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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 disco
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 A
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 pla
going to face them now, and was he ignoring me on purpose?22
At last I turn to Sam’s messages. He clearly hasn’t had the email function transferred yet,
because there are about fifty, just from overnight and this morning. Crikey Moses, he was right.
His PA evidently does handle his whole life.
There’s everything and everyone in here. His doctor, colleagues, charity requests,
invitations … It’s like a mainline into the universe of Sam. I can see where he buys his shirts
(Turnbull & Asser). I can see where he went to university (Durham). I can see the name of his
plumber (Dean).
As I scroll down, I start to I feel uncomfortable. I’ve never had so much access to
someone else’s phone before. Not my friends’; not even Magnus’s. There are some things you
just don’t share. I mean, Magnus has seen every inch of my body, including the dodgy bits, but I
would never, ever let him near my phone.
Sam’s text messages are randomly mixed up with mine, which feels weird too. I scroll
down two messages for me, then about six for Sam, then another for me. All side by side; all
touching one another. I’ve never shared an in-box with anyone in my life. I didn’t expect it to