I've Got Your Number
“What’s wrong with saying happy birthday to a colleague?”
“I don’t know her.”
“Yes, you do! You work with her.”
“I work with two hundred forty-three people.”
“But isn’t she the girl who came up with that website strategy document the other day?” I say, suddenly remembering an old email correspondence. “Weren’t you all really pleased?”
“Yes,” he says blankly. “What’s that got to do with this?”
God, he’s stubborn. Giving up on Lindsay’s birthday, I scroll down to the next email.
“Peter has finalized the Air France deal. He wants to give you his full report on Monday straight after the team meeting. Is that OK?”
“Fine.” Sam barely glances up. “Just forward it. Thanks.”
If I forward it, he’ll let it sit there all day without answering.
“Why don’t I reply?” I offer. “Since you’re here and I’ve got the email open? It’ll only take a minute.”
“Oh.” He seems surprised. “Thanks. Just say, Yes. ”
Yes. I carefully type. “Anything else?”
“Put Sam. ”
I stare at the screen, dissatisfied. Yes. Sam. It looks so bare. So curt.
“What about adding something like, Well done ?” I suggest. “Or You did it! Yay! Or just Best wishes and thanks for everything >”
Sam looks unimpressed. “ Yes, Sam will be plenty.”
“Typical,” I mutter under my breath. Except perhaps it wasn’t quite as submerged under my breath as I’d intended, because Sam looks up.
“Excuse me?”
I know I should bite my tongue. But I’m so frustrated I can’t stop myself.
“You’re so abrupt! Your emails are so short! They’re awful!”
There’s a long pause. Sam looks as astonished as if the chair had started to speak.
“Sorry,” I add giving an awkward shrug. “But it’s true.”
“OK,” says Sam at last. “Let’s just get things straight. In the first place, borrowing this phone does not give you a license to read and critique my emails.” He hesitates. “In the second place, short is good.”
I’m already regretting having spoken. But I can’t back down now.
“Not that short,” I retort. “And you ignore most people completely! It’s rude!”
There. Said it.
Sam is glowering at me. “Like I said, I prioritize. Now, since your ring situation is sorted, maybe you’d like to hand the phone back and my emails won’t have to bother you anymore.” He holds out his hand.
Oh God. Is that why he’s helping me? So I’ll give the phone back?
“No!” I clutch the phone. “I mean … please. I still need it. The hotel might phone me any minute; Mrs. Fairfax will have this number … ”
I know it’s irrational, but I feel like the moment I give this phone up, I’m saying goodbye to any chance of finding the ring.
I put it behind my back for good measure and gaze beseechingly at him.
“Jesus,” Sam exhales. “This is ridiculous. I’m interviewing for a new PA this afternoon. That’s a company phone. You can’t just keep it!”
“I won’t! But can I have it a few more days? I won’t critique your emails anymore,” I add tamely. “Promise.”
“OK, guys!” Mark interrupts us. “Good news. I’ve found a mount. Now I’ll select some stones for you to look at. Excuse me a moment… .”
As he heads out of the room, my phone bleeps with a new text.
“It’s from Willow,” I say, glancing down. “Look.” I gesture at my hands. “Forwarding. Not passing any comment. None at all.”51
“Hrrmm.” Sam gives the same noncommittal growl he gave before when I mentioned Willow.
There’s an odd little pause. What should happen now is I ask something polite like, “So, how did you two meet?” and “When are you getting married?” and we start a conversation about wedding lists and the price of caterers. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to. Their relationship is so peculiar, I don’t want to go there.
I know he can be growly and curt, but I still can’t see him with a self-obsessed, whingy bitch like Willow. Especially now I’ve met him in the flesh. She must be really, really, really attractive, I decide. Like, supermodel standard. Her dazzling looks have blinded him to everything else about her. It’s the only explanation.
“Loads of people are replying to the email about Lindsay’s birthday,” I observe, to fill the silence. “ They obviously don’t have a problem with it.”