive. The ring tone begins at top volume—and it’s Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.” I quickly press ignore, but a moment later it starts up again, loud and unmistakable.

Isn’t there a bloody volume control on this thing? A couple of nearby businesswomen have turned to stare, and I’m so flustered that I jab at talk instead of ignore. The businesswomen are still watching me, so I press the phone to my ear and turn away.

“The person you have called is not available,” I say, trying to sound robotic. “Please leave a message.” That’ll get rid of whoever it is.

“Where the fuck are you?” A smooth, well-educated male voice starts speaking and I nearly squeak with astonishment. It worked! He thinks I’m a machine! “I’ve just been talking to Scottie. He has a contact who reckons he can do it. It’ll be like keyhole surgery. He’s good. There won’t be any trace.”

I don’t dare breathe. Or scratch my nose, which is suddenly incredibly itchy.

“OK,” the man is saying. “So, whatever else you do, be fucking careful.”

He rings off and I stare at the phone in astonishment. I never thought anyone would actually leave a message.

Now I feel a bit guilty. This is a genuine voice mail, and Violet’s missed it. I mean, it’s not my fault she threw her phone away, but even so … On impulse I scrabble in my bag for a pen and the only thing I’ve got to write on, which is an old theater program.7 I scribble down: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.

God alone knows what that’s all about. Liposuction, maybe? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, if I ever do meet this Violet girl, I’ll be able to pass it on.

Before the phone can ring again, I hurry to the concierge’s desk, which has miraculously cleared.

“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Me again. Has anyone found my ring?”

“May I please assure you, madam,” he says with a frosty smile, “that we would have let you know if we had found it. We do have your phone number—”

“No, you don’t!” I cut him off, almost triumphantly. “That’s the thing! The number I gave you is now … er … defunct. Out of use. Very much so.” The last thing I want is him calling hoody guy and mentioning a priceless emerald ring. “Please don’t call it. Can you use this number instead?” I carefully copy the phone number from the back of the White Globe Consulting phone. “In fact, just to be sure … can I test it?” I reach for the hotel landline phone and dial the printed number. A moment later Beyoncé starts blasting out of the mobile phone. OK. At last I can relax a little. I’ve got a number.

“Madam, was there anything else?”

The concierge is starting to look quite pissed off, and there’s a queue of people building behind me. So I thank him again and head to a nearby sofa, full of adrenaline. I have a phone and I have a plan.

It only takes me five minutes to write out my new mobile number on twenty separate pieces of hotel writing paper, with POPPY WYATT—EMERALD RING, PLEASE CALL!!!! in big capitals. To my annoyance, the doors to the ballroom are now locked (although I’m sure I can hear the cleaners inside), so I’m forced to roam around the hotel corridors, the tea room, the ladies’ rooms, and even the spa, handing my number out to every hotel worker I come across and explaining the story.

I call the police and dictate my new number to them. I text Ruby—whose mobile number I know by heart—saying:

Hi! Phone stolen. This is my new mobile number. Cn u pass to everyone? Any sign of ring???

Then I flop onto the sofa in exhaustion. I feel like I’ve been living in this bloody hotel all day. I should phone Magnus too and give him this number—but I can’t face it yet. I have this irrational conviction that he’ll be able to tell from my tone of voice that my ring is missing. He’ll sense my bare finger the minute I say, “Hi.”

Please come back, ring. Please, PLEASE come back… .

I’ve leaned back, closed my eyes, and am trying to send a telepathic message through the ether. So when Beyoncé starts up again, I give a startled jump. Maybe this is it! My ring! Someone found it! I don’t even check the screen before pressing talk and answering excitedly, “Hello?”

“Violet?” A man’s voice hits my ear. It’s not the man who called before; it’s a guy with a deeper voice. He sounds a bit bad-tempered, if you can tell that just from three syllables.8 He’s also breathing quite heavily, which means he’s either a pervert or doing some exercise. “Are you in the lobby? Is the Japanese contingent still there?”

In reflex, I look around. There are a whole bunch of Japanese people by the doors.

“Yes, they are,” I say. “But I’m not Violet. This isn’t Violet’s phone anymore. Sorry. Maybe you could spread the word that her number’s changed?”

I need to get Violet’s mates off my case. I can’t have them ringing me every five seconds.

“Excuse me, who is this?” the man demands. “Why are you answering this number? Where’s Violet?”

“I possess this phone,” I say, more confidently than I feel. Which is true. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.9

“You possess it? What the hell are you—Oh Jesus.” He swears a bit more, and I can hear distant footsteps. It sounds like he’s running downstairs.10 “Tell me, are they leaving?”

“The Japanese people?” I squint at the group. “Maybe. Can’t tell.”

“Is a short guy with them? Overweight? Thick hair?”

“You mean the man in the blue suit? Yes, he’s right in front of me. Looks pissed off. Now he’s putting on his mac.”

The squat Japanese man has been handed a Burberry by a colleague. He’s glowering as he puts it on, and a constant stream of angry Japanese is coming out of his mouth, as all his friends nod nervously.

“No!” The man’s exclamation down the phone takes me by surprise. “He can’t leave.”

“Well, he is. Sorry.”