EIGHT
I DON’T KNOW what to do about Antony and Wanda and Antechapelgate, as I’ve named it in my head. So I’ve done nothing. I’ve said nothing.
I know I’m avoiding it. I know it’s weak. I know I should face the situation. But I can barely even take it in, let alone talk about it. Especially to Magnus.
All weekend, I’ve given nothing away. I’ve had dinner with the Tavish family. I’ve been out for a drink with Ruby and Annalise. I’ve laughed and talked and exclaimed and joked and had sex. And all the time there’s been this little gnawing pain in my chest. I’m almost getting used to it.
If they’d say something to me, I might feel better. We could have a stand-up row and I could convince them that I love Magnus and I’m going to support his career and I do have a brain really. But they’ve said nothing. They’ve been outwardly charming and pleasant, politely enquiring about our househunting plans and offering me glasses of wine.
Which only makes it worse. It confirms that I’m an outsider. I’m not even allowed into the family powwow about how unsuitable this new girlfriend of Magnus’s is.
It would even be OK if Magnus hated his parents and didn’t respect their views and we could just write them off as loonies. But he does respect them. He likes them. They get on really well. They agree on most things, and when they don’t agree it’s good-natured and with banter. On every subject.
Every subject except me.
I can’t think about it for too long because I get all upset and panicky, so I only allow myself a tiny snippet of worry at a time. I’ve had my quota for this evening. I sat in a Starbucks after work, nursing a hot chocolate, and got quite morose.
But right now, looking at me, you’d have no idea. I’m dressed up in my best LBD and high heels. My make-up is immaculate. My eyes are sparkling. (Two cocktails.) I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror just now, and I look like a carefree girl, wearing an engagement ring, drinking Cosmos at the Savoy, with nothing to worry about.
And to be truthful, my mood is a lot better than it was. Partly because of the cocktails and partly because I’m so thrilled to be here. I’ve never been to the Savoy in my life before. It’s amazing!
The party is in a stunning room with panelling and spectacular chandeliers everywhere and waiters handing round cocktails on trays. A jazz band is playing, and all around, smartly dressed people are chatting in clusters. There are lots of back-slaps and handshakes and high-fives going on, and everyone seems in a great mood. I don’t know a single person, obviously, but I’m happy just to watch. Every time someone notices me standing on my own and starts to approach, I get out my phone to check my messages, and they turn away again.
This is the great thing about a phone. It’s like an escort.
Lucinda keeps texting, telling me how she’s in north London, looking at another variety of grey silk, and do I have any thoughts on texture? Magnus has texted from Warwick about some research trip he’s cooking up with a professor there. Meanwhile I’m having quite a long conversation with Ruby about the blind date she’s on. The only thing is, it’s quite hard to text and hold a cocktail at the same time, so at last I put my Cosmo down on a nearby table and fire off some replies:
Sure the grey slub silk will be fine. Thanks so much!! Love Poppy xxxxx
Sounds fab, can I come too?! P xxxxx
I don’t think ordering two steaks is necessarily creepy . . . maybe he is on Atkins diet??? Keep me posted! P xxxxx
There are screeds of emails for Sam, too. Loads more people have replied to the new-ideas request. Many have enclosed long attachments and CVs. There are even a couple of videos. People must have been busy over the weekend. I wince as I catch sight of one entitled ‘1,001 Ideas for WGC – Part 1’ and avert my eyes.
What I was hoping was that everything would calm down over the weekend and people would forget all about it. But at about 8 a.m. this morning, the avalanche of emails began, and they still keep flying back and forth. There are continued rumours that this is all some big audition for a job. There’s a bitter dispute about which department had the idea of expanding to the States first. Malcolm keeps sending tetchy emails asking who approved this initiative and the whole thing is basically mayhem. Don’t these people have lives?
It makes me hyperventilate slightly whenever I think about it. So I have a new coping technique: I’m not. It can wait till tomorrow.
And so can Willow’s most recent email to Sam. I’ve now decided she must not only have supermodel good looks, but be amazing in bed and a gazillionairess, to make up for her foul temper.
Today she’s sent him yet another long, tedious rant, saying that she wants Sam to find her a special brand of German exfoliator while he’s over there, but he probably won’t bother and that’s just like him, after all that pâté she dragged back from France for him, it made her gag but she still did it, but that’s the kind of person she is and he could really learn from that, but has he EVER wanted to learn from her? HAS HE???
Honestly. She does my head in.
I’m scrolling back up the endless stack of emails when one grabs my attention. It’s from Adrian Foster, in marketing.
Dear Sam
Thanks for agreeing to present Lindsay’s birthday flowers to her – they’ve arrived at last! As you weren’t around today I’ve put them in your room. They’re in water, so they should keep all right.
Best
Adrian
It wasn’t actually Sam who agreed to present the flowers. It was me, on behalf of Sam.
Now I feel less confident this was a good idea. What if he’s frantically busy tomorrow? What if he gets pissed off that he has to take time out of his schedule to go and present flowers? How could I make this easier for him?
I hesitate for a moment then quickly type an email to Lindsay.
Hi Lindsay
I want to give you something in my office. Something you’ll like. Stop by tomorrow. Any time.
Sam xxxxx
I press Send without re-reading it and take a swig of Cosmo. For about twenty seconds I’m relaxed, savouring my drink, wondering when the canapés will start to arrive. Then, as though an alarm clock has gone off, I start.
Wait. I put kisses after Sam’s name. I shouldn’t have done that. People don’t put kisses on professional emails.
Shit. I retrieve the email and re-read it, wincing. I’m just so used to kisses, they popped out automatically. But Sam never puts kisses. Ever.
Should I somehow try to un-send the kisses?
Dear Lindsay, Just to clarify, I did not mean to add kisses just now . . .
No. Awful. I’ll have to leave it. I’m probably overreacting, anyway. She probably won’t even notice—
Oh God. An email reply has already arrived from Lindsay. That was quick. I click it open and stare at the message.
See you then, Sam.
Lindsay xx ;)
Two kisses and a winky face. Is that normal?
I stare at it for a few moments, trying to convince myself that it is.
Yes. Yes, I think that’s normal. It could definitely be normal. Just friendly office correspondence.
I put my phone away, drain my drink and look around for another. There’s a waitress standing a few yards away and I start to thread my way through the crowds.
‘. . . policy Sam Roxton’s idea?’ A man’s voice attracts my attention. ‘Fucking ludicrous.’
‘You know Sam . . .’
I stop dead, pretending to fiddle with my phone. A group of men in suits has paused near me. They’re all younger than Sam and very well dressed. They must be his colleagues.
I wonder if I can match the faces to the emails. I bet that one with the olive skin is Justin Cole, who sent the round robin telling everyone that casual dressing on Fridays was compulsory and could everyone please do it with style? He looks like the fashion police, in his black suit and skinny tie.
‘Is he here?’ says a blond guy.
‘Haven’t seen him,’ replies the olive-skinned man, draining a shot glass. ‘Stubborn fuck.’
My head jerks in surprise. Well, that’s not very nice.
My phone bleeps with a text and I click on it, grateful to have something to occupy my fingers. Ruby has sent me a photo of some brown hair, with the message:
Is this a toupee???
I can’t suppress a snort of laughter. Somehow she’s managed to snap a photo of her date’s head from behind. How did she manage that? Didn’t he notice?
I squint at the picture. It looks like normal hair to me. I’ve no idea why Ruby’s so obsessed by toupees, anyway. Just because of that one disastrous blind date she had last year, where the guy turned out to be fifty-nine, not thirty-nine.
Don’t think so. Looks fine! xxxxxx
As I look up, the men who were talking have moved away, into the crowd. Damn. I was quite intrigued by that conversation.
I take another Cosmo, and a few delicious pieces of sushi (already this evening would have cost me about fifty quid if I was paying for it), and am about to head over towards the jazz band when I hear the screechy sound of a microphone being turned on. I swivel round – and it’s only about five feet away on a small podium, which I hadn’t noticed. A blonde girl in a black trouser suit taps the microphone and says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please?’ After a moment, she says more loudly, ‘People! It’s time for the speeches! The quicker we start, the quicker they’re over, OK?’
There’s general laughter and the crowd starts to move towards this end of the room. I’m being pushed straight towards the podium, which is really not where I want to be – but I don’t have much choice.
‘So, here we are!’ The blonde woman spreads her arms. ‘Welcome to this celebration of the merger of ourselves, Johnson Ellison and the wonderful Greene Retail. This is a marriage of hearts and minds as much as companies, and we have many, many people to thank. Our MD, Patrick Gowan, showed the initial vision which led to us standing here now. Patrick, get up here!’
A bearded guy in a pale suit walks on to the podium, smiling modestly and shaking his head, and everyone starts clapping, including me.
‘Keith Burnley . . . what can I say? He’s been an inspiration to us all.’
The trouble with standing right at the front of the crowd is that you feel really conspicuous. I’m trying to listen attentively and look interested, but none of these names mean anything to me. Maybe I should have done some homework. I surreptitiously get my phone out and wonder if I can discreetly find the email about the merger.
‘And I know he’s here somewhere . . .’ She’s looking around, shading her eyes. ‘He tried to wriggle out of coming tonight, but we had to have the man himself here, Mr White Globe Consulting, Sam Roxton!’
My head jerks up in shock. No. That can’t be right, he can’t be—
Fuck.
Fresh applause breaks out as Sam strides on to the podium, wearing a dark suit and a slight frown. I’m so stunned I can’t even move. He was in Germany. He wasn’t coming tonight. What’s he doing here?
From the way his face jolts in surprise as he sees me, I guess he’s wondering the same thing.
I am so busted. Why did I think I could get away with gatecrashing a big posh party like this?
My face is flaming with embarrassment. I quickly try to back away, but the mass of people pressing behind me is too heavy, so I’m stuck, staring mutely up at him.
‘. . . when Sam’s in the room you know things will reach a resolution,’ the blonde woman is saying. ‘Whether it’s the resolution you want . . . eh, Charles?’ There’s a roar of laughter around the room, and I hastily join in with fake gusto. Clearly this is a massive in-joke, which I would know about if I weren’t a gatecrasher.
The guy next to me turns and exclaims, ‘She’s a bit near the knuckle there!’ and I find myself replying, ‘I know, I know!’ and giving another huge phoney laugh.
‘Which brings me to another key player . . .’
As I lift my eyes, Sam is looking nowhere near me, thank God. This is excruciating enough as it is.
‘Let’s hear it for Jessica Garnett!’
As a girl in red steps on to the podium, Sam takes his phone out of his pocket and unobtrusively taps at it. A moment later a text bleeps in my phone.
Why were you laughing?
I feel a stab of mortification. He must know I was just trying to blend in. He’s deliberately winding me up. Well, I’m not going to rise to the bait.
It was a good joke.
I watch as Sam checks his phone again. His face only twitches the tiniest bit but I know he got it. He types again briefly – then a moment later my phone bleeps again.
I didn’t know your name was on my invitation.
I glance up in trepidation, trying to gauge his expression, but again he’s looking in the other direction, his face impassive. I think for a moment, then type:
Just stopped by to collect your goody bag for you. All part of the service. No need to thank me.
And my cocktails, I see.
Now he’s looking right at my Cosmo. He raises his eyebrows and I suppress an urge to giggle.
I was going to put them in a hipflask for you. Obviously.
Obviously. Although mine’s a Manhattan.
Ah, well now I know. I’ll chuck all those Tequila shots I had saved up.
As he clocks this last message, Sam looks up from his phone and flashes me that sudden smile. Without meaning to I find myself beaming back, and even catch my breath a little. It really does something to me, that smile of his. It’s disconcerting. It’s . . .
Anyway. Concentrate on the speech.
‘. . . and finally, have a great night tonight! Thanks, everyone!’
As a final round of applause breaks out, I try to find an escape route, but there isn’t one. Within approximately ten seconds, Sam has stepped straight down off the podium and is standing in front of me.
‘Oh.’ I try to hide my discomfiture. ‘Er . . . hi. Fancy seeing you here!’
He doesn’t reply but just looks at me quizzically. There’s no point trying to brazen this out.
‘OK, I’m sorry,’ I say in a rush. ‘I know I shouldn’t be here, it’s just I’ve never been to the Savoy, and it sounded so amazing, and you didn’t want to go, and—’ I break off as he lifts a hand, looking amused.
‘It’s no problem. You should have told me you wanted to come. I would have put you on the list.’
‘Oh!’ The wind is taken out of my sails. ‘Well . . . thanks. I’m having a really nice time.’
‘Good.’ He smiles and takes a glass of red wine from a passing waiter’s tray. ‘You know what?’ He pauses thoughtfully, cradling his glass in his hands. ‘I have something to say, Poppy Wyatt. I should have said it before. And that’s “thank you”. You’ve been a great help to me, these past few days.’
‘It’s fine, really. No problem.’ I hurriedly make a brushing-off motion, but he shakes his head.
‘No, listen, I want to say this. I know originally I was doing you the favour – but in the end, you’ve done me one. I haven’t had any proper PA support at work. You’ve done a great job, keeping me up to date with everything. I appreciate it.’
‘Honestly, it’s nothing!’ I say, feeling uncomfortable.
‘Take the credit!’ He laughs, then shrugs off his jacket and loosens his tie. ‘Jesus, it’s been a long day.’ He slings his jacket over his shoulder and takes a gulp of wine. ‘So, nothing up today? The airwaves have gone very quiet.’ He gives another of those devastating little smiles. ‘Or are all my emails coming through to Jane now?’
My phone contains 243 emails for him. And they’re still coming in.
‘Well . . .’ I take a gulp of Cosmo, desperately playing for time. ‘Funnily enough, you did get a few messages. I thought I wouldn’t disturb you while you were in Germany.’
‘Oh yes?’ He looks interested. ‘What?’
‘Um . . . this and that. Or would you rather wait till tomorrow?’ I clutch at a last hope.
‘No, tell me now.’
I rub my nose. Where do I start?
‘Sam! There you are!’ A thin guy in glasses is approaching. He’s blinking quite fast and holding a large black portfolio under his arms. ‘They said you weren’t coming tonight.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Sam says wryly.
‘Great. Great!’ The thin guy is twitching with nervous energy. ‘Well, I brought these along on the off-chance.’ He thrusts the portfolio at Sam, who takes it, looking bemused. ‘If you have a moment tonight, I’ll be staying up till two or three, always happy to Skype from home . . . A bit radical, some of it, but . . . Anyway! I think it’s a great thing you’re doing. And if there is a job opportunity behind all this . . . count me in. Right. Well . . . I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks, Sam!’ He darts away again into the crowd.
For a moment neither of us speaks. Sam because he looks too baffled and me because I’m trying to work out what to say.
‘What was all that about?’ says Sam at last. ‘Do you have any idea? Is there something I’ve missed?’
I lick my dry lips nervously. ‘There was something I meant to tell you about.’ I give a high-pitched laugh. ‘It’s quite funny actually, if you see it that way—’
‘Sam!’ A large woman with a booming voice interrupts me. ‘So delighted we’ve got you signed up for the Fun Run!’ Oh my God. This must be Rachel.
‘Fun Run?’ Sam echoes the words as though they’re complete anathema to him. ‘No. Sorry, Rachel. I don’t do Fun Runs. I’m happy to donate, let other people do the running, good for them . . .’
‘But your email!’ She stares at him. ‘We were so thrilled you wanted to take part! No one could believe it! This year, we’re all running in superhero costumes,’ she adds enthusiastically. ‘I’ve earmarked a Superman one for you.’
‘Email?’ Sam looks bewildered. ‘What email?’
‘That lovely email you sent! Friday, was it? Oh, and bless you for the e-card you sent young Chloe.’ Rachel lowers her voice and pats Sam on the hand. ‘She was so touched. Most directors wouldn’t even care if an assistant’s dog had died, so for you to send such a lovely e-card of condolence, with a poem and everything . . .’ She opens her eyes wide. ‘Well. We were all amazed, to be honest!’
My face is getting hotter. I’d forgotten about the e-card.
‘An e-card of condolence for a dog,’ says Sam at last, in a strange voice. ‘Yes, I’m pretty amazed at myself.’
He’s staring straight at me. It’s not the most friendly of expressions. In fact, I feel like backing away, only there’s nowhere to go.
‘Oh, Loulou!’ Rachel suddenly waves a hand across the room. ‘Do excuse me, Sam . . .’ She heads off, pushing her way through the throng, leaving us alone.
There’s silence. Sam regards me evenly, without a flicker. He’s waiting for me to start, I realize.
‘I thought . . .’ I swallow hard.
‘Yes?’ His voice is curt and unforgiving.
‘I thought you might like to do a Fun Run.’
‘You did.’
‘Yes. I did.’ My voice is a little husky with nerves. ‘I mean . . . they’re fun! So I thought I’d reply. Just to save you time.’
‘You wrote an email and signed it as me?’ He sounds thunderous.
‘I was trying to help!’ I say hurriedly. ‘I knew you didn’t have time, and they kept asking you, and I thought—’
‘The e-card was you too, I take it?’ He shuts his eyes briefly. ‘Jesus. Is there anything else you’ve been meddling in?’
I want to bury my head like an ostrich. But I can’t. I have to tell him, quickly, before anyone else accosts him.
‘OK, I had this . . . this other idea,’ I say, my voice barely above a whisper. ‘Only, everyone got a bit carried away, and now everyone’s emailing about it, and they think there’s a job involved—’
‘A job?’ He stares at me. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Sam.’ A guy claps him on the back as he passes. ‘Glad you’re interested in coming to Iceland. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Iceland?’ Sam’s face jerks in shock.
I’d forgotten about accepting the Iceland trip, too. But I only have time to make another apologetic smile before someone else is accosting Sam.
‘Sam, OK, I don’t know what’s going on.’ It’s a girl with glasses and a very intense way of speaking. ‘I don’t know if you’re playing us for fools, or what . . .’ She seems a bit stressed out and keeps pushing her hair back off her brow. ‘Anyway. Here’s my CV. You know how many ideas I’ve had for this company, but if we all have to keep jumping through even more bloody hoops, then . . . whatever, Sam. Your call.’
‘Elena . . .’ Sam breaks off in bafflement.
‘Just read my personal statement. It’s all in there.’ She stalks off.
There’s a silent beat, then Sam wheels round, his face so ominous I feel a quailing inside.
‘Start from the beginning. What did you do?’
‘I sent an email.’ I scuff my foot, feeling like a naughty child. ‘From you.’
‘To whom?’
‘Everyone in the company.’ I cringe as I say the words. ‘I just wanted everyone to feel . . . encouraged and positive. So I said everyone should send their ideas in. To you.’
‘You wrote that? Under my name?’
He looks so livid I actually back away, feeling a bit petrified.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say breathlessly, ‘I thought it was a good idea. But some people thought you were trying to sack them, and other people think you’re secretly interviewing for a job, and everyone’s got into a tizz about it . . . I’m sorry,’ I end lamely.
‘Sam, I got your email!’ A girl with a ponytail interrupts us eagerly. ‘So, I’ll see you at dance classes.’
‘Wh—’ Sam’s eyes swivel in his head.
‘Thanks so much for the support. Actually, you’re my only pupil so far! Bring comfortable clothes and soft shoes, OK?’
I glance at Sam and gulp at his expression. He seems literally unable to speak. What’s wrong with dance classes? He’s going to need to dance at his wedding, isn’t he? He should be grateful I signed him up.
‘Sounds great!’ I say encouragingly.
‘See you next Tuesday evening, Sam!’
As she disappears into the hubbub, I fold my arms defensively, all ready to tell him that I’ve done him a huge favour. But as he turns back, his face is so stony, I lose my nerve.
‘Exactly how many emails have you sent in my name?’ He sounds calm, but not in a good way.
‘I . . . not many,’ I flounder. ‘I mean . . . just a few. I only wanted to help—’
‘If you were my PA I’d have you fired on the spot and quite possibly prosecuted.’ He spits the words out as though he’s a machine gun. ‘As it is, I can only ask for my phone back and request that you—’
‘Sam! Thank God for a friendly face!’
‘Nick.’ Sam’s demeanour instantly changes. His eyes light up and his icy expression seems to melt. ‘Good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming.’
A man in his sixties, wearing a pinstriped suit over a groovy floral shirt, is raising a glass to us. I raise mine back, feeling awestruck. Sir Nicholas Murray! When I was Googling the company I saw pictures of him with the Prime Minister, and Prince Charles, and everybody.
‘Never turn down a bash, if I can help it,’ Sir Nicholas says cheerfully. ‘Missed the speeches, have I?’
‘Spot-on timing.’ Sam grins. ‘Don’t tell me you sent your driver in to see if they were over.’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’ Sir Nicholas winks at him. ‘Did you get my email?’
‘Did you get mine?’ counters Sam, and lowers his voice. ‘You’ve nominated Richard Doherty for this year’s Dealmaker Award?’
‘He’s a bright young talent, Sam,’ says Sir Nicholas, looking a little caught out. ‘Remember his work with Hardwicks last year? He deserves recognition.’
‘You put the FSS Energy deal together. Not him.’
‘He helped,’ Sir Nicholas retorts. ‘He helped in many ways. Some of them . . . intangible.’
For a moment they stare at each other. They both look as though they’re suppressing laughter.
‘You’re incorrigible,’ says Sam at last. ‘I hope he’s grateful. Now, you know I’m just back from Germany? Few things we should discuss.’
He’s totally frozen me out of the conversation, but I really don’t mind. Really. In fact, maybe I’ll just creep away while I have the chance.
‘Sam, do introduce me to your friend.’ Sir Nicholas cuts into my thoughts, and I smile back nervously.
Sam obviously has no desire at all to introduce me to Sir Nicholas. But he’s obviously also a polite man, because after about thirty seconds of what is clearly an internal struggle, he says, ‘Sir Nicholas, Poppy Wyatt. Poppy, Sir Nicholas Murray.’
‘How do you do.’ I shake his hand, trying not to give away my excitement. Wow. Me and Sir Nicholas Murray. Chatting at the Savoy. I’m already thinking of ways I could casually drop this into conversation with Antony.
‘Are you at Johnson Ellison or Greene Retail?’ enquires Sir Nicholas politely.
‘Neither,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Actually, I’m a physiotherapist.’
‘A physiotherapist!’ His face lights up. ‘How wonderful! The most underrated of all the medical arts, I always think. I’ve been going to a super man in Harley Street for my back, although he hasn’t quite cracked it . . .’ He winces slightly.
‘You want Ruby,’ I say, nodding wisely. ‘My boss. She’s amazing. Her deep-tissue massage makes grown men weep.’
‘I see.’ Sir Nicholas looks interested. ‘Do you have a card?’
Yessss! Ruby made us all cards when we first started out, and I have never been asked for mine before. Not once.
‘Here you are.’ I reach in my bag and produce a card nonchalantly, as though I do it all the time. ‘We’re in Balham. It’s south of the river, you may not know it . . .’
‘I know Balham well.’ He twinkles at me. ‘My first flat in London was on Bedford Hill.’
‘No way!’ My canapé nearly falls out of my mouth. ‘Well, you’ll definitely have to come and see us now.’
I can’t believe it. Sir Nicholas Murray, living on Bedford Hill. God, it just shows. You start off in Balham and you end up knighted. It’s quite inspiring, really.
‘Sir Nicholas.’ The guy with olive skin has materialized from nowhere to join the group. ‘Delighted to see you here. Always a pleasure. How are things going at Number Ten? Found the secret to happiness yet?’
‘The wheels turn.’ Sir Nicholas gives him an easy smile.
‘Well, it’s an honour. Absolute honour. And Sam.’ The oliveskinned guy claps him on the back. ‘My main man. Couldn’t do what we do without you.’
I stare at him indignantly. He was calling Sam a ‘stubborn fuck’ a moment ago.
‘Thanks, Justin.’ Sam smiles tightly.
It is Justin Cole. I was right. He looks as sneery in real life as he does in his emails.
I’m about to ask Sir Nicholas what the Prime Minister’s really like, when a young guy approaches us nervously.
‘Sam! Sorry to interrupt. I’m Matt Mitchell. Thanks so much for volunteering. It’s going to make such a difference to our project to have you on board.’
‘Volunteering?’ Sam shoots a sharp look at me.
Oh God. I have no idea. My mind is working overtime, trying to recall. Volunteering . . . volunteering . . . what was it again . . .
‘For the expedition to Guatemala! The exchange programme!’ Matt Mitchell is glowing. ‘We’re so excited that you want to sign up!’
My stomach flips over. Guatemala. I’d totally forgotten about Guatemala.
‘Guatemala?’ echoes Sam, with a kind of rictus smile on his face.
Now I remember. I sent that email quite late at night. I think I’d had a glass of wine or two. Or . . . three.
I risk a tiny peek at Sam, and his expression is so thunderous, I want to slink away. But the thing is, it sounded like an amazing opportunity. And from what I’ve seen of his diary, he never takes a holiday. He should go to Guatemala.
‘We were all really touched by your email, Sam.’ Matt grasps Sam’s hand earnestly in both of his. ‘I never knew you felt that way about the developing world. How many orphans do you sponsor?’
‘Sam! Oh my God!’ A dark-haired girl, quite drunk, lurches up to the group and elbows Matt out of the way, making him drop Sam’s hand. She’s looking highly flushed and her mascara is smudged, and she grabs Sam’s hand herself. ‘Thank you so much for your e-card about Scamper. You made my day, you know that?’
‘It’s quite all right, Chloe,’ Sam says tightly. He darts an incandescent glance of fury at me, and I flinch.
‘Those beautiful things you wrote,’ she gulps. ‘I knew when I read them you must have lost a dog yourself. Because you understand, don’t you? You understand.’ A tear suddenly rolls down her cheek.
‘Chloe, do you want to sit down?’ says Sam, extricating his hand, but Justin cuts in, a malicious grin playing on his lips.
‘I’ve heard about this famous e-card. Could I see it?’
‘I’ve got a print-out.’ Wiping her nose, Chloe drags a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, and Justin immediately grabs it.
‘Oh, now, this is beautiful, Sam,’ he says, scanning it with mock admiration. ‘Very moving.’
‘I’ve shown everybody in the department.’ Chloe nods, tearfully. ‘They all think you’re amazing, Sam.’
Sam’s hand is clenching his glass so hard, it’s turning white. He looks like he wants to press an ejector button and escape. I’m feeling really, really bad now. I didn’t realize I’d sent quite so many emails. I’d forgotten about Guatemala. And I shouldn’t have sent the e-card. If I could go back in time, that’s the moment I’d go up to myself and say, ‘Poppy! Stop! No e-card!’
‘“Young Scamper’s joined his friends in heaven, but we are left to weep,”’ Justin reads aloud in a stagy voice. ‘“His furry fur, his eyes so bright, his bone upon the seat.”’ Justin pauses. ‘Not sure “seat” exactly rhymes with “weep”, Sam. And why is his bone on the seat, anyway? Hardly hygienic.’
‘Give that here.’ Sam makes a swipe for it, but Justin dodges, looking delighted.
‘“His blanket empty in his bed, the silence in the air. If Scamper now is looking down, he’ll know how much we cared.”’ Justin winces. ‘“Air”? “Cared”? Do you know what a rhyme is, Sam?’
‘I think it’s very touching,’ says Sir Nicholas cheerfully.
‘Me too,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I think it’s brilliant.’
‘It’s so true.’ Tears are now streaming down Chloe’s face. ‘It’s beautiful because it’s true.’
She’s absolutely plastered. She’s completely fallen out of one of her stilettos and doesn’t even seem to have noticed.
‘Justin,’ says Sir Nicholas kindly. ‘Maybe you could get Chloe a glass of water?’
‘Of course!’ Justin deftly pockets the sheet. ‘You don’t mind if I keep this poem of yours, do you, Sam? It’s just so special. Have you ever thought of working for Hallmark?’ He escorts Chloe away and practically dumps her on a chair. A moment later I see him gleefully beckoning to the group he was with earlier, and pulling the paper out of his pocket.
I almost don’t dare look at Sam, I feel so guilty.
‘Well!’ says Sir Nicholas, looking amused. ‘Sam, I had no idea you were such an animal-lover.’
‘I’m not . . .’ Sam seems barely able to operate his voice. ‘I . . .’
I’m trying frantically to think of something I can say to redeem the situation. But what can I do?
‘Now, Poppy, please do excuse me.’ Sir Nicholas cuts into my thoughts again. ‘Much as I would prefer to stay here, I must go over and talk to that interminably boring man from Greene Retail.’ He makes such a comical face at me, I can’t help giggling. ‘Sam, we’ll talk later.’ He presses my hand in his and heads off into the crowd, and I quell an urge to run away with him.
‘So!’ I turn back to Sam and swallow several times. ‘Um . . . sorry about all that.’
Sam says nothing, just holds out his hand, palm up. After five seconds I realize what he means.
‘What?’ I feel a swoop of alarm. ‘No! I mean . . . can’t I keep it till tomorrow? I’ve got all my contacts on it now, all my messages . . .’
‘Give it.’
‘But I haven’t even been to the phone shop yet! I haven’t got a replacement, this is my only number, I need it—’
‘Give it.’
He’s implacable. In fact, he looks quite scary.
On the other hand . . . he can’t force it off me, can he? Not without causing a scene, which I’m sensing is the last thing he wants to do.
‘Look, I know you’re angry.’ I try to sound as grovelly as possible. ‘I can understand that. But wouldn’t you like me to forward all your emails first? And give it back tomorrow when I’ve tied up all the loose ends? Please?’
At least that’ll give me a chance to make a note of some of my messages.
Sam is breathing hard through his nose. I can tell he’s realizing he doesn’t have a choice.
‘You don’t send a single further email,’ he snaps at last, dropping his hand.
‘OK,’ I say humbly.
‘You detail for me a list of the emails you did send.’
‘OK.’
‘You hand the phone back tomorrow and that is the last I ever hear from you.’
‘Shall I come to the office?’
‘No!’ He almost recoils at the idea. ‘We’ll meet at lunchtime. I’ll text you.’
‘OK.’ I heave a sigh, feeling quite downcast by now. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your life.’
I was half-hoping Sam might say something nice like, ‘Don’t worry, you didn’t’ or ‘Never mind, you meant well.’ But he doesn’t. He looks as merciless as ever.
‘Is there anything else I should know about?’ he asks curtly. ‘Be honest, please. Any more foreign trips you’ve signed me up to? Company initiatives you’ve started in my name? Inappropriate poetry you’ve written on my behalf?’
‘No!’ I say nervously. ‘That’s it. I’m sure.’
‘You realize how much havoc you’ve caused?’
‘I know.’ I gulp.
‘You realize how many embarrassing situations you’ve put me in?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,’ I say desperately. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I didn’t mean to create trouble. I thought I was doing you a favour.’
‘A favour?’ He stares at me incredulously. ‘A favour?’
‘Hey, Sam.’ A breathy voice interrupts us, and I get a waft of perfume. I turn to see a girl in her late twenties, wearing skyscraper heels and lots of make-up. Her red hair is tonged into curls and her dress is really low-cut. I mean, I can practically see her navel. ‘Excuse me, could I have a quick moment with Sam?’ She shoots me an antagonistic glance.
‘Oh! Err . . . sure.’ I move away a few steps, but not so far that I can’t just about hear them.
‘So. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.’ She’s gazing up at Sam and batting her false eyelashes. ‘In your office. I’ll be there.’
Sam looks perplexed. ‘Do we have an appointment?’
‘That’s the way you want to play it?’ She gives a soft, sexy laugh and swooshes her hair, like actresses do on those American TV drama series set in beautiful kitchens. ‘I can play it any way you like.’ She lowers her voice to a throaty whisper. ‘If you know what I mean, Sam.’
‘I’m sorry, Lindsay . . .’ Sam frowns, obviously at a loss.
Lindsay? I nearly spill my drink down my dress. This girl is Lindsay?
Oh no. Oh no, oh no. This isn’t good. I knew I should have cancelled out Sam’s kisses. I knew that winky face meant something. I’m almost hopping with alarm. Can I warn Sam? Should I somehow semaphore to him?
‘I knew,’ she’s murmuring now. ‘The first time I saw you, Sam, I knew there was a special vibe between us. You’re hot.’
Sam looks disconcerted. ‘Well . . . thanks. I guess. But Lindsay, this really isn’t—’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I can be very discreet.’ She runs a lacquered nail gently down his shirt. ‘I’d almost given up on you, you know that?’
Sam takes a step backwards, looking alarmed. ‘Lindsay—’
‘All this time, no signs – then out of the blue you start contacting me.’ She opens her eyes wide. ‘Wishing me Happy Birthday, complimenting my work . . . I knew what that was really about. And then tonight . . .’ Lindsay moves even closer to Sam, speaking even more breathily. ‘You have no idea what it did to me, seeing your email. Mmm. Bad boy.’
‘Email?’ echoes Sam. He slowly turns his head to meet my agonized gaze.
I should have run. While I had the chance. I should have run.
. Where did he get that? Why has nobody offered me a shot?
. He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to the left.
. Doesn’t everyone want to go to Iceland? Why would you say no to Iceland?
. So not that polite.
. OK, I know it’s not brilliant. In my defence I chose it in a hurry from some e-card site, and the picture was really good. It was a line drawing of an empty dog basket and it nearly made me cry.
. What is the etiquette when someone’s false eyelash is coming off a bit at the edge? Tell them or politely ignore?