I've Got Your Number

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?”

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.