I've Got Your Number
Page 91
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“Hi there, gang! Having a good time?” Sam is still in full flow as we approach the next group. “Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Tony. Tony, why don’t you tell Poppy about your department? And here’s Daniel, and this is … ah. Willow.”
She was turned away as we approached, so her face was averted, but now she faces us full on.
Yowzer.
“Sam!” she says, after such a long pause I start to feel embarrassed for everybody. “Who’s … this?”
OK. If my text to Magnus was laden with meaning, that little two-word sentence of Willow’s was collapsing under its weight. You don’t have to be an expert in the Language of Willow to know that what she actually meant was, “Who the FUCK is this girl and WHAT is she doing here with YOU? Jesus, Sam, are you DELIBERATELY SCREWING AROUND WITH ME? Because, believe me, you are going to regret that BADLY.”
You know. Paraphrasing.
I’ve never felt such overt hostility from anyone in my life. It’s like an electric current between us. Willow’s nostrils are flared and whitening. Her eyes are all stary. Her hand has gripped her glass so tightly, her tendons are showing through her pale skin. But her smile is still soft and pleasant, and her voice is still mellifluous. Which is almost most creepy of all.
“Poppy’s thinking of joining the company,” says Sam.
“Oh.” Willow carries on smiling. “Lovely. Welcome, Poppy.”
She’s unnerving me. She’s like some alien. Behind the soft smile and the dulcet voice is a lizard.
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, we must press on… . See you later, Willow.” Sam takes my arm to guide me away.
Uh-oh. Bad idea. I can feel her laser eyes in my back. Does Sam not feel them too?
We head to a new group and Sam launches into his spiel, and I dutifully crane my neck to listen, but nobody sounds a bit like the phone guy. As we work our way farther round, I can tell Sam’s getting dispirited, though he’s trying to hide it. After we leave a group of youngish IT guys drinking beers, he says, “Really? None of those guys?”
“No.” I shrug apologetically. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry!” He gives a short, strained laugh. “You heard what you heard. You can’t … If it’s not any of them—” He breaks off a moment. “Definitely not the blond guy? The one talking about his car? He didn’t sound at all familiar?”
And now the disappointment in his voice is evident.
“Is that who you thought it was?”
“’I … don’t know.” He spreads his hands, exhaling. “Maybe. Yes. He’d have the IT contacts, he’s new to the company, Justin and Ed could easily have talked him round … ”
I don’t know what to reply. Like he says, I heard what I heard.
“I think some people have gone out to the terrace,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“We’ll try there.” He nods. “Let’s finish up here first.”
Even I can tell that none of the four gray-haired men standing by the bar will be the guy from the phone—and I’m right. As Sam is inveigled into a conversation about Malcolm’s speech, I take the opportunity to edge away and see if Magnus has replied. Of course he hasn’t. But flashing at the top of my in-box is an email sent to [email protected], cc’ed to [email protected], which makes me splutter.
Sam,
Nice try. I know EXACTLY what you’re up to and you’re PATHETIC. Where did you get her from, an agency? I would have thought you could do better than that.
Willow
As I’m staring at the screen in disbelief, a second email pops in.
I mean, Jesus, Sam. She isn’t even DRESSED for the occasion. Or are cutesy denim skirts suddenly appropriate conference wear??
My skirt is not cutesy! And I wasn’t exactly planning to come to a conference when I got dressed this morning, was I?
In outrage, I press reply and type an email.
Actually, I think she’s stunningly beautiful. And her denim skirt isn’t cutesy. So there, Willow the Witch.
Sam.
Then I delete it. Naturally. I’m about to put my phone away when a third email pops in from Willow. Honestly. Can’t she give it a rest?
You want me to be jealous, Sam. Fine. I respect that. I even like it. We need sparks in our relationship. But TRY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE JEALOUS OF!!!
Because believe me, no one here is impressed by your little stunt. I mean, parading around some nondescript girl who clearly has NO IDEA HOW TO BLOW-DRY HER FUCKING HAIR … Well. It’s tragic, Sam. TRAGIC.
She was turned away as we approached, so her face was averted, but now she faces us full on.
Yowzer.
“Sam!” she says, after such a long pause I start to feel embarrassed for everybody. “Who’s … this?”
OK. If my text to Magnus was laden with meaning, that little two-word sentence of Willow’s was collapsing under its weight. You don’t have to be an expert in the Language of Willow to know that what she actually meant was, “Who the FUCK is this girl and WHAT is she doing here with YOU? Jesus, Sam, are you DELIBERATELY SCREWING AROUND WITH ME? Because, believe me, you are going to regret that BADLY.”
You know. Paraphrasing.
I’ve never felt such overt hostility from anyone in my life. It’s like an electric current between us. Willow’s nostrils are flared and whitening. Her eyes are all stary. Her hand has gripped her glass so tightly, her tendons are showing through her pale skin. But her smile is still soft and pleasant, and her voice is still mellifluous. Which is almost most creepy of all.
“Poppy’s thinking of joining the company,” says Sam.
“Oh.” Willow carries on smiling. “Lovely. Welcome, Poppy.”
She’s unnerving me. She’s like some alien. Behind the soft smile and the dulcet voice is a lizard.
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, we must press on… . See you later, Willow.” Sam takes my arm to guide me away.
Uh-oh. Bad idea. I can feel her laser eyes in my back. Does Sam not feel them too?
We head to a new group and Sam launches into his spiel, and I dutifully crane my neck to listen, but nobody sounds a bit like the phone guy. As we work our way farther round, I can tell Sam’s getting dispirited, though he’s trying to hide it. After we leave a group of youngish IT guys drinking beers, he says, “Really? None of those guys?”
“No.” I shrug apologetically. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry!” He gives a short, strained laugh. “You heard what you heard. You can’t … If it’s not any of them—” He breaks off a moment. “Definitely not the blond guy? The one talking about his car? He didn’t sound at all familiar?”
And now the disappointment in his voice is evident.
“Is that who you thought it was?”
“’I … don’t know.” He spreads his hands, exhaling. “Maybe. Yes. He’d have the IT contacts, he’s new to the company, Justin and Ed could easily have talked him round … ”
I don’t know what to reply. Like he says, I heard what I heard.
“I think some people have gone out to the terrace,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“We’ll try there.” He nods. “Let’s finish up here first.”
Even I can tell that none of the four gray-haired men standing by the bar will be the guy from the phone—and I’m right. As Sam is inveigled into a conversation about Malcolm’s speech, I take the opportunity to edge away and see if Magnus has replied. Of course he hasn’t. But flashing at the top of my in-box is an email sent to [email protected], cc’ed to [email protected], which makes me splutter.
Sam,
Nice try. I know EXACTLY what you’re up to and you’re PATHETIC. Where did you get her from, an agency? I would have thought you could do better than that.
Willow
As I’m staring at the screen in disbelief, a second email pops in.
I mean, Jesus, Sam. She isn’t even DRESSED for the occasion. Or are cutesy denim skirts suddenly appropriate conference wear??
My skirt is not cutesy! And I wasn’t exactly planning to come to a conference when I got dressed this morning, was I?
In outrage, I press reply and type an email.
Actually, I think she’s stunningly beautiful. And her denim skirt isn’t cutesy. So there, Willow the Witch.
Sam.
Then I delete it. Naturally. I’m about to put my phone away when a third email pops in from Willow. Honestly. Can’t she give it a rest?
You want me to be jealous, Sam. Fine. I respect that. I even like it. We need sparks in our relationship. But TRY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE JEALOUS OF!!!
Because believe me, no one here is impressed by your little stunt. I mean, parading around some nondescript girl who clearly has NO IDEA HOW TO BLOW-DRY HER FUCKING HAIR … Well. It’s tragic, Sam. TRAGIC.
