Sorry to have missed you. Looking forward to talking later.
Just as I approached the motorway, I heard the beep of a message from deep inside my bag. I took the first exit and parked on an industrial estate to check my phone. The message was from the number I’d called in the car park. It said:
If you call me again you’ll be sorry.
CHAPTER 15
Ruby
I drove back to the flat in a fury. As soon as I was in my living room I opened my laptop and looked at the e-mails Alan Walker had sent me. He was the one who’d suggested I drive forty miles to meet him and then hadn’t shown up. I’d heard of guys doing that on dates, but for an interview? And had he sent me that text? I was going to let this guy know what I thought of him.
I looked him up again on LinkedIn. He was beaming away in the photo, looking so happy with himself. It was just after five o’clock now. I opened my e-mail and started to write a message, but after a few lines I guessed he’d just ignore it and I couldn’t hang around waiting for his reply. I saved it as a draft just in case I needed it later and tried the number that he’d given me. As soon as it rang, the call was cut off. Furious now, I called his office’s direct line instead.
“Good afternoon, Alan Walker’s office,” said a young woman.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Walker. It’s a private matter.”
“Who’s speaking?”
“Ruby Dean.”
She went away for a moment, then came back. “Could you tell me what it’s about? I’m his personal assistant.”
“I think he would prefer it if I didn’t.” It didn’t sound as though she knew she was about to be replaced and I didn’t want to be the one to tell her.
A minute or two later, a man spoke. “Alan Walker here. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Ruby Dean.”
There was a pause, then he said, “Sorry, have we met?”
“Good question. We should have met but we haven’t.”
He sounded confused. “I’m sorry?”
“We were supposed to meet today in Manchester. I wondered whether you wanted to reconvene.”
Now he sounded bewildered. “A meeting? Who are you?”
I said again, “I’m Ruby Dean. You invited me to interview at the North West Conference Centre today.”
“What?” There was no mistaking his confusion. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“You e-mailed me earlier today. You said you were looking for a PA.”
“Not me,” he said firmly. “I’ve got a PA. You’ve just spoken to her. What was the sender’s e-mail address?”
I found it on my laptop and read it out to him.
“That’s not mine. It doesn’t belong to anyone in this company.” His voice softened slightly. “I think you’ve been the victim of a hoax. If you hear anything more from them, get back in touch, will you?”
Hot with embarrassment and anger, I thanked him again and ended the call, really glad I hadn’t asked him whether he’d sent me a text from a different phone telling me I’d be sorry if I contacted him again. Then he really would have thought I was mad.
Once again I looked at the e-mail. The e-mail address had Alan’s name and then the company name. I frowned. How could someone create that? It wasn’t as though it was a random Gmail address. So I went online and searched for that company’s website. A white screen appeared, telling me the site couldn’t be reached.
Frustrated, I shut my laptop. Why would someone ask me to interview if they weren’t going to turn up? Why would they use Alan’s name? Was he lying about the e-mail?
I stomped into the kitchen. By now I was starving. In the fridge was a lasagna I’d bought that morning. It didn’t look tempting but I was too hungry to cook something from scratch. I put it into the oven and while I waited, I opened all the windows to let some