Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

        “I won’t! But can I have it a few more days? I won’t critique your emails anymore,” I add

tamely. “Promise.”

         “OK, guys!” Mark interrupts us. “Good news. I’ve found a mount. Now I’ll select some

stones for you to look at. Excuse me a moment… .”

         As he heads out of the room, my phone bleeps with a new text.

         “It’s from Willow,” I say, glancing down. “Look.” I gesture at my hands. “Forwarding.

Not passing any comment. None at all.”51

         “Hrrmm.” Sam gives the same noncommittal growl he gave before when I mentioned

Willow.

         There’s an odd little pause. What should happen now is I ask something polite like, “So,

how did you two meet?” and “When are you getting married?” and we start a conversation about

wedding lists and the price of caterers. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to. Their

relationship is so peculiar, I don’t want to go there.

         I know he can be growly and curt, but I still can’t see him with a self-obsessed, whingy

bitch like Willow. Especially now I’ve met him in the flesh. She must be really, really, really

attractive, I decide. Like, supermodel standard. Her dazzling looks have blinded him to

everything else about her. It’s the only explanation.

         “Loads of people are replying to the email about Lindsay’s birthday,” I observe, to fill the

silence. “They obviously don’t have a problem with it.”

         “Round-robin emails are the work of the devil.” Sam barely misses a beat. “I’d rather

shoot myself than reply to one.”

         Well, that’s a nice attitude.

         This Lindsay is obviously popular. Every twenty seconds some fresh reply all message

arrives on the screen, like, Happy birthday, Lindsay! Have a wonderful celebration, whatever

you’re doing. The phone keeps buzzing and flashing. It’s like a party in here. And only Sam is

refusing to join in.

         Oh, I can’t stand it. How hard is it to type happy birthday? Why wouldn’t you? It’s two

words.

         “Can’t I write happy birthday from you?” I beg. “Go on. You don’t have to do anything.

I’ll type it.”

         “Fuck’s sake!” Sam looks up from his own phone. “OK. Whatever. Say happy birthday.

But no smiley faces or kisses,” he adds warningly. “Just happy birthday. Sam.”

         Happy birthday, Lindsay! I type defiantly. Hope you’re having a great time today. Well

done again on that website strategy, it was awesome. Best wishes, Sam.

         Hurriedly, I send it, before he can wonder why I’m typing so much.

         “What about the dentist?” I decide to push my luck.

         “What about the dentist?” he echoes, and I feel an almighty surge of exasperation. Is he

pretending he doesn’t know what I’m talking about or has he genuinely forgotten?

         “Here we are!” The door opens and Mark appears, holding out a dark-blue velvet tray.

“These are our simulated emeralds.”

         “Wow,” I breathe, my attention torn away from the phone.

         In front of me are ten rows of gleaming emeralds. I mean, I know they’re not real, but

quite frankly I couldn’t tell the difference.52

         “Is there any stone which strikes you as having a resemblance to the one you’ve lost?”

         “That one.” I point to an oval rock in the middle. “It’s almost exactly the same. It’s

amazing!”

         “Great.” He picks it up with a pair of tweezers and places it on a small plastic dish. “The

diamonds are obviously smaller and less noticeable, so I’m fairly confident of a match. You want

a little distressing?” he adds. “Take the shine off?”

         “Can you do that?” I say in amazement.

         “We can do anything,” he says confidently. “We once made the Crown Jewels for a

Hollywood movie. Looked absolutely genuine, although they never even used them in the end.”

         “Wow. Well … yes, please!”

         “No problem. We should get this knocked out in”—he glances at his watch—“three

hours?”

         “Great!”

         As I stand up, I’m astounded. I can’t believe this was so easy. In fact, I feel quite

exhilarated with relief. This will see me through a couple of days and then I’ll get the real thing

back and it’ll all be OK.

         When we return to the showroom, I sense a rustle of interest. Martha’s head pops up from

the book she was writing in, and a couple of girls in dove gray are whispering and nodding at me

from their position by the door. Mark leads us over to Martha again, who beams at me even more

widely than before.

         “Look after these lovely people for me, Martha, will you?” he says, giving her a folded

piece of paper. “Here are the details. Bye, again.”

         He and Sam shake hands warmly, then Mark disappears off to the rear of the shop.

         “You look happy!” Martha says to me with a twinkle.

         “I’m so happy!” I can’t contain my delight. “Mark’s brilliant. I just can’t believe what he

can do!”

         “Yes, he is rather special. Oh, I’m so pleased for you.” She squeezes my arm. “What a

wonderful day for you both!”

         Oh … shit. Suddenly I realize what she means. I glance sharply at Sam, but he’s stepped

aside to read something on his phone and is oblivious.

         “So, we’re all dying to know.” Martha’s eyes are twinkling. “What are you getting?”

         “Er … ”

         This conversation has definitely lurched in the wrong direction. But I can’t think how to

steer it back.

         “Martha told us about the vintage Cartier watch!” Another girl in dove gray joins the

conversation, and I can see two other girls edging forward to listen.

         “We’ve all been guessing out here.” Martha nods. “I think Mark will have made you

something really special and bespoke. With some wonderful, romantic touch.” She clasps her

hands. “Maybe a flawless diamond—”

         “Those princess-cut ones are exquisite,” a girl in dove gray gushes.

         “Or an antique,” chimes in another girl eagerly. “Mark has some amazing old diamonds

with stories attached to them. There’s an incredible pale-pink one; did he show you that?”

         “No!” I say quickly. “Um … you don’t understand. I’m not—I mean—”

         Oh God. What can I say? I’m not getting into the whole story.

         “We love a beautiful ring.” Martha sighs happily. “It doesn’t matter what it is, really, as

long as it’s magical for you. Oh, come on.” She gives an impish smile. “I have to know.” She

opens the paper with a beaming flourish. “And the answer is … ”

         As she reads the words on the page, Martha’s voice cuts off in a sort of gasp. For a

moment she seems unable to speak. “Oh! A simulated emerald,” she manages at last, sounding

strangled. “Lovely. And simulated diamonds too. So pretty.”

         There’s nothing I can say. I’m aware of four crestfallen faces gazing at me. Martha looks

most devastated of all.

         “We thought it was a lovely ring,” I offer lamely.

         “It is! It is!” Martha is obviously forcing herself to nod animatedly. “Well …

congratulations! So sensible of you to go for simulations.” She exchanges looks with the other

girls in dove gray, who all hastily chime in.

         “Absolutely!”

         “Very sensible!”

         “Lovely choice!”

         The bright voices so don’t match the faces. One girl almost looks like she wants to cry.

         Martha seems slightly fixated by Sam’s vintage gold Cartier. I can practically read her

mind: He can afford vintage Cartier for himself and he bought his girlfriend a FAKE?

         “Can I just see the price?” Sam has finished tapping at his phone and takes the paper

from Martha. As he reads it, he frowns. “Four hundred and fifty pounds—that’s a lot. I thought

Mark promised a discount.” He turns to me. “Don’t you think that’s too much?”

         “Maybe.”53 I nod, a bit mortified.

         “Why’s it so expensive?” He turns to Martha, and her eyes flick yet again to his Cartier

watch before she addresses him with a professional smile.

         “It’s the platinum, sir. It’s a precious, timeless material. Most of our customers value a

material that will last a lifetime.”

         “Well, can we have something cheaper? Silver plate?” Sam turns to me. “You agree,

don’t you, Poppy? As cheap as possible?”

         I hear a couple of stifled gasps across the shop. I catch a glimpse of Martha’s horrified

face and can’t help flushing.

         “Yes! Of course,” I mutter. “Whatever’s cheapest.”

         “I’ll just check with Mark,” says Martha after rather a long pause. She moves away and

makes a brief phone call. As she returns to the register, she’s blinking fast and can’t look me in

the eye. “I’ve spoken to Mark and the ring can be made in silver-plated nickel, which brings the

price down to”—she taps again—“one hundred and twelve pounds. Would you prefer that

option?”

         “Well, of course we would.” Sam glances at me. “No-brainer, right?”

         “I see. Of course.” Martha’s bright smile has frozen solid. “That’s … fine. Silver-plated

nickel it is. ’ She seems to gather control of herself. “In terms of presentation, sir, we offer a

deluxe leather ring box at thirty pounds, or a simpler wooden box for ten pounds. Each option

will be lined with rose petals and can have a personalization. Perhaps initials or a little

message?”

         “A message?” Sam gives an incredulous laugh. “No, thanks. And no packaging. We’ll

have it as is. D’you want a carrier bag or something, Poppy?” He glances at me.

         Martha is breathing harder and harder. For a moment I think she might lose it.

         “Fine!” she says at last. “Absolutely fine. No box, no rose petals, no message.… ” She

taps at her computer. “And how will you be paying for the ring, sir?” She’s obviously mustering

all her energies to stay pleasant.

         “Poppy?” Sam nods at me expectantly.

         As I pull out my purse, Martha’s expression is so aghast, I nearly expire with

embarrassment.

         “So … you’ll be paying for the ring, madam.” She can barely get the words out.

“Wonderful! That’s … wonderful. No problem at all.”

        I tap in my PIN and take the receipt. Yet more girls in dove gray have appeared in the

showroom, and they’re standing in clusters, whispering and staring at me. My entire body is

drenched in mortification.

        Sam, of course, has noticed nothing.

        “Will we see you both later?” Martha clearly makes a supreme effort to recover herself as

she ushers us to the door. “We’ll have champagne waiting and we’ll take a photo for your album,

of course.” A tiny glow comes back into her eyes. “It’s such a special moment when you first

take the ring and slide it onto her finger—”

        “No, I’ve spent far too long here already,” says Sam, absently glancing at his watch.

“Can’t you just bike it round to Poppy?”

        This seems to be the last straw for Martha. When I’ve given her my details and as we’re

walking out, she suddenly exclaims, “Could I have a little word about care and upkeep, madam?

Just very quickly?” She grabs my arm and pulls me back into the shop, her grip surprisingly

strong. “In seven years of selling engagement rings, I’ve never done this before,” she whispers

urgently into my ear. “I know he’s a friend of Mark. And I know he’s very handsome. But … are

you sure?”

        As I eventually emerge onto the street, Sam is waiting for me, looking impatient.

        “What was that about? Everything OK?”

        “Yes! All fine!”

        My face is scarlet and I just want to get out of here. As I glance back toward the shop, I

can see Martha talking animatedly to the other girls in dove gray and gesticulating out the

window toward Sam, a look of outrage on her face.

        “What’s going on?” Sam frowns. “She didn’t try to sell you the expensive ring, did she?

Because I’ll have a word with Mark—”

        “No! Nothing like that.” I hesitate, almost too embarrassed to tell him.

        “Then what?” Sam peers at me.

        “She thought you were my fiancé and you were making me buy my own engagement

ring,” I admit at last. “She told me not to marry you. She was very worried for me.”

        I won’t go into Martha’s theory about generosity in the jewelry shop and generosity in

bed and how they relate.54

        I can see the light slowly dawning on Sam’s face.

        “Oh, that’s funny.” He bursts into laughter. “That’s very funny. Hey.” He hesitates. “You

didn’t want me to pay for it, did you?”

        “No, of course not!” I say, shocked. “Don’t be ridiculous! I just feel terrible that the

whole shop thinks you’re a cheapskate, when you were actually doing me a massive favor. I’m

really sorry.” I wince.

        Sam looks baffled. “What does that matter? I don’t care what they think of me.”

        “You must care a bit.”

        “Not one bit.”

        I peer at him closely. His face is calm. I think he means it. He doesn’t care. How can you

not care?

        Magnus would care. He always flirts with shop assistants and tries to work out if they

recognize him from TV. And one time, when his card was declined in our local supermarket, he

made a point of going back in there the next day and telling them about how his bank completely

cocked up the day before.

         Oh well. Now I don’t feel quite so bad.

         “I’m going to grab a Starbucks.” Sam starts heading off down the street. “Want one?”

         “I’ll get them.” I hurry after him. “I owe you one. Big-time.”

         I don’t have to be back at the clinic till after lunch, because I got Annalise to swap her

morning off with mine. For a hefty bribe.

         “You remember I mentioned a man called Sir Nicholas Murray,” Sam says as he swings

the coffee shop door open. “He’s sending over a document. I’ve told him to use my own email

address, but if by any chance he sends it your way by mistake, please let me know at once.”

         “OK. He’s quite famous, isn’t he?” I can’t resist adding. “Wasn’t he number eighteen in

the world’s movers and shakers in 1985?”

         I did some Googling last night, and I’m totally on top of the whole subject of Sam’s

company. I know everything. I could go on Mastermind. I could do a PowerPoint presentation.

In fact, I wish someone would ask me to do one! Facts I know about White Globe Consulting, in

no particular order:

1. It was started in 1982 by Nicholas Murray and now it’s been bought out by some big

multinational group.2. Sir Nicholas is still the CEO. Apparently he can smooth a meeting’s

atmosphere by just arriving and can stop a deal in its tracks with a single shake of the head. He

always wears floral shirts. It’s his thing.3. The finance director was a protégé of Sir Nicholas, but

he’s recently left the company. His name is Ed Exton.554. Ed and Sir Nicholas’s friendship has

disintegrated over the years, and Ed didn’t even attend the party when Sir Nicholas was

knighted.565. They had this scandal recently when a guy called John Gregson made a politically

incorrect joke at a lunch and had to resign.57 Some people thought it was unfair, but the new

chairman of the board apparently has “zero tolerance for inappropriate behaviour.”586. Sir

Nicholas is currently advising the prime minister on a new special “happiness and well-being’

committee, which all the newspapers have been rude about. One even described Sir Nicholas as

past his prime and had a cartoon of him as a flower with straggly petals. (I won’t mention that to

Sam.)7. They won an award for their paper recycling program last year. “Well done on the

recycling, by the way,” I add, eager to display my knowledge. “I saw your statement that

environmental responsibility is a fundamental linchpin for any company that aspires to

excellence. So true. We recycle too.”

         “What?” Sam seems taken aback, even suspicious. “How did you see that?”

         “Google search. It’s not against the law!” I add, at his expression. “I was interested. Since

I’m sending on emails all the time, I thought I’d find out a bit about your company.”

         “Oh, you did, did you?” Sam shoots me a dubious look. “Double tall cappuccino, please.”

         “So, Sir Nicholas is advising the prime minister! That’s really cool!”

         This time, Sam doesn’t even answer. Honestly. He’s not exactly a great ambassador.

         “Have you been to Number Ten?” I persist. “What’s it like?”

         “They’re waiting for your coffee order.” Sam gestures at the barista.

         Obviously he’s going to give away absolutely nothing. Typical. You’d think he’d be

pleased that I’m interested in what he does.

         “Skinny latte for me.” I haul out my purse. “And a chocolate chip muffin. You want a

muffin?”

         “No, thanks.” Sam shakes his head.

         “Probably for the best.” I nod wisely. “Since you refuse to go to the dentist.”

         Sam gives me a blank look, which could mean, “Don’t go there,’ or “I’m not listening,’

or, again, “What do you mean, the dentist?”

        I’m beginning to learn how he works. It’s like he has an on switch and an off switch. And

he only flips the on switch when he can be bothered.

        I click on my browser, search for another revolting picture of manky teeth, and forward it

to him silently.

        “This Savoy reception, by the way,” I say as we go to pick up our drinks. “You need to

send your acceptance.”

        “Oh, I’m not going to that,” he says, as though it’s obvious.

        “Why not?” I stare at him.

        “I have no particular reason to.” He shrugs. “And it’s a heavy week for social events.”

        I don’t believe this. How can he not want to go to the Savoy? God, it’s all right for top

businessmen, isn’t it? Free champagne, yawn, yawn. Goody bags, yet another party, yawn, how

tedious and dull.

        “Well, you should let them know, then.” I barely hide my disapproval. “In fact, I’ll do it

right now. Dear Blue, Thanks so much for the invitation,” I read aloud as I type. “Unfortunately,

Sam will be unable to attend on this occasion. Best wishes, Poppy Wyatt.”

        “You don’t have to do that.” Sam is staring at me, bemused. “One of the PAs at the office

is helping me out now. Girl called Jane Ellis. She can do that.”

        Yes, but will she do it? I want to retort. I’m aware of this Jane Ellis, who has started

making an occasional appearance in Sam’s in-box. But her real job is working for Sam’s

colleague Malcolm. I’m sure the last thing she wants to be doing is wrangling Sam’s schedule on

top of her usual workload.

        “It’s OK.” I shrug. “It’s been really bugging me.” Our coffees have arrived on the counter

and I hand him his. “So … thanks again.”

        “No trouble.” He holds the door open for me. “Hope you find the ring. As soon as you’ve

finished with the phone—”

        “I know.” I cut him off. “I’ll bike it round. The same nanosecond.”

        “Fine.” He allows me a half smile. “Well, I hope everything goes well for you.” He

extends a hand and I shake it politely.

        “Hope everything goes well for you too.”

        I haven’t even asked him when his wedding is. Perhaps it’s a week from tomorrow, like

ours. In the same church, even. I’ll arrive and see him on the steps with Willow the Witch on his

arm, telling him he’s toxic.

        He strides away and I hurry off toward the bus stop. There’s a 45 bus disgorging

passengers, and I climb on board. It’ll take me to Streatham Hill, and I can walk from there.

        As I take my seat, I look out and see Sam walking swiftly along the pavement, his face

impassive, almost stony. I don’t know if it’s the wind or he’s been knocked by a passerby, but

somehow his tie has gone skew-whiff, and he doesn’t even seem to have noticed. Now that’s

bugging me. I can’t resist sending him a text.

        Your tie’s crooked.

        I wait about thirty seconds, then watch his face jolt in surprise. As he’s looking around,

searching the pedestrians on the pavement, I text again:

        On the bus.

        The bus has moved off by now, but the traffic’s heavy and I’m pretty much keeping pace

with Sam. He looks up, straightening his tie, and flashes me a smile.

        I’ll have to admit, he does have quite a smile. Kind of heart-stopping, especially as it

comes out of nowhere.

         I mean … you know. If your heart was in the kind of place to be stopped.

         Anyway. An email has just come in from Lindsay Cooper, and I briskly open it.

Dear Sam,Thank you so much! Your words mean a lot to me—it’s so nice to know you are

appreciated!! I’ve told the whole team who helped me with the strategy document, and it’s really

boosted morale!Best,

 LindsayIt’s cc’ed to his other address too, so he’ll have got it on his phone. A moment

later my phone bleeps with a text from Sam.

         What did you write to Lindsay??

         I can’t help giggling as I type back:

         Happy birthday. Just like you said.

         What else??

         I don’t see why I need to answer. Two can play at selective deafness.

         Have you contacted the dentist yet? I counter.

         I wait a while—but we’re back to radio silence. Another email has arrived in the phone,

this time from one of Lindsay’s colleagues, and as I read it I can’t help feeling vindicated.

Dear Sam,Lindsay passed on your kind words about the website strategy. We were so honored

and delighted you took the time to comment. Thanks, and look forward to chatting about more

initiatives, maybe at the next monthly meeting.Adrian (Foster)Ha. You see? You see?

         It’s all very well sending off two-word emails. It might be efficient. It might get the job

done. But no one likes you. Now that whole website team will feel happy and wanted and work

brilliantly. And it’s all because of me! Sam should have me doing his emails all the time.

         On a sudden impulse, I scroll down to Rachel’s zillionth email about the Fun Run and

press Reply.

Hi, Rachel.Count me in for the Fun Run. It’s a great endeavor and I look forward to supporting

it. Well done!SamHe looks fit. He can do a Fun Run, for God’s sake.

         On a roll now, I scroll down to that guy in IT who’s been politely asking about sending

Sam his CV and ideas for the company. I mean, surely Sam should be encouraging people who

want to get ahead?

Dear James,I would be very glad to see your CV and hear about your ideas. Please make an

appointment with Jane Ellis, and well done for being so proactive!SamAnd now that I’ve

started, I can’t stop. As the bus chugs along, I email the guy wanting to assess Sam’s workstation

for health and safety, set up a time, then email Jane to tell her to put it in the schedule.59 I email

Sarah, who has been off with shingles, and ask her if she’s better.

         All those unanswered emails that have been nagging away at me. All those poor ignored

people trying to get in touch with Sam. Why shouldn’t I answer them? I’m doing him such a

service! I feel like I’m repaying him for his favor with the ring. At least, when I hand this phone

back, his in-box will have been dealt with.

         In fact, what about a round-robin email telling everyone they’re fab? Why not? Who can

it hurt?

Dear Staff,I just wanted to say that you’ve all done a great job so far this year.As I’m typing,

an even better thought comes to me.

As you know, I value all your views and ideas. We are lucky to have such talent at White Globe

Consulting and want to make the most of it. If you have any ideas for the company you would

like to share, please send them to me. Be honest!All best wishes and here’s to a great year

ahead.SamI press send with satisfaction. There. Talk about motivational. Talk about team

spirit! As I sit back, my fingers are aching from so much typing. I take a sip of latte, reach for my

muffin, stuff a massive chunk into my mouth—and my phone starts ringing.

        Shit. Of all the times.

        I press talk, lift the receiver to my ear, and try to say “Just a moment,” but it comes out as

“Gobblllllg.” My whole mouth is full of claggy muffin. What do they put in these things?

        “Is that you?” A youthful, reedy male voice is speaking. “It’s Scottie.”

        Scottie? Scottie?

        Something sparks in my mind. Scottie. Wasn’t that the name mentioned by Violet’s

friend who rang before? The one who was talking about liposuction?

        “It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself.

Adiós, Santa Claus.”

        I’m chewing my muffin as frantically as I can, but I still can’t utter a sound.

        “Are you there? Is this the right—Oh, fucking—” The voice disappears as I manage to

swallow.

        “Hello? Can I take a message?”

        He’s gone. I check the caller ID, but it’s Unknown Number.

        You’d think all Violet’s friends would know her new number by now. Clicking my

tongue, I reach inside my bag for the Lion King program, which is still there.

        Scottie rang, I scribble next to the first message. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace.

Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa Claus.

        If I ever meet this Violet, I hope she’s grateful for all my efforts. In fact, I hope I do meet

her. I haven’t been taking all these messages for nothing.

        I’m about to put the phone away when a crowd of new emails arrives in a flashing bunch.

Replies to my round robin already? I scroll down—and to my disappointment, most of them are

standard company messages or ads. But the second-to-last makes me stop in my tracks. It’s from

Sam’s dad.

        I’ve been wondering about him.

        I hesitate—then click the email open.

Dear Sam,Just wondering if you got my last email. You know I’m not much of a technological

expert, probably sending it off to the wrong place. But here goes again.Hope all is well and you

are flourishing in London as ever. You know how proud we are of your success. I see you in the

business pages. Amazing. I always knew you were destined for big things, you know that.As I

said, there is something I’d love to talk to you about. Are you ever down Hampshire way? It’s

been so long and I do miss the old days.Yours ever,

 Your old

 Dad As I get to the end, I feel rather hot around the eyes. I can’t quite believe it. Did Sam not

even reply to that last email? Doesn’t he care about his dad? Have they had a big row or

something?

        I have no idea what the story is. I have no idea what could have happened between them.

All I know is, there’s a father sitting at a computer, putting out feelers to his son, and they’re

being ignored, and I can’t bear it. I just can’t. Whatever’s gone before, life’s too short not to

make amends. Life’s too short to bear a grudge.

        On impulse, I press reply. I don’t dare reply in Sam’s voice to his own father; that would

be going too far. But I can make contact. I can let a lonely old man know that his voice is being

heard.

Hello.This is Sam’s PA. Just to let you know, Sam will be at his company conference at the

Chiddingford Hotel in Hampshire next week, April 24 . I’m sure he’d love to see you.Best,

 Poppy Wyatt I press send before I can chicken out, then sit for a few moments, a bit breathless

at what I’ve done. I’ve masqueraded as Sam’s PA. I’ve contacted his father. I’ve waded right

into his personal life. He’d be livid if he knew—in fact, the very thought of it makes me quail.

         But sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes you have to show people what’s

important in life. And I have this very strong gut instinct that what I’ve done is the right thing.

Maybe not the easy thing—but the right thing.

         I have a vision of Sam’s dad sitting at his desk, his gray head bowed. The computer

beeping with a new email, the light of hope in his face as he opens it … a sudden smile of joy …

turning to his dog, patting his head, saying, “We’re going to see Sam, boy!”60

         Yes. It was the right thing to do.

         Exhaling slowly, I open the last email, which is from Blue:

Hello.We’re so sorry to hear that Sam can’t make the Savoy reception. Would he like to

nominate another person to attend in his place? Please email over the name and we will be sure

to add them to the guest list.Kind regards,

 Blue. The bus has come to a halt, chugging at a set of traffic lights. I take a bite of muffin and

stare silently at the email.

         Another person. That could be anybody.

         I’m free on Monday night. Magnus has a late seminar in Warwick.

         OK. Here’s the thing. There’s no way I’d ever be invited to anything glitzy like this in the

normal way of things. Physiotherapists just aren’t. And Magnus’s events are all academic book

launches or stuffy college dinners. They’re never at the Savoy. There are never goody bags or

cocktails or jazz bands. This is my one and only chance.

         Maybe this is karma. I’ve come into Sam’s life, I’ve made a difference for the good—and

this is my reward.

         My fingers are moving almost before I’ve made a decision.

         Thank you so much for your email, I find myself typing. Sam would like to nominate

Poppy Wyatt.

         50 Is unethical the same as dishonest? This is the kind of moral debate I could have asked

Antony about. In different circumstances.

         51 Which is a shame, because what I’m dying to ask is: Why does Willow keep sending

messages via me when she must know I’m not Violet by now? And what’s all this

communication through his PA, anyway?

         52 Which makes me wonder: If man can make an emerald these days, why do we all keep

on spending loads of money on real ones? Also: Should I get some earrings?

         53 I did actually think it was quite a lot. But I figured that was the hit I had to take. I

would certainly never query the price of a ring in a posh shop, never in a million years.

         54 “I could draw you a graph, Poppy. A graph.”

         55 Aha! Clearly the same Ed who was in the Groucho Club, the worse for wear. Just call

me Poirot.

         56 Daily Mail gossip column.

         57 I actually half-remember seeing that story in the paper.

         58 Good thing he isn’t my boss, is all I can say.

         59 I know he’s free on Wednesday at lunchtime, because someone has just canceled.

         60 I know he may not have a dog. I just feel pretty sure that he does.