before the bike turns the corner.

         My hand’s empty. What the hell—

         I stare at my palm in numb disbelief. It’s gone. That guy stole my phone. He bloody stole

it.

         My phone’s my life. I can’t exist without it. It’s a vital organ.

         “Madam, are you all right?” The doorman is hurrying down the steps. “Did something

happen? Did he hurt you?”

         “I … I’ve been mugged,” I somehow manage to stutter. “My phone’s been nicked.”

         The doorman clicks sympathetically. “Chancers, they are. Have to be so careful in an

area like this … ”

         I’m not listening. I’m starting to shake all over. I’ve never felt so bereft and panicky.

What do I do without my phone? How do I function? My hand keeps automatically reaching for

my phone in its usual place in my pocket. Every instinct in me wants to text someone OMG, I’ve

lost my phone! but how can I do that without a bloody phone?

         My phone is my people. It’s my friends. It’s my family. It’s my work. It’s my world. It’s

everything. I feel like someone’s wrenched my life support system away from me.

         “Shall I call the police, madam?” The doorman is peering at me anxiously.

         I’m too distracted to reply. I’m consumed with a sudden, even more terrible realization.

The ring. I’ve handed out my mobile number to everyone: the cleaners, the ladies’ room

attendants, the Marie Curie people, everyone. What if someone finds it? What if someone’s got it

and they’re trying to call me right this minute and there’s no answer because hoody guy has

already chucked my SIM card into the river?

         Oh God.5 I need to talk to the concierge. I’ll give my home number instead—

         No. Bad idea. If they leave a message, Magnus might hear it.6

         OK, so … so … I’ll give my work number. Yes.

         Except no one will be at the physio clinic this evening. I can’t go and sit there for hours,

just in case.

         I’m starting to feel seriously freaked out now. Everything’s unraveling.

         To make matters even worse, as I run back in to the lobby, the concierge is busy. His

desk is surrounded by a large group of conference delegates talking about restaurant reservations.

I try to catch his eye, hoping he’ll beckon me forward as a priority, but he studiously ignores me,

and I feel a twinge of hurt. I know I“ve taken up quite a lot of his time this afternoon—but

doesn’t he realize what a hideous crisis I’m in?

         “Madam.” The doorman has followed me into the lobby, his brow creased with concern.

“Can we get you something for the shock? Arnold!” He briskly calls over a waiter. “A brandy for

the lady, please, on the house. And if you’ll talk to our concierge, he’ll help you with the police.

Would you like to sit down?”

         “No, thanks.” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Maybe I should phone my own

number! Call the mugger! I could ask him to come back, offer him a reward … What do you

think? Could I borrow your phone?”

         The doorman almost recoils as I thrust out a hand.

         “Madam, I think that would be a very foolhardy action,” he says severely. “And I’m sure

the police will agree you should do no such thing. I think you must be in shock. Kindly have a

seat and try to relax.”

         Hmm. Maybe he’s right. I’m not wild about setting up some assignation with a criminal

in a hoody. But I can’t sit down and relax; I’m far too hyper. To calm my nerves, I start walking

round and round the same path, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Past the massive potted

ficus tree … past the table with newspapers … past a big shiny litter bin … back to the ficus. It’s

a comforting little circuit, and I can keep my eyes fixed on the concierge the whole time, waiting

for him to be free.

         The lobby is still bustling with business types. Through the glass doors I can see the

doorman back on the steps, busy hailing taxis and pocketing tips. A squat Japanese man in a blue

suit is standing near me with some European-looking businessmen, exclaiming in what sounds

like loud, furious Japanese and gesticulating at everybody with the conference pass strung round

his neck on a red cord. He’s so short and the other men look so nervous, I almost want to smile.

         The brandy arrives on a salver and I pause briefly to drain it in one, then keep walking in

the same repetitive route.

         Potted ficus … newspaper table … litter bin … potted ficus … newspaper table … litter

bin …

         Now that I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m starting to churn with murderous thoughts. Does

that hoody guy realize he’s wrecked my life? Does he realize how crucial a phone is? It’s the

worst thing you can steal from a person. The worst.

         And it wasn’t even that great a phone. It was pretty ancient. So good luck to hoody guy if

he wants to type B in a text or go on the Internet. I hope he tries and fails. Then he’ll be sorry.

         Ficus … newspapers … bin … ficus … newspapers … bin …

         And he hurt my shoulder. Bastard. Maybe I could sue him for millions. If they ever catch

him, which they won’t.

         Ficus … newspapers … bin …

         Bin.

         Wait.

         What’s that?

         I stop dead in my tracks and stare into the bin, wondering if someone’s playing a trick on

me or I’m hallucinating.

         It’s a phone.

         Right there in the litter bin. A mobile phone.

         1 His specialism is Cultural Symbolism. I speed-read his book, The Philosophy of

Symbolism, after our second date and then tried to pretend I’d read it ages ago, coincidentally,

for pleasure. (Which, to be fair, he didn’t believe for a minute.) Anyway, the point is, I read it.

And what impressed me most was: There were so many footnotes. I’ve totally got into them.

Aren’t they handy? You just bung them in whenever you want and instantly look clever.

         Magnus says footnotes are for things which aren’t your main concern but nevertheless

hold some interest for you. So. This is my footnote about footnotes.

         2 Which, actually, I never say. Just like Humphrey Bogart never said, “Play it again,

Sam.” It’s an urban myth.

         3 Of course, the hotel wasn’t on fire. The system had short-circuited. I found that out

afterward, not that it was any consolation.

         4 Did Poirot ever say “oh my God”? I bet he did. Or “sacrebleu!” which comes to the

same thing. And does this not disprove Antony’s theory, since Poirot’s gray cells are clearly

stronger than anyone else’s? I might point this out to Antony one day. When I’m feeling brave.

(Which, if I’ve lost the ring, will be never, obviously.)

         5 Weak mind.

       6 I’m allowed to give myself at least a chance of getting it back safely and him never

having to know, aren’t I?

2

         I blink a few times and look again—but it’s still there, half hidden amid a couple of

discarded conference programs and a Starbucks cup. What’s a phone doing in a bin?

         I look around to see if anyone’s watching me—then reach in gingerly and pull it out. It

has a couple of drops of coffee on it, but otherwise it seems perfect. It’s a good one too. A Nokia.

New.

         Cautiously, I turn and survey the thronging lobby. Nobody’s paying me the slightest bit

of attention. No one’s rushing up and exclaiming “There’s my phone!” And I’ve been walking

around this area for the last ten minutes. Whoever threw this phone in here did it a while ago.