“You had a row with your parents?” I stare at him, dismayed. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“It wasn’t a row,” he says defensively. “It was more … a falling-out.”

A falling-out? A falling-out?

“A falling-out is worse than a row!” I wail in horror. “It’s a million times worse! Oh God, I wish you’d told me … What am I going to do? How can I face them?”

I knew it. The professors don’t think I’m good enough. I’m like that girl in the opera who relinquishes her lover because she’s too unsuitable and then gets TB and dies, and good thing too, since she was so inferior and stupid. She probably couldn’t pronounce Proust either.

“Poppy, calm down!” Magnus says irritably. He gets to his feet and takes me firmly by the shoulders. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. It’s family nonsense and it’s got nothing to do with us. I love you. We’re getting married. I’m going to do this and I’m going to see it through whatever anyone else says, whether it’s my parents or my friends or anyone else. This is about us.” His voice is so firm, I start to relax. “And, anyway, as soon as my parents spend some time with you, they’ll come round. I know it.”

I can’t help giving a reluctant smile.

“That’s my beautiful girl.” Magnus gives me a tight hug and I clasp him back, trying as hard as I can to believe him.

As he draws away, his gaze falls on my hands and he frowns, looking puzzled. “Sweets … why are you wearing gloves?”

I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. I really am.

The whole ring debacle nearly came out. It would have, if it weren’t for Felix. I was halfway through my ludicrous, stumbling hand-burning excuse, expecting Magnus to become suspicious at any moment, when Felix yawned and said, “Shall we go to the pub?” and Magnus suddenly remembered an email he had to send first and everyone forgot about my gloves.

And I chose that opportunity to leave. Very quickly.

Now I’m sitting on the bus, staring out into the dark night, feeling cold inside. I’ve lost the ring. The Tavishes don’t want me to marry Magnus. My mobile is gone. I feel like all my security blankets have been snatched, all at once.

The phone in my pocket starts to emit Beyoncé again, and I haul it out without any great hope.

Sure enough, it’s not any of my friends calling to say “Found it!” Nor the police, nor the hotel concierge. It’s him. Sam Roxton.

“You ran off,” he says with no preamble. “I need that phone back. Where are you?”

Charming. Not “Thank you so much for helping me with my Japanese business deal.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “Anytime.”

“Oh.” He sounds momentarily discomfited. “Right. Thanks. I owe you one. Now, how are you going to get that phone back to me? You could drop it round at the office or I could send a bike. Where are you?”

I’m silent. I’m not going to get it back to him. I need this number.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” I clutch the phone more tightly and swallow hard. “The thing is, I need to borrow this phone. Just for a bit.”

“Oh Christ.” I can hear him exhale. “Look, I’m afraid it’s not available for ‘borrowing.’ It’s company property, and I need it back. Or by ‘borrowing’ do you actually mean ‘stealing’? Because, believe me, I can track you down, and I’m not paying you a hundred pounds for the pleasure.”

Is that what he thinks? That I’m after money? That I’m some kind of phone-napper?

“I don’t want to steal it!” I exclaim indignantly. “I only need it for a few days. I’ve given the number out to everyone, and it’s a real emergency—”

“You did what?” He sounds baffled. “Why would you do that?”

“I lost my engagement ring.” I can hardly bear to say it out loud. “It’s really old and valuable. And then my phone was nicked, and I was absolutely desperate, and then I passed this litter bin and there it was. In the bin,” I add for emphasis. “Your PA just chucked it away. Once an item lands in the bin, it belongs to the public, you know. Anyone can claim it.”

“Bullshit,” he retorts. “Who told you that?”

“It’s … it’s common knowledge.” I try to sound robust. “Anyway, why did your PA walk out and chuck her phone away? Not much of a PA, if you ask me.”

“No. Not much of a PA. More of a friend’s daughter who never should have never been given the job. She’s been in the job three weeks. Apparently landed a modeling contract at exactly midday today. By one minute past, she’d left. She didn’t even bother telling me she was going.” He sounds pretty pissed off. “Listen, Miss—what’s your name?”

“Wyatt. Poppy Wyatt.”

“Well, enough kidding around, Poppy. I’m sorry about your ring. I hope it turns up. But this phone isn’t some fun accessory you can purloin for your own ends. This is a company phone with business messages coming in all the time. Emails. Important stuff. My PA runs my life. I need those messages.”

“I’ll forward them.” I hastily cut him off. “I’ll forward everything. How about that?”

“What the—” He mutters something under his breath. “OK. You win. I’ll buy you a new phone. Give me your address, I’ll bike it over—”

“I need this one,” I say stubbornly. “I need this number.”

“For Christ’s—”

“My plan can work!” My words tumble out in a rush. “Everything that comes in, I’ll send to you straightaway. You won’t know the difference! I mean, you’d have to do that anyway, wouldn’t you? If you’ve lost your PA, then what good is a PA’s phone? This way is better. Plus you owe me one for stopping Mr. Yamasaki,” I can’t help pointing out. “You just said so yourself.”

“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it—”

“You won’t miss anything, I promise!” I cut off his irritable snarl. “I’ll forward every single message. Look, I’ll show you, just give me two secs … ”

I ring off, scroll down all the messages that have arrived in the phone since this morning, and quickly forward them one by one to Sam’s mobile number. My fingers are working like lightning.

Text from Vicks Myers: forwarded. Text from Sir Nicholas Murray: forwarded. It’s a matter of seconds to forward them all on. And the emails can all go to samroxton@whiteglobeconsulting.com.

Email from HR Department: forwarded. Email from Tania Phelps: forwarded. Email from Dad—

I hesitate a moment. I need to be careful here. Is this Violet’s dad or Sam’s dad? The name at the top of the email is davidr452@hotmail.com, which doesn’t really help.

Telling myself it’s all in a good cause, I scroll down to have a quick look.

Dear Sam,

It’s been a long time. I think of you often, wondering what you’re up to, and would love to chat sometime. Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow.

If you are ever in the neighborhood, you know you can always stop by. There is a little matter I’d like to raise with you—quite exciting, actually—but as I say, no hurry.

Yours ever,

Dad

As I get to the end I feel a bit shocked. I know this guy is a stranger and this is none of my business. But honestly. You’d think he could reply to his own father’s phone messages. How hard is it to spare half an hour for a chat? And his dad sounds so sweet and humble. Poor old man, having to email his own son’s PA. I feel like replying to him myself. I feel like visiting him, in his little cottage.21

Anyway. Whatever. Not my life. I press forward and the email goes zooming off, with all the others. A moment later Beyoncé starts singing. It’s Sam again.

“When exactly did Sir Nicholas Murray text Violet?” he says abruptly.

“Er … ” I peer at the phone. “About four hours ago.” The first few words of the text are displayed on the screen, so there’s no great harm in clicking on it and reading the rest, is there? Not that it’s very interesting.

Violet, please ask Sam to call me. His phone is switched off. Best, Nicholas.

“Shit. Shit.” Sam’s silent for a moment. “OK, if he texts again, you let me know straightaway, OK? Ring me.”

I open my mouth automatically to say, “What about your dad? Why don’t you ever ring him?” Then I close it again. No, Poppy. Bad idea.

“Ooh, there was a phone message earlier,” I say, suddenly remembering. “About liposuction or something, I think. That wasn’t for you?”

“Liposuction?” he echoes incredulously. “Not that I’m aware of.”

He doesn’t need to sound so scoffing. I was only asking. It must have been for Violet. Not that she’s likely to need liposuction, if she’s off modeling.

“So … we’re on? We have a deal?”

For a while he doesn’t reply, and I have an image of him glowering at his cell phone. I don’t exactly get the feeling he’s relishing this arrangement. But then, what choice does he have?

“I’ll get the PA email address transferred back to my inbox,” he says grouchily, almost to himself. “I’ll speak to the tech guys tomorrow. But the texts will keep coming to you. If I miss any of them—”

“You won’t! Look, I know this isn’t ideal,” I say, trying to mollify him. “And I’m sorry. But I’m really desperate. All the hotel staff have this number … all the cleaners … it’s my only hope. Just for a couple of days. And I promise I’ll send every single message on. Brownie’s honor.”

“Brownie’s what?” He sounds mystified.

“Honor! Brownie Guides? Like Scouts? You hold up one hand and you make the sign and you swear an oath … Hang on, I’ll show you… .” I disconnect the phone.

There’s a sheet of grimy mirror opposite me on the bus. I pose in front of it, holding the phone in one hand, making the Brownie sign with the other, and wearing my best “I’m a sane person’ smile. I take a picture and text it at once to Sam Mobile.