I've Got Your Number

minute. Fifteen seconds, I’m outside, ignoring the doorman, ru

the corner, until grass is underfoot and I feel as though I’ve got away.

        I walk slowly, waiting for my breath to return. I’m still in shock over what’s just

happened.

        Are you going to lose your job over this?

        Another silence. I walk a little more, adjusting to the night sky, the cool air with a little

breeze, the soft grass. The hotel is a good four hundred yards away by now, and I start to

unwind.

        Maybe.

        He sounds quite relaxed about the fact. If a one-word text can sound relaxed.86

        I’m outside now. Where should I head?

        God knows. I went out back of hotel and walked into oblivion.

        That’s what I’m doing now.

        So we’ll meet.

        You never said your mum had died.

        I’ve typed it and pressed send before I can stop myself. I stare at the screen, cringing at

my own crassness. I can’t believe I said that. Of all the times. Like this is going to be his priority

right now.

        No. I never did.

        I’ve reached the edge of what seems to be a croquet lawn. There’s a wooded area ahead.

Is that where he is? I’m about to ask him, when another text bleeps into my phone.

        I just get tired of telling people. The awkward pause. You know?

        I blink at the screen. I can’t believe someone else knows about the awkward pause.

        I understand.

        I should have told you.

        There’s no way I’m guilt-tripping him over this. That’s not what I meant. That’s not what

I wanted him to feel. As quickly as I can, I type a reply:

        No. No should. Never any should. That’s my rule.

        That’s your rule for life?

        Rule for life? That’s not exactly what I meant. But I like the idea that he thinks I have a

rule for life.

        No, my rule for life is …

        I pause, trying to think. A rule for life. That’s quite a huge one. I can think of quite a few

good rules, but for life …

        On tenterhooks here.

        Stop it, I’m thinking.

        Then, suddenly, inspiration hits. Confidently, I type:

        If it’s in a bin it’s public property.

        There’s silence, then the phone bleeps again with his reply:

        I stare in disbelief. A smiley face. Sam Roxton typed a smiley face! A moment later he

sends a follow-up.

        I know. I don’t believe it either.

        I laugh out loud, then shiver as a breeze hits my shoulders. This is all very well. But I’m

standing in a field in Hampshire with no coat and no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing.

Come on, Poppy. Focus. There’s no moon, and all the stars must be hidden behind clouds. I can

hardly see to type.

        Where ARE you? In the wood? Can’t see a thing.

        Through the wood. Other side. I’ll meet you.

        Cautiously, I start picking my way through the trees, cursing as a bramble catches my leg.

There are probably stinging nettles and snake pits. There are probably man traps. I reach for my

phone, trying to text and avoid brambles at the same time.

        My new rule for life. Don’t go into spooky dark woods on your own.

        There’s silence a moment—then my phone bleeps.

        You’re not on your own.

        I clutch the phone more tightly. It’s true; with him on the other end, I do feel secure. I

walk on a bit more, nearly tripping over a tree root, wondering where the moon’s got to. Waxing,

I suppose. Or waning. Whichever.

        Look for me. I’m coming.

        I peer at his text in disbelief. Look for him? How can I look for him?

        It’s pitch-black. Hadn’t you noticed?

        My phone. Look for the light. Don’t call out. Someone might hear.

        I peer into the gloom. I can’t see anything at all except the dark shadows of trees and

looming mounds of bramble bushes. Still, I guess the worst that can happen is I fall off a cliff

and break all my limbs. I take another few steps forward, listening to my own padding footsteps,

breathing in the musky, damp air.

        OK?

        Still here.

        I’ve reached a tiny clearing and I hesitate, biting my lip. Before I go on, I want to say the

things I won’t be able to when I see him. I’ll be too embarrassed. It’s different by text.

        Just wanted to say I think you’ve done an amazing thing. Putting yourself on the line like

that.

        It had to be done.

        That’s typical of him to brush it off.

        No. It didn’t. But you did it.

        I wait a little while, feeling the breeze on my face and listening to an owl hooting above

me somewhere—but he doesn’t reply. I don’t care, I’m going to press on. I have to say these

things, because I have a feeling no one else will.

        You could have taken an easier path.

        Of course.

        But you didn’t.

        That’s my rule for life.

        And with no warning I feel a hotness behind my eyes. I have no idea why. I don’t know

why I suddenly feel affected. I want to type I admire you, but I can’t bring myself to. Not even

by text. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, I type:

        I understand you.

        Of course you do. You’d do the same.

        I stare at the screen, discomfited. Me? What have I got to do with it?

        I wouldn’t.

        I’ve got to know you pretty well, Poppy Wyatt. You would.

        I don’t know what to say, so I start moving through the wood again, into what seems

even blacker darkness. My hand is wrapped round the phone so tightly I’m going to get a cramp.

But somehow I can’t loosen my fingers. I feel as though the harder I grip, the more I’m

co

        And I don’t want to let go. I don’t want this to end. Even though I’m stumbling and cold

and in the middle of nowhere. We’re in a place that we won’t ever be again.

        On impulse, I type:

        I’m glad it was your phone I picked up.

        A moment later his reply comes:

        So am I.

        I feel a tiny glow inside. Maybe he’s just being polite. But I don’t think so.

        It’s been good. Weird but good.

         Weird but good would sum it up, yes.

         He sent another smiley face! I don’t believe it!

         What’s happened to the man formerly known as Sam Roxton?

         He’s broadening his horizons. Which reminds me, where have all your kisses gone?

         I peer at my phone, surprised at myself.

         Du

         I’ve never sent kisses to Sam, it occurs to me. Not once. Strange. Well, I can make up for

that now. I’m almost giggling as I press the X button down firmly.

         Xxxxxxxx

         A moment later his reply arrives:

         Xxxxxxxxxx

         Ha! With a snuffle of laughter, I type an even longer row of kisses.

         Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

         Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

         Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

         Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

               xxxxxxxxx

         I see you.

         I peer through the gloom again, but he must have better eyesight than I do, because I

can’t see anything.

         Really?

         Coming.

         I lean forward, craning my neck, squinting for a glimpse of light, but there’s nothing. He