“Where the fuck are you?” A smooth, well-educated male voice starts speaking and I nearly squeak with astonishment. It worked! He thinks I’m a machine! “I’ve just been talking to Scottie. He has a contact who reckons he can do it. It’ll be like keyhole surgery. He’s good. There won’t be any trace.”
I don’t dare breathe. Or scratch my nose, which is suddenly incredibly itchy.
“OK,” the man is saying. “So, whatever else you do, be fucking careful.”
He rings off and I stare at the phone in astonishment. I never thought anyone would actually leave a message.
Now I feel a bit guilty. This is a genuine voice mail, and Violet’s missed it. I mean, it’s not my fault she threw her phone away, but even so … On impulse I scrabble in my bag for a pen and the only thing I’ve got to write on, which is an old theater program.7 I scribble down: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.
God alone knows what that’s all about. Liposuction, maybe? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, if I ever do meet this Violet girl, I’ll be able to pass it on.
Before the phone can ring again, I hurry to the concierge’s desk, which has miraculously cleared.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Me again. Has anyone found my ring?”
“May I please assure you, madam,” he says with a frosty smile, “that we would have let you know if we had found it. We do have your phone number—”
“No, you don’t!” I cut him off, almost triumphantly. “That’s the thing! The number I gave you is now … er … defunct. Out of use. Very much so.” The last thing I want is him calling hoody guy and mentioning a priceless emerald ring. “Please don’t call it. Can you use this number instead?” I carefully copy the phone number from the back of the White Globe Consulting phone. “In fact, just to be sure … can I test it?” I reach for the hotel landline phone and dial the printed number. A moment later Beyoncé starts blasting out of the mobile phone. OK. At last I can relax a little. I’ve got a number.
“Madam, was there anything else?”
The concierge is starting to look quite pissed off, and there’s a queue of people building behind me. So I thank him again and head to a nearby sofa, full of adrenaline. I have a phone and I have a plan.
It only takes me five minutes to write out my new mobile number on twenty separate pieces of hotel writing paper, with POPPY WYATT—EMERALD RING, PLEASE CALL!!!! in big capitals. To my annoyance, the doors to the ballroom are now locked (although I’m sure I can hear the cleaners inside), so I’m forced to roam around the hotel corridors, the tea room, the ladies’ rooms, and even the spa, handing my number out to every hotel worker I come across and explaining the story.
I call the police and dictate my new number to them. I text Ruby—whose mobile number I know by heart—saying:
Hi! Phone stolen. This is my new mobile number. Cn u pass to everyone? Any sign of ring???
Then I flop onto the sofa in exhaustion. I feel like I’ve been living in this bloody hotel all day. I should phone Magnus too and give him this number—but I can’t face it yet. I have this irrational conviction that he’ll be able to tell from my tone of voice that my ring is missing. He’ll sense my bare finger the minute I say, “Hi.”
Please come back, ring. Please, PLEASE come back … .
I’ve leaned back, closed my eyes, and am trying to send a telepathic message through the ether. So when Beyoncé starts up again, I give a startled jump. Maybe this is it! My ring! Someone found it! I don’t even check the screen before pressing talk and answering excitedly, “Hello?”
“Violet?” A man’s voice hits my ear. It’s not the man who called before; it’s a guy with a deeper voice. He sounds a bit bad-tempered, if you can tell that just from three syllables.8 He’s also breathing quite heavily, which means he’s either a pervert or doing some exercise. “Are you in the lobby? Is the Japanese contingent still there?”
In reflex, I look around. There are a whole bunch of Japanese people by the doors.
“Yes, they are,” I say. “But I’m not Violet. This isn’t Violet’s phone anymore. Sorry. Maybe you could spread the word that her number’s changed?”
I need to get Violet’s mates off my case. I can’t have them ringing me every five seconds.
“Excuse me, who is this?” the man demands. “Why are you answering this number? Where’s Violet?”
“I possess this phone,” I say, more confidently than I feel. Which is true. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.9