Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

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. I 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.68 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 keeping 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 favor. 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

fires 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 demeanor 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 pin-striped 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 Ryan 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,69 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. Sir

Nicholas Murray and me. 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?” inquires 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 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 honor. Absolute honor. And Sam.” The olive-skinned 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 program!” 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 schedule, 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 with

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 rolls down her

cheek.

        “Chloe, do you want to sit down?” says Sam, extricating his hand, but Justin cuts in, a

malicious grin at his lips.

        “I’ve heard about this famous e-card. Could I see it?”

        “I’ve got a printout.” 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.70”

        “It’s so true.” Tears are 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. “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 on 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 favor.”

         “A favor?” He stares at me incredulously. “A favor?”

         “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 makeup. 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! Er … 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.71 “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 canceled 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 backward, 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 close to Sam, speaking even more breathily. “You

have no idea what it did to me, seeing your email. Mmmm. 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.

         66 Where did he get that? Why has nobody offered me a shot?

         67 He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to

the left.

         68 Doesn’t everyone want to go to Iceland? Why would you say no to Iceland?

         69 So not that polite.

         70 OK, I know it’s not brilliant. In my defense, 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.

        71 What is the etiquette when someone’s false eyelash is coming off a bit at the edge?

Tell them or politely ignore?

9

        I am the sorriest sorry person there ever was.

        I really screwed up. I can see that now. I’ve caused Sam a whole load of work and aggro

and I’ve abused his trust and been a complete pain in the neck.

        Today was supposed to be a fun day. A weddingy day. I’ve got a whole load of days

booked off work for last-minute wedding preparation—and what am I doing instead? Trying to

think of all the different words for sorry that I can.

        As I arrive for lunch, I’m wearing a suitably penitent gray T-shirt and denim-skirt combo.

We’re meeting at a restaurant round the corner from his office, and the first thing I see when I

walk in is a group of girls I remember from the Savoy last night, clustered at a circular table. I’m

sure they wouldn’t recognize me, but I duck hurriedly past anyway.

        Sam described this as “a second office cafeteria’ on the phone. Some cafeteria. There are

steel tables and taupe linen-covered chairs and one of those cool menus where everything’s in

lowercase and each dish is described in the minimal amount of words.72 There aren’t even any

pound signs.73 No wonder Sam likes it.

        I’ve ordered some water and am trying to decide between soup and salad, when Sam

appears at the door. Immediately, all the girls start waving him over, and after a moment’s

hesitation, he joins them. I can’t hear all the conversation, but I catch the odd word: amazing idea

… excited … so supportive. Everyone’s smiling and looking positive, even Sam.

        Eventually he makes his excuses and heads over towards me.

        “Hi. You made it.” No smile for me, I notice.

        “Yes. Nice restaurant. Thanks for meeting me. I really appreciate it.” I’m trying to be as

mollifying as possible.

        “I practically live here.” He shrugs. “Everyone at WGC does.”

        “So … here’s a list of all the emails I sent in your name.” I want to get this over

straightaway. As I hand the sheet over, I can’t help wincing. It looks such a lot, written down.

“And I’ve forwarded everything.”

        A waiter interrupts me with a jug of water and a “Welcome back, sir,” to Sam, and then

beckons over a waitress with the bread basket. As they leave, Sam folds my sheet and pockets it

without comment. Thank God. I thought he was going to go through it item by item, like a

headmaster.

        “Those girls are from your company, aren’t they?” I nod at the circular table. “What were

they talking about?”

        There’s a pause as Sam pours himself some water—then he looks up. “They were talking

about your project, as it happens.”

        I stare at him. “My project? You mean my email about ideas?”

        “Yes. It’s gone down well in admin.”

        “Wow!” I let myself bask in this thought for a moment. “So … not everyone reacted

badly.”

        “Not everyone, no.”

        “Has anyone come up with any good ideas for the company?”

        “As it happens … yes,” he says grudgingly. “Some interesting thoughts have emerged.”

        “Wow! Great!”

        “Though I still have several people convinced there’s a conspiracy theory to sack

everyone and one threatening legal action.”

        “Oh.” I feel chastened. “Right. Sorry about that.”

        “Hello.” A cheerful girl in a green apron approaches. “May I explain the menu?74 We

have a butternut squash soup today, made with an organic chicken stock … ”

        She goes through each item and, needless to say, I stop concentrating immediately. So by

the end I have no idea what’s available except butternut squash soup.

        “Butternut squash soup, please.” I smile.

        “Steak baguette, rare, and a green salad. Thanks.” I don’t think Sam was listening either.

He checks something on his phone and frowns, and I feel a pang of guilt. I must have increased

his workload a ton with all this.

        “I just want to say, I’m really, really sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry about the e-card.

I’m sorry about Guatemala. I got carried away. I know I’ve caused you a lot of grief, and if I can

help in any way I will. I mean … shall I send some emails for you?”

        “No!” Sam sounds like he’s been scalded. “Thank you,” he adds more calmly. “You’ve

done enough.”

        “So, how are you managing?” I venture. “I mean, processing everyone’s ideas.”

        “Jane’s taken charge for now. She’s sending out my brush-off email.”

        I wrinkle my nose. “Your brush-off email? What’s that?”

        “You know the sort of thing. Sam is delighted to have received your email. He’ll get back

to you as soon as he possibly can. Meanwhile, thanks for your interest. Translation: Don’t expect

to hear from me anytime soon.” He raises his eyebrows. “You must have a brush-off email. They

come in pretty useful for fending off unwanted advances too.”

        “No, I don’t,” I say, a little offended. “I never want to brush people off. I answer them!”

        “OK, that explains a lot.” He tears off a chunk of bread and chews it. “If I’d known that, I

never would have agreed to share a phone.

        “Well, you don’t have to anymore.”

        “Thank God. Where is it?”

        I rummage in my bag, take the phone out, and put it on the table between us.

        “What the hell is that?” Sam exclaims, looking horrified.

        “What?” I follow his gaze, puzzled, then realize. There were some diamanté phone

stickers in the Marie Curie goody bag, and I stuck them on the phone the other day.

        “Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes at his expression. “They come off.”

        “They’d better.” He still seems stunned by the sight of it. Honestly. Doesn’t anyone at his

company bother to decorate their phone?

        Our food arrives, and for a while we’re distracted with pepper mills and mustard and

some side dish of parsnip chips which they seem to think we ordered.

        “You in a hurry?” inquires Sam as he’s about to bite into his steak baguette.

        “No. I took a few days off to do wedding stuff, but actually it turns out there’s not a lot to

do.”

        The truth is, I was a bit taken aback when I spoke to Lucinda this morning. I’d told her

ages ago that I was taking a few days off to help with the wedding. I’d thought we could go and

sort out some of the fun stuff together. But she basically said no, thanks. She had some long

story about having to go see the florist in Northwood and needing to drop in at another client first

and implied I’d be in the way.75 So I’ve had the morning off. I mean, I wasn’t about to go to

work for the sake of it.

        As I sip my soup, I wait for Sam to volunteer some wedding talk of his own—but he

doesn’t. Men just aren’t into it, are they?

        “Is your soup cold?” Sam suddenly focuses on my bowl. “If it’s cold, send it back.”

        It is a bit less than piping hot—but I really don’t feel like making a fuss.

        “It’s fine, thanks.” I flash him a smile and take another sip.

        The phone suddenly buzzes, and on reflex I pull it to me. It’s Lucinda, telling me she’s at

the warehouse and could I please confirm that I want only four strands of gypsophila per

bouquet?

        I have no idea. Why would I specify something like that? What does four strands look

like, anyway?

        Yes, fine. Thanks so much, Lucinda, I really appreciate it! Not long now!!! Love, Poppy

xxxxx

        There’s a new email from Willow too, but I can’t bring myself to read it in front of Sam.

I forward it quickly and put the phone down.

        “There was a message from Willow just now.”

        “Uh-uh.” He nods with an off-putting frown.

        I’m dying to find out more about her. But how do I start without sounding unnatural?

        I can’t even ask, “How did you meet?” because I already know, from one of her email

rants. They met at her job interview for White Globe Consulting. Sam was on the panel, and he

asked her some tricky question about her CV and she should have known THEN that he was

going to fuck her life up. She should have stood up and WALKED AWAY. Because does he

think a six-figure salary is what her life is about? Does he think everyone’s like him? Doesn’t he

realize that to build a life together you have to KNOW WHAT THE BUILDING BLOCKS

ARE, Sam????

        Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I have honestly given up reading to the end.

        “Haven’t you got yourself a new phone yet?” says Sam, raising his eyebrows.

        “I’m going to the shop this afternoon.” It’ll be a real hassle, starting afresh with a new

phone, but there’s not much I can do about it. Except …

        “In fact, I was wondering,” I add casually. “You don’t want to sell it, do you?”

        “A company phone, full of business emails?” He gives an incredulous laugh. “Are you

nuts? I was mad letting you have access to it in the first place. Not that I had a choice, Ms.

Light-fingers. I should have set the police on you.”

        “I’m not a thief!” I retort, stung. “I didn’t steal it. I found it in a bin.”

        “You should have handed it in.” He shrugs. “You know it and I know it.”

        “It was common property! It was fair game!”

        “ ‘Fair game’? You want to tell that to the judge? If I drop my wallet and it falls

momentarily into a bin, does that give Joe Bloggs the right to steal it?”