Текст книги "I've Got Your Number "

Автор книги: Sophie Kinsella

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

asked me how much the replica ring cost and where I had it made, and all sorts of questions I

really didn’t want to answer.

        What does she think? That I was going to sell the original or something?

        We’ve practiced me coming up the aisle, and going back down the aisle together, and

worked out where we’ll kneel and sign the register. And now the vicar has suggested a

run-through of the vows.

        But I can’t. I just can’t say those magical words with Antony there, making clever-clever

comments and mocking every phrase. It’ll be different in the wedding. He’ll have to shut up.

        ““Magnus.” I pull him aside with a whisper. “Let’s not do our vows today after all. Not

with your father here. They’re too special to ruin.”

        “OK.” He looks surprised. “I don’t mind either way.”

        “Let’s just say them once. On the day.” I squeeze his hand. “For real.”

        Even without Antony, I don’t want to preempt the big moment, I realize. I don’t want to

rehearse. It’ll take the specialness out of it all.

        “Yes, I agree.” Magnus nods. “So … are we done now?”

        “No, we’re not done!” says Lucinda, sounding outraged. “Far from it! I want Poppy to

walk up the aisle again. You went far too fast for the music.”

        “OK.” I shrug, heading to the back of the church.

        “Organ, please!” shrieks Lucinda. “Or-gan! From the top! Glide smoothly, Poppy,” she

says as I pass. “You’re wobbling! Clemency, where are those cups of tea?”

        Clemency is just back from a Costa run, and I can see her out of the corner of my eye,

hastily tearing open sachets of sugar and milk.

        “I’ll help!” I say, and break off from gliding. “What can I do?”

        “Thanks,” whispers Clemency as I come over. “Antony wants three sugars, Magnus is the

cappuccino, Wanda has the biscotti … ”

        “Where’s my double-chocolate extra-cream muffin?” I say with a puzzled frown, and

Clemency jumps sky-high in the air.

         “I didn’t—I can go back—”

         “Joke!” I say. “Just joking!”

         The longer Clemency works for Lucinda, the more like a terrified rabbit she looks. It

really can’t be good for her health.

         Lucinda takes her tea (milk, no sugar) with the briefest of nods. She seems totally hassled

again and has laid a massive spreadsheet printout across the pews. It’s such a mess of highlighter

and scribbled notes and Post-it notes, I’m amazed she’s organized anything.

         “Oh God, oh God,” she’s saying under her breath. “Where’s the fucking florist’s

number?” She riffles through a bundle of papers, then clasps her hair despairingly. “Clemency!”

         “Shall I Google it for you?” I suggest.

         “Clemency will Google it. Clemency!” Poor Clemency starts so badly, tea slops out of

one of the cups.

         “I’ll take that,” I say hastily, and relieve her of the Costa tray.

         “If you could, that would be helpful.” Lucinda exhales sharply. “Because you know, we

are all here for your benefit, Poppy. And the wedding is only a week away. And there is still an

awful lot to do.”

         “I know,” I say awkwardly. “Um … sorry.”

         I have no idea where Magnus and his parents have got to, so I head toward the back of

the church, holding the Costa tray full of cups, trying to glide, imagining myself in my veil.

         “Ridiculous!” I hear Wanda’s muffled voice first. “Far too fast.”

         I look around uncertainly—then realize it’s coming from behind a heavy closed wooden

door to the side of the church. They must be in the antechapel.

         “Everyone knows … Attitude to marriage … ” That’s Magnus speaking—but the door is

so thick I can catch only the odd word.

         “ … not about marriage per se!” Wanda’s voice is suddenly raised. “ … pair of you! …

just can’t understand … ”

         “Quite misguided … ” Antony’s voice is like a bassoon chiming in.

         I’m rooted to the spot, ten yards away from the door, holding the Costa coffee tray. I

know I shouldn’t eavesdrop. But I can’t stop myself.

         “ … admit it, Magnus … complete mistake …”

         “ … cancel. Not too late. Better now than a messy divorce … ”

         I swallow hard. My hands are trembling around the tray. What am I hearing? What was

that word, divorce?

         I’m probably misinterpreting, I tell myself. It’s only a few stray words, they could mean

anything.

         “Well, we’re getting married, whatever you say! So you might as well bloody like it!”

Magnus’s voice soars out, clear as a bell.

         A chill settles on me. It’s quite hard to find an alternative interpretation of that.

         There’s some rumbling reply from Antony, then Magnus yells again, “ … will not end in

bloody disaster!”

         I feel a swell of love for Magnus. He sounds so furious. A moment later there’s a rattling

at the door, and in a flash I backtrack about ten steps. As he emerges, I walk forward again,

trying to look relaxed.

         “Hi! Cup of tea?” Somehow I manage a natural tone. “Everything all right? I wondered

where you’d got to!”

        “Fine.” He smiles affectionately and snakes an arm around my waist.

        He’s giving no hint that he was just yelling at his parents. I never realized he was such a

good actor. He should go into politics.

        “I’ll take those in to my parents, actually.” He quickly removes the tray from my grasp.

“They’re … er … looking at the art.”

        “Great!” I manage a smile, but my chin is wobbling. They’re not looking at the art.

They’re telling each other what a terrible choice their son has made for a wife. They’re making

bets that we’ll be divorced within a year.

        As Magnus emerges from the antechapel again, I take a deep breath, feeling sick with

nerves.

        “So … what do your parents make of all this?” I say as lightly as I can manage. “I mean,

your father’s not really into church, is he? Or … or … marriage, even.”

        I’ve given him the perfect cue to tell me. It’s all set up. But Magnus shrugs sulkily.

        “They’re OK.”

        I sip my tea a few times, staring miserably at the ancient stone floor, willing myself to

pursue it. I should contradict him. I should say, “I heard you arguing.” I should have it out with

him.

        But … I can’t do it. I’m not brave enough. I don’t want to hear the truth—that his parents

think I’m crap.

        “Just got to check an email.” Is it my imagination or is Magnus avoiding my gaze?

        “Me too.” I peel away from him miserably and go to sit by myself on a side pew. For a

few moments I hunch my shoulders, trying to resist the urge to cry. At last I reach for my phone

and switch it on. I might as well catch up with some stuff. I haven’t looked at it for hours. As I

switch it on, I almost recoil at the number of buzzes and flashes and bleeps which greet me. How

many messages have I missed? I quickly text the concierge at the Berrow Hotel, telling him he

can call off the search for the ring, and thanking him for his time. Then I turn my attention to the

messages.

        Top of the pile is a text from Sam, which arrived about twenty minutes ago:

        On way to Germany over weekend. Heading to mountainous region. Will be off radar for

a bit.

        Seeing his name fills me with a longing to talk to someone, and I text back:

        Hi there. Sounds cool. Why Germany?

        There’s no reply, but I don’t care; it’s cathartic just to type.

        So much for fake ring. Did not work. Was found out and now M’s parents think I’m a

weirdo.

        For a moment I wonder whether to tell him that Lucinda had the ring and ask him what

he thinks. But … no. It’s too complicated. He won’t want to get into it. I send the text—then

realize he might think I’m having a go at him. Quickly I type a follow-up:

        Thx for help, anyway. Appreciate it.

        Maybe I should have a look at his in-box. I’ve been neglecting it. There are so many

emails with the same subject heading, I find myself squinting at the screen in puzzlement—till it

dawns on me. Of course. Everyone’s responded to my invitation to send in ideas! These are all

the replies!

        For the first time this afternoon, I feel a small glow of pride in myself. If one of these

people has come up with a groundbreaking idea and revolutionizes Sam’s company, then it will

all be down to me.

         I click on the first one, full of anticipation.

Dear Sam,I think we should have yoga at lunchtimes, funded by the company, and several others

agree with me.Best,

 Sally Brewer. I frown uncertainly. It’s not exactly what I was expecting, but I suppose yoga is a

good idea.

         OK, next one.

Dear Sam,Thanks for your email. You asked for honesty. The rumor among our department is

that this so-called ideas exercise is a weeding-out process. Why not just be honest yourself and

tell us if we’re going to be fired?Kind regards,

 Tony I blink in astonishment. What?

         OK, that’s just a ridiculous reaction. He’s got to be a nutter. I quickly scroll down to the

next one.

Dear Sam,Is there a budget for this “new ideas’ program you’ve launched? A few team leaders

are asking.Thanks,

 Chris Davies That’s another ridiculous reaction. A budget? Who needs a budget for ideas?

Sam,What the fuck is going on? Next time you feel like announcing a new staff initiative, would

you mind consulting the other directors?Malcolm The next is even more to the point:

Sam,What’s this all about? Thanks for the heads-up. Not.VicksI feel a twinge of guilt. It

never occurred to me that I might get Sam into trouble with his colleagues. But surely everyone

will see the beneficial side as soon as the ideas start flooding in.

Dear Sam,The word is that you’re appointing a new “ideas czar.” You may recall that this was

my idea, which I raised in a departmental meeting three years ago. I find it a little rich that my

initiative has been appropriated and very much hope that when the appointment is made, I will

be at the top of the short list.Otherwise, I fear I will have to make a complaint to a more senior

level.Best,

 MartinWhat?

Dear Sam,Will we be having a special presentation of all our ideas? Could you please let me

know the time limit on a PowerPoint presentation? May we work as teams?Best wishes,

 MandyThere. You see? A brilliant, positive reaction. Teamwork! Presentations! This is

fantastic!

Dear Sam,Sorry to bother you again.If we don’t want to work in a team after all, will we be

penalized? I have fallen out with my team, but now they know all my ideas, which is totally

unfair.Just so you know, I had the idea about restructuring the marketing department first. Not

Carol.Best,

 MandyOK. Well, obviously you have to expect a few glitches. It doesn’t matter. It’s still

a positive result …

Dear Sam,I’m sorry to do this, but I wish to make a formal complaint about the behavior of Carol

Hanratty.She has behaved totally unprofessionally in the new-ideas exercise, and I am forced to

take the rest of the day off, due to my great distress. Judy is also too distressed to work for the

rest of the day, and we are thinking of contacting our union.Best,

 MandyWhat? What?

Dear Sam,Forgive the long email. You ask for ideas.Where to start?I have worked at this

company for fifteen years, during which time a long process of disillusionment has silted up my

very veins, until my mental processes …This guy’s email is about fifteen pages long. I drop

my phone into my lap, my jaw slack.

         I can’t believe all these replies. I never ever meant to cause all this kerfuffle. Why are

people so stupid? Why do they have to fight? What on earth have I stirred up?

         I’ve read only the first few emails. There are about thirty more to go. If I forward all

these to Sam, and he steps off the plane in Germany and gets them in one fell swoop … I

suddenly hear his voice again: round-robin emails are the work of the devil.

         And I sent one out in his name. To the whole company. Without consulting him.

         Oh God. I’m really wishing I could go back in time. It seemed like such a great idea.

What was I thinking? All I know is, I can’t land this on him out of the blue. I need to explain it

all to him first. Tell him what I was trying to achieve.

         My mind is ticking over now. I mean, he’s in a plane. He’s off-radar. And it’s Friday

night, after all. There’s no point forwarding anything to him. Maybe everyone will have calmed

down by Monday. Yes.

         The phone suddenly bleeps with a text and I jump, startled.

         Taking off. Anything I need to know about? Sam

         I stare at the phone, my heart beating with slight paranoia. Does he need to know about

this right at this very moment? Does he need to?

         No. He does not.

         Not right now. Have a good trip! Poppy

         61 In fact, probably pressing a glass up to it.

         62 His waistcoat cost nearly the same amount as my dress.

         63 I think cymbals in the work of Coldplay would make more sense, but what do I know?

         64 Wanda made beef stroganoff for us the first time I met her. How could I tell her the

truth, which is that it makes me gag?

         65 He was on Newsnight and everything. According to Magnus, Antony loved all the

attention, although he pretended he didn’t. He’s been saying even more-controversial things ever

since, but none has ever taken off like the Philistines thing.

8

        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.

        I didn’t realize how good at acting I was. 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’d almost 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

inquiring about our house-hunting 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 with good nature and 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 allow myself

only 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 in my best LBD and high heels.

My makeup 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 paneling and spectacular chandeliers everywhere

and waiters handing out 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 gray 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 gray slub silk will be fine. Thanks so much!! Love, Poppy xxxxx

        I don’t think ordering two steaks is necessarily creepy … maybe he is on Atkins diet???

Keep me posted! P xxxxx

        Sounds fab, can I come too?! P xxxxx

        There are scads of messages 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 eight this morning, the avalanche of emails began, and

they keep flying back and forth. There are still rumors 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 alerts 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,

 AdrianIt 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. Anytime.Sam xxxxxI press send without rereading it and take a swig of cosmo.

For about twenty seconds I’m relaxed, savoring 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 reread it, wincing. I’m so used to kisses, they popped out

automatically. But Sam never puts kisses. Ever.

         Should I somehow try to unsend the kisses?

         Dear Lindsay, just to clarify, I did not mean to add kisses

         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. Simply 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

nearby. 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.66 “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.67

         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 toward 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 blond 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 a general laugh and the crowd starts to move toward this end of the room. I’m

being pushed straight toward the podium, which is really not where I want to be—but I don’t

have much choice.

         “So, here we are!” The blond 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

managing director, 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 onto 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 blonde

continues.”

         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, Mr. White Globe

Consulting, Mr. 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 onto 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 gate-crashing 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 resolution,” the blond 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 gate-crasher.

        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 phony 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 onto 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.

        It was a good joke.

        I watch as Sam checks his phone again. His face twitches only 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 hip flask 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, only 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 favor—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 two hundred and forty-three 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