Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

        I can’t tell if he’s winding me up or not, so I take a drink of water, avoiding the issue. I’m

turning the phone around and around in my hand, not wanting to relinquish it. I’ve got used to

this phone now. I like the feel of it. I’ve even got used to sharing my in-box.

        “So, what will happen to it?” At last I look up. “The phone, I mean.”

        “Jane will forward everything of any relevance to her account. Then it’ll get wiped.

Inside and out.”

        “Right. Of course.”

        The idea of all my messages being wiped makes me want to whimper. But there’s

nothing I can do. This was the deal. It was only a loan. Like he said, it’s not my phone.

        I put it down again, about two inches from my bowl.

        “I’ll let you know my new number as soon as I get it,” I say. “If I get any texts or

messages—”

        “I’ll forward them.” He nods. “Or, rather, my new PA will do it.”

        “When does she start?”

        “Tomorrow.”

        “Great!” I smile a little wanly and take a sip of my soup, which really is the wrong side of

tepid.

        “She is great,” he says with enthusiasm. “Her name is Lizzy; she’s very bright.” He starts

to attack his green salad. “Now. While we’re here, you have to tell me. What was the deal with

Lindsay? What the hell did you write to her?”

        “Oh. That.” I feel warm with embarrassment. “I think she misunderstood the situation

because … Well. It was nothing, really. I just complimented her and then I put some kisses from

you. At the end of an email.”

        Sam puts his fork down. “You added kisses to an email of mine? A business email?” He

looks almost more scandalized by this than by anything else.

        “I didn’t mean to!” I say defensively. “They just slipped out. I always put kisses on

emails. It’s friendly.”

        “Oh. I see.” He raises his eyes to heaven. “You’re one of those ridiculous people.”

        “It’s not ridiculous,” I retort. “It’s being nice.”

        “Let me see.” He reaches for the phone.

        “Stop it!” I say in horror. “What are you doing?”

        I make a swipe, but it’s too late. He’s got the phone and he’s scrolling through all the

messages and emails. As he reads, he lifts an eyebrow, then frowns, then gives a sudden laugh.

        “What are you looking at?” I try to sound frosty. “You should respect my

confidentiality.”

        He totally ignores me. Does he have no idea of privacy? What’s he reading, anyway? It

could be anything.

        I take another sip of soup, but it’s so cold I can’t face any more. As I look up, Sam’s still

reading my messages avidly. This is hideous. I feel like he’s rifling through my underwear

drawer.

        “Now you know what it’s like, having someone else critiquing your emails,” he says,

glancing up.

        “There’s nothing to critique,” I say, a little haughtily. “Unlike you, I’m charming and

polite and don’t brush people off with two words.”

        “You call it charming. I call it something else.”

        “Whatever.” I roll my eyes. Of course he doesn’t want to admit I have superior

communication skills.

        Sam reads another email, shaking his head, then looks up and surveys me silently.

        “What?” I say, nettled. “What is it?”

        “Are you so scared people will hate you?”

        “What?” I stare at him, not knowing how to react. “What are you talking about?”

        He gestures at the phone. “Your emails are like one big cry. Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, please

like me, please like me!”

        “What?” I feel like he’s slapped me round the face. “That’s absolute … crap.”

        “Take this one: Hi, Sue! Can I possibly change my wedding updo consultation to a later

time, like five pm? It’s with Louis. Let me know. But if not, no worries. Thanks so much! I

really appreciate it! Hope all is well. Love, Poppy xxxxxxxxxx Who’s Sue? Your oldest, dearest

friend?”

        “She’s the receptionist at my hairdresser.” I glare at him.

        “So she gets thanks and appreciation and a zillion kisses, just for doing her job?”

        “I’m being nice!” I snap.

        “It’s not being nice,” he says firmly, “it’s being ridiculous. It’s a business transaction. Be

businesslike.”

        “I love my hairdresser!” I say furiously. I take a spoonful of soup, forgetting how

revolting it is, and quell a shudder.

        Sam’s still scrolling through my messages, as if he has every right to. I never should have

let him get his hands on that phone. I should have wiped it myself.

        “Who’s Lucinda?”

        “My wedding planner,” I answer reluctantly.

        “That’s what I thought. Isn’t she supposed to be working for you? What is all this shit

she’s laying on you?”

        For a moment I’m too flustered to reply. I butter myself a piece of baguette, then put it

down without eating it.

        “She is working for me,” I say at last, avoiding his eye. “I mean, obviously I help out a

little when she needs it… . ”

        “You’ve done the cars for her.” He’s counting off on his fingers incredulously. “You’ve

organized the confetti, the buttonholes, the organist … ”

        I can feel a flush creeping over my face. I know I’ve ended up doing more for Lucinda

than I intended. But I’m not going to admit that to him.

        “I wanted to! It’s fine.”

        “And her tone’s pretty bossy, if you ask me.”

        “It’s only her manner. I don’t mind… . ” I’m trying to throw him off this path, but he’s

relentless.

        “Why don’t you just tell her straight, ‘You’re working for me, cut out the attitude’?”

        “It’s not as simple as that, OK?” I feel on the back foot. “She’s not simply a wedding

planner. She’s an old friend of the Tavishes.”

        “The Tavishes?” He shakes his head as though the name means nothing to him.

        “My future in-laws! The Tavishes. Professor Antony Tavish? Professor Wanda

Brook-Tavish? Their parents are great friends and Lucinda’s part of that whole world, and she’s

one of them and I can’t—” I break off and rub my nose. I’m not sure where I was going with

that.

        Sam picks up a spoon, leans over, takes a sip of my soup, and winces.

        “Freezing. Thought so. Send it back.”

        “No, really.” I flash him an automatic smile. “It’s fine.”

        “It’s not. Send it back.”

        “No! Look—it doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry anyway.”

        Sam is gazing at me, shaking his head. “You are a big surprise, you know that? This is a

big surprise.” He taps the phone.

         “What?”’

         “You’re pretty insecure for someone who’s so feisty on the outside.”

         “I’m not!” I retort, rattled.

         “Not insecure? Or not feisty?”

         “I—” I’m too confused to answer. “I dunno. Stop it. Leave me alone.”

         “You talk about the Tavishes as if they’re God.”

         “Well, of course I do! They’re in a different league—”

         I’m cut off midstream by a man’s voice.

         “Sam! My main man!” It’s Justin, clapping Sam on the back. He’s wearing a black suit,

black tie, and dark glasses. He looks like one of the Men in Black. “Steak baguette again?”

         “You know me too well.” Sam gets to his feet and taps a passing waiter. “Excuse me,

could we have a fresh soup for my guest? This one’s cold. Did you meet Poppy the other night?

Poppy, Justin Cole.”

         “Enchanté.” Justin nods at me, and I catch a waft of Fahrenheit aftershave.

         “Hi.” I manage to smile politely, but I still feel stirred up inside. I need to tell Sam how

wrong he is. About everything.

         “How was the meeting with P&G?” Sam’s saying to Justin.

         “Good! Very good! Although of course they miss you on the team, Sam.” He makes a

reproving gesture with his finger.

         “I’m sure they don’t.”

         “You know this man is the star of our company?” Justin says to me, gesturing at Sam.

“Sir Nicholas’s heir apparent. ‘One day, dear boy, all this will be yours.’ ”

         “Now, that’s just bullshit,” Sam says pleasantly.

         “Of course it is.”

         There’s a beat of silence. They’re smiling at each other—but it’s a bit more like animals

baring teeth.

         “So, I’ll see you around,” says Justin at length. “Going to the conference tonight?”

         “Tomorrow, in fact,” Sam replies. “Lot of stuff to catch up on here.”

         “Fair enough. Well, we’ll toast you tonight.” Justin raises his hand at me, then walks

away.

         “Sorry about that,” says Sam to me. “This restaurant is just impossible at lunchtime. But

it’s the closest that’s any good.”

         I’ve been distracted from my churning thoughts by Justin Cole. He really is a prick.

         “You know, I heard Justin talking about you last night,” I say in a low voice, and lean

across the table. “He called you a stubborn fuck.”

         Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I expect he did.”

         A fresh bowl of butternut squash soup arrives in front of me, steaming hot, and suddenly

I feel ravenous.

         “Thanks for doing that,” I say awkwardly to Sam.

         “My pleasure.” He tilts his head. “Bon appétit.”

         “So, why did he call you a stubborn fuck?” I take a spoonful of soup.

         “Oh, we disagree pretty fundamentally about how to run the company,” he says

carelessly. “My camp had a recent victory, so his camp is feeling sore.”

         Camps? Victories? Are they all permanently at war?

         “What happened?”

         God, this soup is good. I’m ladling it down as though I haven’t eaten for weeks.

         “You’re really interested?” He appears to be amused.

         “Yes! Of course!”

         “A member of personnel left the company. For the better, in my opinion. But not in

Justin’s.” He takes a bite of baguette and reaches for his water.

         That’s it? That’s all he’s going to tell me? A member of personnel left the company?

         “You mean John Gregson?” I suddenly remember my Google search.

         “What?” He looks taken aback. “How do you know about John Gregson?”

         “Daily Mail online, of course.” I roll my eyes. What does he think, that he works in a

secret, private bubble?

         “Oh. I see.” Sam seems to digest this. “Well … no. That was something different.”

         “Who was this one, then? C’mon,” I wheedle as he hesitates. “You can tell me. I’m best

friends with Sir Nicholas Murray, you know. We have drinks at the Savoy together. We’re like

this.” I cross my fingers, and Sam gives a reluctant snort of laughter.

         “OK. I don’t suppose it’s any great secret.” He hesitates and lowers his voice. “It was a

guy called Ed Exton. Finance director. The truth is, he was fired. Turned out he’d been

defrauding the company for a while. Nick wouldn’t press charges, but that was a big mistake.

Now Ed’s suing for wrongful dismissal.”

         “Yes!” I nearly squeak. “I knew it! And that’s why he was worse for wear in the

Groucho.”

         Sam gives a short, incredulous laugh. “You know about that. Of course you do.”

         “And … Justin was angry when Ed was fired?” I’m trying to get this clear.

         “Justin was gunning for Ed to take over as CEO, with himself as right-hand man,” says

Sam wryly. “So, yes, you could say he was fairly angry.”

         “CEO?” I say in astonishment. “But … what about Sir Nicholas?”

         “Oh, they would have ousted Nick if they’d got enough support,” says Sam

matter-of-factly. “There’s a faction in this company that’s more interested in creaming off short

term profits and dressing in Paul Smith than anything else. Nick’s all about playing the long

game. Not always the most popular position.”

         I finish my soup, digesting all this. Honestly, these office politics are all so complicated.

How does anyone get any work done? It’s bad enough when Annalise has one of her hissy fits

about whose turn it is to buy the coffee and we all get distracted and forget to write up our

reports.

         If I worked at White Globe Consulting, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I would spend

all day texting the other people in the office, asking them what was going on today and had they

heard anything new and what did they think was going to happen.

         Hmm. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not in an office job.

         “I can’t believe Sir Nicholas Murray used to live in Balham,” I say, suddenly

remembering. “I mean, Balham!”

         “Nick hasn’t always been grand, by any means.” Sam shoots me a curious look. “Didn’t

you come across his background story during your little Googlefest? He was an orphan. Brought

up in a children’s home. Everything he’s got, he’s worked his socks off for. Not a snobbish bone

in his body. Not like some of these pretentious tossers trying to get rid of him.” He scowls and

stuffs a bundle of rocket into his mouth.

         “Fabian Taylor must be in Justin’s camp,” I observe thoughtfully. “He’s so sarcastic with

you. I always wondered why.” I look up to see Sam regarding me with a lowered, furrowed

brow.

        “Poppy, be honest. How many of my emails have you read?”

        I can’t believe he’s asking that.

        “All of them, of course. What did you think?” His expression is so funny, I get the

giggles. “The minute I got my hands on that phone, I started snooping on you. Emails from

colleagues, emails from Willow … ” I can’t resist throwing out the name casually to see if he

bites.

        Sure enough, he blanks the reference completely. It’s as though the name Willow means

nothing to him.

        But this is our farewell lunch. It’s my last chance. I’m going to perservere.

        “So, does Willow work on a different floor from you?” I say conversationally.

        “Same floor.”

        “Oh, right. And … you two met through work?”

        He just nods. This is like getting blood out of a stone.

        A waiter comes to clear my bowl and we order coffees. As the waiter moves away, I see

Sam studying me thoughtfully. I’m about to ask another question about Willow, but he gets in

first.

        “Poppy, slight change of subject. Can I say something to you? As a friend?”

        “Are we friends?” I reply dubiously.

        “A disinterested spectator, then.”

        Great. First of all, he’s dodging the Willow conversation. Secondly, what now? A speech

on why you shouldn’t steal phones? Another lecture on being businesslike in emails?

        “What is it?” I can’t help rolling my eyes. “Fire away.”

        He picks up a teaspoon, as though marshaling his thoughts, then puts it down.

        “I know this is none of my business. I haven’t been married. I haven’t met your fiancé. I

don’t know the situation.”

        As he speaks, blood creeps into my face. I don’t know why.

        “No,” I say. “You don’t. So—”

        He presses on without listening to me.

        “But it seems to me you can’t—you shouldn’t—go into a marriage feeling inferior in any

way.”

        For a moment I’m too stunned to respond. I’m groping for reactions. Shout? Slap him?

Stalk out?

        “OK, listen,” I manage at last. My throat is tight, but I’m trying to sound poised. “First of

all, you don’t know me, like you said. Second of all, I don’t feel inferior—”

        “You do. It’s obvious from everything you say. And it’s baffling to me. Look at you.

You’re a professional. You’re successful. You’re … ” He hesitates. “You’re attractive. Why

should you feel the Tavishes are in a ‘different league’ from you?”

        Is he being deliberately obtuse?

        “Because they’re, like, major famous people! They’re all geniuses and they’ll all end up

being knighted, and my uncle’s just a normal dentist from Taunton—” I break off, breathing

hard.

        Great. Now I’ve walked straight into it.

        “What about your dad?”

        Here goes. He asked for it.

        “He’s dead,” I say bluntly. “Both my parents are dead. Car crash ten years ago.” I lean

back in my chair, waiting for the awkward pause.

        It can go so many different ways. Silence. Hand over mouth. Gasp.76 Exclamation.

Awkward change of subject. Morbid curiosity. Story about bigger, more gruesome crash that

friend of friend’s aunt was in.

        One girl I told actually burst into tears right then and there. I had to watch her sobbing

and find her a tissue.

        But … it’s weird. This time doesn’t seem to be awkward. Sam hasn’t looked away. He

hasn’t cleared his throat or gasped or changed the subject.

        “Both at once?” he says at last, in a more gentle voice.

        “My mother straightaway. My father the day after.” I flash him a brittle smile. “Never got

to say goodbye to him, though. He was pretty much gone at the … at the time.”

        Smiling is actually the only way to get through these conversations, I’ve learned.

        A waiter arrives with our coffees, and for a moment the conversation’s on hold. But as

soon as he’s moved away, the same mood is back. The same expression on Sam’s face.

        “I’m very, very sorry.”

        “No need to be!” I say in my standard upbeat voice. “It all worked out. We moved in with

my uncle and aunt; he’s a dentist, she’ a dental nurse. They looked after us, my little brothers and

me. So … it’s all good. All good.”

        I can feel his eyes on me. I look one way and then the other, dodging them. I stir my

cappuccino, a little too fast, and take a gulp.

        “That explains a lot,” says Sam at last.

        I can’t bear his sympathy. I can’t bear anyone’s sympathy.

        “It does not,” I say tightly. “It does not. It happened years ago and it’s over and I’m a

grown-up and I’ve dealt with it, OK? So you’re wrong. It doesn’t explain anything.”

        Sam puts down his espresso cup, picks up his amaretto biscuit, and unwraps it

unhurriedly.

        “I meant it explains why you’re obsessed with teeth.”

        “Oh.”

        Touché.

        I give him a reluctant smile. “Yes, I suppose I am fairly familiar with dental care.”

        Sam crunches into his biscuit and I take another gulp of cappuccino. After a minute or

two it seems as if we’ve moved on, and I’m wondering if we should get the bill, when Sam

suddenly says, “My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a lot of nights talking

with him. Lot of nights.” He pauses. “I know what it’s like. You don’t just get over it. And it

doesn’t make any difference if you’re supposedly a grown-up. It never goes away.”

        He wasn’t supposed to come back to the subject. We’d moved on. Most people gallop off

to something else with relief.

        “Well, I did get over it,” I say brightly. “And it did go away. So.”

        Sam nods as though my words don’t surprise him. “Yes, that’s what he said. To other

people. I know. You have to.” He pauses. “Hard to keep up the façade, though.”

        Smile. Keep smiling. Don’t meet his eyes.

        But somehow I can’t help it, I do.

        And my eyes are suddenly hot. Shit. Shit. This hasn’t happened for years. Years.

        “Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter fiercely, glaring at the table.

        “Like what?” Sam sounds alarmed.

        “Like you understand.” I swallow. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

        I take a deep breath and a sip of water. Idiot, Poppy. Get a grip. I haven’t let myself be

taken off guard like that since … I can’t even remember when.

        “I’m sorry,” says Sam, in a low voice. “I didn’t mean—”

        “No! It’s fine, but let’s move on. Shall we get the bill?”

        “Sure.” He summons a waiter, and I take out my lip gloss, and after about two minutes I

feel back to normal.

        I try to pay for lunch, but Sam point-blank refuses, so we compromise on going Dutch.

After the waiter’s taken our money and wiped away the crumbs, I look at him across the empty

table.

        “Well.” Slowly, I slide the phone across the table to him. “Here you are. Thanks. Nice

knowing you and everything.”

        Sam doesn’t even look at it. He’s gazing at me with the sort of kind, concerned

expression that makes me prickle all over and want to throw things. If he says anything more

about my parents, I’ll just walk. I’ll go.

        “I was wondering,” he says at last. “Out of interest, have you ever learned any methods

of confrontation?”

        “What?” I laugh out loud with surprise. “Of course not. I don’t want to confront

anybody.”

        Sam spreads his hands. “There you go. There’s your problem.”

        “I don’t have a problem! You’re the one with a problem. At least I’m nice,” I can’t help

saying pointedly. “You’re … miserable.”

        Sam roars with laughter, and I flush. OK, maybe miserable was the wrong word.

        “I’m fine.” I reach for my bag. “I don’t need any help.”

        “Come on. Don’t be a coward.”

        “I’m not a coward!” I retort in outrage.

        “If you can give it out, you can take it,” he says cheerfully. “When you read my texts,

you saw a curt, miserable git. And you told me so. Maybe you’re right.” He pauses. “But you

know what I saw when I read yours?”

        “No.” I scowl at him. “And I don’t want to know.”

        “I saw a girl who races to help others but doesn’t help herself. And right now you need to

help yourself. No one should walk up the aisle feeling inferior or in a different league or trying to

be something they’re not. I don’t know exactly who your issues are with, but … ”

        He picks up the phone, clicks a button, and turns the screen to face me.

        Fuck.

        It’s my list. The list I wrote in the church.

        THINGS TO DO BEFORE WEDDING

1. Become expert on Greek philosophy.2. Memorize Robert Burns poems.3. Learn long Scrabble

words.4. Remember: am HYPOCHONDRIAC.5. Beef stroganoff. Get to like. (Hypnosis?)

       I feel drenched in embarrassment. This is why people shouldn’t share phones.

       “’It’s nothing to do with you,” I mutter, staring at the table.

       “I know,” he says gently. “I also know that standing up for yourself can be hard. But you

have to do it. You have to get it out there. Before the wedding.”

       I’m silent a minute or two. I can’t bear him to be right. But deep down inside me,

everything he’s saying is feeling true. Like Tetris blocks falling one by one into place.

       I let my bag drop down onto the table and rub my nose. Sam patiently waits while I get

my thoughts in order.

        “It’s all very well you telling me that,” I say finally. “It’s all very well saying ‘get it out

there.’ What am I supposed to say to them?”

        “ ‘Them’ being …”

        “I dunno. His parents, I guess.”

        I suddenly feel disloyal, talking about Magnus’s family behind his back. But it’s a bit late

for that.

        Sam doesn’t hesitate for a minute.

        “You say, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Tavish, you’re making me feel inferior. Do you really think I’m

inferior or is this just in my mind?’ ”

        “What planet do you live on?” I stare at him. “I can’t say that! People don’t say things

like that!”

        Sam laughs. “Do you know what I’m about to do this afternoon? I’m about to tell an

industry CEO that he doesn’t work hard enough, that he’s alienating his fellow board members,

and that his personal hygiene is becoming a management issue.”

        “Oh my God.” I’m cringing at the thought. “No way.”

        “It’s going to be fine,” says Sam calmly. “I’ll take him through, point by point, and by

the end he’ll be agreeing with me. It’s just technique and confidence. Awkward conversations

are kind of my specialism. I learned a lot from Nick,” he adds. “He can tell people that their

company is a pile of shit, and they lap out of his hand. Or even that their country is a pile of

shit.”

        “Wow.” I’m a bit awestruck.

        “Come and sit in on the meeting. If you’re not busy. There’ll be a couple of other

people.”

        “Really?”

        He shrugs. “It’s how you learn.”

        I had no idea you could be a specialist at awkward conversations. I’m trying to picture

myself telling someone that their personal hygiene is an issue. I can’t imagine finding the words

to do that in a million years.

        Oh, come on. I have to see this.

        “OK!” I find myself smiling. “I will. Thanks.”

        He hasn’t picked up the phone, I suddenly notice. It’s still lying on the table.

        “So … shall I bring this along to your office?” I say casually.

        “Sure.” He’s shrugging on his jacket. “Thanks.”

        Excellent. I get to check my texts again. Result!

        72 soup, duck, etc. Which I know looks all cool and streamlined, but what sort of soup?

What sort of duck?

        73 Isn’t that illegal? What if I wanted to pay in dollars? Would they have to let me?

        74 OK, this is ridiculous. You write a menu which no one understands and then you pay

someone to explain it.

        75 Why are all her suppliers in such odd places? Whenever I ask her, she talks vaguely

about sourcing. Ruby reckons it’s so she can charge more for driving hours.

        76 Magnus was a gasper. Then he gripped me tight between both hands and said he’d

known I was vulnerable and that just added to my beauty.

10

        It must be so amazing to work in a place like this. Everything about Sam’s building is a

novelty to me—from the massive escalator to the whizzy lifts to the laminated card with my

photo on it, which got made by a machine in about three seconds. When visitors come to First Fit

Physio, we just sign them in with a book from Staples.

        We go up to the sixteenth floor and along a corridor with a bright green carpet,

black-and-white photos of London on the wall, and funky seating in random shapes. On the right

are individual glass-fronted offices, and on the left is a big open-plan area with multicolored

desks. Everything here is so cool. There’s a water machine, like we have, but there’s also a

coffee station with a real Nespresso machine and a Smeg fridge and a massive bowl of fruit.

        I am so talking to Ruby about staff conditions at First Fit Physio.

        “Sam!” A man in a navy linen jacket greets Sam, and as they talk, I peer all around at the

open-plan office area, wondering if I might spot Willow. That girl with wavy blond hair, talking

into a headset, sitting with her feet up on a chair. Could that be her?

        “OK.” Sam seems to be wrapping up the conversation. “That’s interesting, Nihal. I’ll

have a think.”

        Nihal. My ears prick up. I know that name from somewhere. I’m sure I do. What was it,

now? Nihal … Nihal …

        “Thanks, Sam,” Nihal is saying. “I’ll just forward that document to you right now.… ”

As he’s tapping at his phone, I suddenly remember.

        “Congratulate him on his baby!” I whisper to Sam. “Nihal’s wife just had a baby last

week. Yasmin. Seven pounds. She’s gorgeous! Didn’t you see the email?”

        “Oh.” Sam looks taken aback but recovers smoothly. “Hey, Nihal, congrats on the baby,

by the way. Fantastic news.”

        “Yasmin’s a lovely name.” I beam at Nihal. “And seven pounds! What a good size! How

is she doing?”

        “How’s Anita?” joins in Sam.

        “They’re both very well, thanks! I’m sorry … I’m not sure we’ve met?” Nihal glances at

Sam for help.

        “This is Poppy,” says Sam. “She’s here to do some … consultation.”

        “Right.” Nihal shakes my hand, still looking puzzled. “So, how did you know about the

baby?”

        “Because Sam mentioned it to me,” I lie smoothly. “He was so thrilled for you, he

couldn’t help telling me. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

        Ha! Sam’s face!

        “That’s right,” he says finally. “Delighted.”

        “Wow.” Nihal’s face suffuses with pleasure. “Thanks, Sam. I didn’t realize you’d be

so—” He breaks off awkwardly.

        “No problem.” Sam lifts a hand. “Congratulations again. Poppy, we should really be

getting on.”

        As Sam and I walk away down the office, I want to giggle at his expression.

        “Can you cut it out, please?” Sam murmurs without moving his head. “First animals, now

babies. What kind of reputation are you going to give me?”

        “A good one!” I retort. “Everyone will love you!”

        “Hey, Sam.” A voice hails us from behind, and we turn to see Matt Mitchell, glowing

with delight. “I just heard the news! Sir Nicholas is joining the Guatemala trip! That’s

awesome!”

         “Yes.” Sam nods brusquely. “We spoke about it last night.”

         “Well, I wanted to thank you,” he says earnestly. “I know this was your influence. You

two guys will add so much heft to the cause. Oh, and thanks for the donation. We really

appreciate it.”

         I stare in astonishment. Sam gave a donation to the Guatemala trip? He gave a donation?

         Now Matt is beaming at me. “Hello again. Are you interested in the Guatemala trip?”

         Oh my God, I would love to go to Guatemala.

         “’Well—” I begin enthusiastically, before Sam cuts me off firmly:

         “No. She’s not.”

         Honestly. What a spoilsport.

         “Maybe next time,” I say politely. “I hope it goes well!”

         As Matt Mitchell heads back down the corridor and we walk on, I’m mulling hard on

what I just heard.

         “You never told me Sir Nicholas was going to Guatemala,” I say at last.

         “No?” Sam doesn’t sound remotely interested. “Well, he is.”

         “And you gave them a donation,” I add. “So you do think it’s a good cause. You think

it’s worth supporting.”

         “I gave them a small donation.” He corrects me with me a forbidding look, but I’m

undeterred.

         “So actually … that situation turned out really well. Not a disaster at all.” I count off

thoughtfully on my fingers. “And the girls in admin think you’re wonderful and the whole ideas

initiative is brilliant. And you’ve got some interesting new thoughts for the company. And Nihal

thinks you’re the bee’s knees, and so does Chloe and all her department, and Rachel loves you

for doing the Fun Run.”

         “Where exactly are you going with this?” Sam’s expression is so ominous, I quail

slightly.

         “Er … nowhere!” I backtrack. “Just saying.”

         Maybe I’ll keep quiet now, for a while.

         After the lobby I was expecting to be impressed by Sam’s office—but I’m more than

impressed. I’m awestruck.

         It’s a huge corner space, with windows overlooking Blackfriars Bridge, a designer light