“Bullshit,” he retorts. “Who told you that?”

“It’s … it’s common knowledge.” I try to sound robust. “Anyway, why did your PA walk out and chuck her phone away? Not much of a PA, if you ask me.”

“No. Not much of a PA. More of a friend’s daughter who never should have never been given the job. She’s been in the job three weeks. Apparently landed a modeling contract at exactly midday today. By one minute past, she’d left. She didn’t even bother telling me she was going.” He sounds pretty pissed off. “Listen, Miss—what’s your name?”

“Wyatt. Poppy Wyatt.”

“Well, enough kidding around, Poppy. I’m sorry about your ring. I hope it turns up. But this phone isn’t some fun accessory you can purloin for your own ends. This is a company phone with business messages coming in all the time. Emails. Important stuff. My PA runs my life. I need those messages.”

“I’ll forward them.” I hastily cut him off. “I’ll forward everything. How about that?”

“What the—” He mutters something under his breath. “OK. You win. I’ll buy you a new phone. Give me your address, I’ll bike it over—”

“I need this one,” I say stubbornly. “I need this number.”

“For Christ’s—”

“My plan can work!” My words tumble out in a rush. “Everything that comes in, I’ll send to you straightaway. You won’t know the difference! I mean, you’d have to do that anyway, wouldn’t you? If you’ve lost your PA, then what good is a PA’s phone? This way is better. Plus you owe me one for stopping Mr. Yamasaki,” I can’t help pointing out. “You just said so yourself.”

“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it—”

“You won’t miss anything, I promise!” I cut off his irritable snarl. “I’ll forward every single message. Look, I’ll show you, just give me two secs … ”

I ring off, scroll down all the messages that have arrived in the phone since this morning, and quickly forward them one by one to Sam’s mobile number. My fingers are working like lightning.

Text from Vicks Myers: forwarded. Text from Sir Nicholas Murray: forwarded. It’s a matter of seconds to forward them all on. And the emails can all go to samroxton@whiteglobeconsulting.com.

Email from HR Department: forwarded. Email from Tania Phelps: forwarded. Email from Dad—

I hesitate a moment. I need to be careful here. Is this Violet’s dad or Sam’s dad? The name at the top of the email is davidr452@hotmail.com, which doesn’t really help.

Telling myself it’s all in a good cause, I scroll down to have a quick look.

Dear Sam,

It’s been a long time. I think of you often, wondering what you’re up to, and would love to chat sometime. Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow.

If you are ever in the neighborhood, you know you can always stop by. There is a little matter I’d like to raise with you—quite exciting, actually—but as I say, no hurry.

Yours ever,

Dad

As I get to the end I feel a bit shocked. I know this guy is a stranger and this is none of my business. But honestly. You’d think he could reply to his own father’s phone messages. How hard is it to spare half an hour for a chat? And his dad sounds so sweet and humble. Poor old man, having to email his own son’s PA. I feel like replying to him myself. I feel like visiting him, in his little cottage.21

Anyway. Whatever. Not my life. I press forward and the email goes zooming off, with all the others. A moment later Beyoncé starts singing. It’s Sam again.

“When exactly did Sir Nicholas Murray text Violet?” he says abruptly.

“Er … ” I peer at the phone. “About four hours ago.” The first few words of the text are displayed on the screen, so there’s no great harm in clicking on it and reading the rest, is there? Not that it’s very interesting.

Violet, please ask Sam to call me. His phone is switched off. Best, Nicholas.

“Shit. Shit.” Sam’s silent for a moment. “OK, if he texts again, you let me know straightaway, OK? Ring me.”

I open my mouth automatically to say, “What about your dad? Why don’t you ever ring him?” Then I close it again. No, Poppy. Bad idea.

“Ooh, there was a phone message earlier,” I say, suddenly remembering. “About liposuction or something, I think. That wasn’t for you?”

“Liposuction?” he echoes incredulously. “Not that I’m aware of.”

He doesn’t need to sound so scoffing. I was only asking. It must have been for Violet. Not that she’s likely to need liposuction, if she’s off modeling.

“So … we’re on? We have a deal?”

For a while he doesn’t reply, and I have an image of him glowering at his cell phone. I don’t exactly get the feeling he’s relishing this arrangement. But then, what choice does he have?

“I’ll get the PA email address transferred back to my inbox,” he says grouchily, almost to himself. “I’ll speak to the tech guys tomorrow. But the texts will keep coming to you. If I miss any of them—”

“You won’t! Look, I know this isn’t ideal,” I say, trying to mollify him. “And I’m sorry. But I’m really desperate. All the hotel staff have this number … all the cleaners … it’s my only hope. Just for a couple of days. And I promise I’ll send every single message on. Brownie’s honor.”

“Brownie’s what?” He sounds mystified.

“Honor! Brownie Guides? Like Scouts? You hold up one hand and you make the sign and you swear an oath … Hang on, I’ll show you… .” I disconnect the phone.

There’s a sheet of grimy mirror opposite me on the bus. I pose in front of it, holding the phone in one hand, making the Brownie sign with the other, and wearing my best “I’m a sane person’ smile. I take a picture and text it at once to Sam Mobile.

Five seconds later a text message pings back.

I could send this to the police and have you arrested.

I feel a little whoosh of relief. Could. That means he’s not going to.

I really, really appreciate it, I text back. Thx

But there’s no reply.




7 The Lion King. Natasha got free tickets. I thought it would be some lame kids’ thing, but it was brilliant.

8 Which I think you can.

9 I’ve never been quite sure what that means.

10 Maybe not a pervert, then.

11 OK, not just like Beyoncé. Like me imitating Beyoncé.

12 Not books with plots, by the way. Books with footnotes. Books about subjects, like history and anthropology and cultural relativism in Turkmenistan.

13 I wonder if they all take fish oil. I must remember to ask.

14 Don’t ask me. I listened really carefully and I still couldn’t work out how they disagreed. I don’t think the presenter could follow either.

15 Magnus said afterward he was joking. But it didn’t sound like a joke.

16 I’ve never even read any Proust. I don’t know why I had to bring him up.

17 I know. I’ve told him, a million times.

18 Not ponytail long, which would be gross. Just on the long side.

19 I don’t think Annalise’s ever forgiven me. In her head, if she hadn’t switched appointments, she’d be marrying him now.

20 You see? It’s all about the footnotes.

21 Assuming he lives in a little cottage. He sounds like he does. All alone, with maybe just a faithful dog for company.



3



The next morning I wake abruptly to see the phone flashing with a new text from the Berrow Hotel and feel so relieved I almost want to cry. They’ve found it! They’ve found it!

My fingers are fumbling as I unlock the phone, my mind galloping ahead. An early-morning cleaner found the ring clogging up a Hoover … discovered it in the ladies’ room … saw a glint on the carpet … now securely locked in the hotel safe …

Dear Guest,

Summer breaks, half price.

Please visit www.berrowhotellondon.co.uk. for details.

Kind regards,

The Berrow Team

I sag back on the bed, leaden with disappointment. Not to mention anger at whoever put me on the mailing list. How could they do that? Are they trying to play with my neuroses?

At the same time, a nasty realization is turning around and around in my stomach. Another eight hours have passed since I lost the ring. The longer it’s not found—

What if—

I can’t even finish my thoughts. Abruptly, I get out of bed and pad through to the kitchen. I’ll make a cup of tea and send on some more messages to Sam Roxton. That’ll take my mind off things.

The phone has started buzzing again with texts and emails, so I turn on the kettle, perch on the window seat, and start scrolling through, trying desperately not to hope. Sure enough, every message is just some friend asking if I’ve found the ring yet and making suggestions like have you checked your handbag pockets?

There’s nothing from Magnus, even though I sent him a couple of texts last night, asking what else his parents had said about me and when was he planning to tell me, and how was I going to face them now, and was he ignoring me on purpose?22