I've Got Your Number
Page 75
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“Could it be on your phone?” I suggest timidly.
Sam’s eyes light up for a moment—then he shakes his head.
“No. This was months ago. The phone doesn’t store emails beyond two months. Nice idea, though, Poppy.”
Vicks looks as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Again— who’s she? Does she have a pass ?”
“Yes.” I hurriedly produce my laminated card.
“She’s … OK. She’s a visitor. I’ll deal with her. Come on. We need to talk to the techies.”
Without a word in my direction, Sam hurries out into the corridor. A moment later, looking absolutely livid, Vicks follows. I can hear a stream of low-pitched invective coming from her as they walk off.
“Sam, when exactly were you planning to tell me you had a fucking visitor in your bathroom, listening to our fucking confidential crisis ? You do realize my job is to control the flow of information? Control it?”
“Vicks, relax.”
As they disappear from view, I sink down onto a chair, feeling a bit unreal. Yowzer. I have no idea what to do now. Should I stay? Should I go? Is the meeting with the CEO still going to happen?
I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere—but after about twenty minutes of sitting there alone, I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I’ve leafed through a magazine full of words I don’t understand, and I’ve thought about getting myself a coffee (and decided against it). The CEO meeting must surely be off. Sam must be tied up. I’m gearing myself up to write him a note and leave, when a blond guy taps at the glass door. He looks about twenty-three and is holding a massive rolled-up piece of blue paper.
“Hi,” he says shyly. “Are you Sam’s new PA?”
“No. I’m just … er … helping him.”
“Oh, OK.” He nods. “Well, it’s about the competition. The ideas competition?”
Oh God. This again.
“Yes?” I say encouragingly. “Do you want to leave Sam a message?”
“I want this to get to him. It’s a visualization of the company? A restructuring exercise? It’s self-explanatory, but I’ve attached some notes.”
He hands over the rolled-up paper, together with an exercise book full of writing.
I already know there is no way Sam is going to look at any of this. I feel quite sorry for this guy.
“OK! Well … I’ll make sure he sees it. Thanks!”
As the blond guy heads off, I unroll a corner of the paper out of curiosity—and I don’t believe it. It’s a collage! Like I used to do when I was about five!
I spread the whole thing out flat on the floor, anchoring the corners with chair legs. It’s in the design of a tree, with photos of staff stuck onto the branches. God only knows what it’s supposed to say about the structure of the company—I don’t care. What’s interesting for me is that under each photo is the person’s name. Which means I can finally put faces to all the people who have sent an email through Sam’s phone. This is riveting.
Jane Ellis is a lot younger than I expected, and Malcolm is fatter, and Chris Davies turns out to be a woman. There’s Justin Cole … and there’s Lindsay Cooper … and there’s—
My finger stops dead.
Willow Harte.
She’s nestling on a lower branch, smiling out cheerfully. Thin and dark-haired, with very arched black eyebrows. She’s quite pretty, I grudgingly admit, although not supermodel standard.
And she works on the same floor as Sam. Which means …
Oh, I’ve got to. Come on. I’ve got to have a quick peek at the psycho fiancée before I go.
I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the floor. I have no idea if she’ll be in the open-plan area or have her own office. I’ll just have to wander round. If anyone stops me, I’ll be Sam’s new PA.
I grab a couple of files as camouflage and cautiously venture out. A couple of people typing at their computers lift their heads and give me an uninterested glance. Skirting the edge of the floor, I glance through windows and peer at names on doors, trying to catch a glimpse of a girl with dark hair, listening out for a whiny, nasal voice. She has to have a whiny, nasal voice, surely. And lots of stupid, made-up allergies, and about ten therapists—
I stop dead. That’s her! It’s Willow!
She’s ten yards away. Sitting in one of the glass-doored offices. To be honest, I can’t see much of her except her profile and a hank of long hair hanging down the back of her chair and some long legs ending in black ballet pumps—but it’s definitely her. I feel as though I’ve stumbled on some mythological creature.
Sam’s eyes light up for a moment—then he shakes his head.
“No. This was months ago. The phone doesn’t store emails beyond two months. Nice idea, though, Poppy.”
Vicks looks as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Again— who’s she? Does she have a pass ?”
“Yes.” I hurriedly produce my laminated card.
“She’s … OK. She’s a visitor. I’ll deal with her. Come on. We need to talk to the techies.”
Without a word in my direction, Sam hurries out into the corridor. A moment later, looking absolutely livid, Vicks follows. I can hear a stream of low-pitched invective coming from her as they walk off.
“Sam, when exactly were you planning to tell me you had a fucking visitor in your bathroom, listening to our fucking confidential crisis ? You do realize my job is to control the flow of information? Control it?”
“Vicks, relax.”
As they disappear from view, I sink down onto a chair, feeling a bit unreal. Yowzer. I have no idea what to do now. Should I stay? Should I go? Is the meeting with the CEO still going to happen?
I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere—but after about twenty minutes of sitting there alone, I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I’ve leafed through a magazine full of words I don’t understand, and I’ve thought about getting myself a coffee (and decided against it). The CEO meeting must surely be off. Sam must be tied up. I’m gearing myself up to write him a note and leave, when a blond guy taps at the glass door. He looks about twenty-three and is holding a massive rolled-up piece of blue paper.
“Hi,” he says shyly. “Are you Sam’s new PA?”
“No. I’m just … er … helping him.”
“Oh, OK.” He nods. “Well, it’s about the competition. The ideas competition?”
Oh God. This again.
“Yes?” I say encouragingly. “Do you want to leave Sam a message?”
“I want this to get to him. It’s a visualization of the company? A restructuring exercise? It’s self-explanatory, but I’ve attached some notes.”
He hands over the rolled-up paper, together with an exercise book full of writing.
I already know there is no way Sam is going to look at any of this. I feel quite sorry for this guy.
“OK! Well … I’ll make sure he sees it. Thanks!”
As the blond guy heads off, I unroll a corner of the paper out of curiosity—and I don’t believe it. It’s a collage! Like I used to do when I was about five!
I spread the whole thing out flat on the floor, anchoring the corners with chair legs. It’s in the design of a tree, with photos of staff stuck onto the branches. God only knows what it’s supposed to say about the structure of the company—I don’t care. What’s interesting for me is that under each photo is the person’s name. Which means I can finally put faces to all the people who have sent an email through Sam’s phone. This is riveting.
Jane Ellis is a lot younger than I expected, and Malcolm is fatter, and Chris Davies turns out to be a woman. There’s Justin Cole … and there’s Lindsay Cooper … and there’s—
My finger stops dead.
Willow Harte.
She’s nestling on a lower branch, smiling out cheerfully. Thin and dark-haired, with very arched black eyebrows. She’s quite pretty, I grudgingly admit, although not supermodel standard.
And she works on the same floor as Sam. Which means …
Oh, I’ve got to. Come on. I’ve got to have a quick peek at the psycho fiancée before I go.
I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the floor. I have no idea if she’ll be in the open-plan area or have her own office. I’ll just have to wander round. If anyone stops me, I’ll be Sam’s new PA.
I grab a couple of files as camouflage and cautiously venture out. A couple of people typing at their computers lift their heads and give me an uninterested glance. Skirting the edge of the floor, I glance through windows and peer at names on doors, trying to catch a glimpse of a girl with dark hair, listening out for a whiny, nasal voice. She has to have a whiny, nasal voice, surely. And lots of stupid, made-up allergies, and about ten therapists—
I stop dead. That’s her! It’s Willow!
She’s ten yards away. Sitting in one of the glass-doored offices. To be honest, I can’t see much of her except her profile and a hank of long hair hanging down the back of her chair and some long legs ending in black ballet pumps—but it’s definitely her. I feel as though I’ve stumbled on some mythological creature.
