Scottie? Scottie?
Something sparks in my mind. Scottie. Wasn’t that the name mentioned by Violet’s friend who rang before? The one who was talking about liposuction?
“It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself. Adiós, Santa Claus.”
I’m chewing my muffin as frantically as I can, but I still can’t utter a sound.
“Are you there? Is this the right—Oh, fucking— ” The voice disappears as I manage to swallow.
“Hello? Can I take a message?”
He’s gone. I check the caller ID, but it’s Unknown Number.
You’d think all Violet’s friends would know her new number by now. Clicking my tongue, I reach inside my bag for the Lion King program, which is still there.
Scottie rang, I scribble next to the first message. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa Claus.
If I ever meet this Violet, I hope she’s grateful for all my efforts. In fact, I hope I do meet her. I haven’t been taking all these messages for nothing.
I’m about to put the phone away when a crowd of new emails arrives in a flashing bunch. Replies to my round robin already? I scroll down—and to my disappointment, most of them are standard company messages or ads. But the second-to-last makes me stop in my tracks. It’s from Sam’s dad.
I’ve been wondering about him.
I hesitate—then click the email open.
Dear Sam,
Just wondering if you got my last email. You know I’m not much of a technological expert, probably sending it off to the wrong place. But here goes again.
Hope all is well and you are flourishing in London as ever. You know how proud we are of your success. I see you in the business pages. Amazing. I always knew you were destined for big things, you know that.
As I said, there is something I’d love to talk to you about. Are you ever down Hampshire way? It’s been so long and I do miss the old days.
Yours ever,
Your old
Dad
As I get to the end, I feel rather hot around the eyes. I can’t quite believe it. Did Sam not even reply to that last email? Doesn’t he care about his dad? Have they had a big row or something?
I have no idea what the story is. I have no idea what could have happened between them. All I know is, there’s a father sitting at a computer, putting out feelers to his son, and they’re being ignored, and I can’t bear it. I just can’t. Whatever’s gone before, life’s too short not to make amends. Life’s too short to bear a grudge.
On impulse, I press reply. I don’t dare reply in Sam’s voice to his own father; that would be going too far. But I can make contact. I can let a lonely old man know that his voice is being heard.
Hello.
This is Sam’s PA. Just to let you know, Sam will be at his company conference at the Chiddingford Hotel in Hampshire next week, April 24 . I’m sure he’d love to see you.
Best,
Poppy Wyatt
I press send before I can chicken out, then sit for a few moments, a bit breathless at what I’ve done. I’ve masqueraded as Sam’s PA. I’ve contacted his father. I’ve waded right into his personal life. He’d be livid if he knew—in fact, the very thought of it makes me quail.
But sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes you have to show people what’s important in life. And I have this very strong gut instinct that what I’ve done is the right thing. Maybe not the easy thing—but the right thing.
I have a vision of Sam’s dad sitting at his desk, his gray head bowed. The computer beeping with a new email, the light of hope in his face as he opens it … a sudden smile of joy … turning to his dog, patting his head, saying, “We’re going to see Sam, boy!”60
Yes. It was the right thing to do.
Exhaling slowly, I open the last email, which is from Blue:
Hello.
We’re so sorry to hear that Sam can’t make the Savoy reception. Would he like to nominate another person to attend in his place? Please email over the name and we will be sure to add them to the guest list.
Kind regards,
Blue.
The bus has come to a halt, chugging at a set of traffic lights. I take a bite of muffin and stare silently at the email.
Another person. That could be anybody.
I’m free on Monday night. Magnus has a late seminar in Warwick.
OK. Here’s the thing. There’s no way I’d ever be invited to anything glitzy like this in the normal way of things. Physiotherapists just aren’t. And Magnus’s events are all academic book launches or stuffy college dinners. They’re never at the Savoy. There are never goody bags or cocktails or jazz bands. This is my one and only chance.