I've Got Your Number

12

Chiddingford Hotel is large and impressive, with a beautiful main Georgian house at the end of a long drive and some less lovely glass buildings half hidden behind a big hedge. But I seem to be the only one appreciating it as we arrive. Sam isn’t in the best of moods. There was a problem getting a cab, then we got stuck behind some sheep, and then the taxi driver got lost. Sam has been texting furiously ever since we got into our taxi, and as we arrive, two men in suits, whom I don’t recognize are waiting for us on the front steps.

Sam thrusts some notes at the driver and opens the taxi door almost before it brakes. “Poppy, excuse me a moment. Hi, guys … ”

The three of them huddle on the gravel, and I get out more slowly. The taxi pulls away and I look around at the manicured gardens. There are croquet lawns and topiary and even a little chapel, which I bet is lovely for weddings. The place seems empty, and there’s a freshness to the air which makes me shiver. Maybe I’m nervous. Maybe it’s delayed shock.

Or maybe it’s standing here in the middle of nowhere, not knowing what the hell I’m doing here, with my personal life about to collapse in ruins around me.

I pull out my phone for companionship. The feel of it sitting in my hand comforts me a little, but not enough. I read the Unknown Number text a few more times again, just to torture myself, then compose a text to Magnus. After a few false starts I have it exactly right.

Hi. How are you doing? P

No kisses.

As I press send, my eyes start to sting. It’s a simple message, but I feel as though every word is freighted with double, triple, even quadruple meaning, with a heartbreaking subtext which he may or may not get.81

Hi means, Hi, have you been unfaithful? Have you? Please, PLEASE don’t let this be true.

How means, I really wish you’d ring me. I know you’re on your stag do, but it would reassure me so much just to hear your voice and know that you love me and you couldn’t do such a thing.

Are means, Oh God, I can’t bear it. What if it’s true? What will I do? What will I say? But, then, what if it’s NOT true and I’ve suspected you for no good reason—

“Poppy.” Sam is turning toward me, and I jump.

“Yes! Here.” I nod, thrusting my phone away. I have to concentrate now. I have to put Magnus from my mind. I have to be useful.

“These are Mark and Robbie. They work for Vicks.”

“She’s on her way down.” Mark consults his phone as we all head up the steps. “Sir Nicholas is staying put for now. We think Berkshire’s the best place for him to be if there’s any chance of being doorstepped.”

“Nick shouldn’t hide.” Sam’s frowning.

“Not hiding. Staying calm. We don’t want him rushing to London, looking like there’s a crisis. He’s speaking at a dinner tonight; we’ll regroup tomorrow, see how things have played out. As for the conference, we keep going for now. Obviously Sir Nicholas was due to arrive here in the morning, but we’ll have to see”—he hesitates, wincing slightly—“What happens.”

“What about the injunction?” says Sam. “I was talking to Julian; he’s pulling out all the stops.”

Robbie sighs. “Sam, we already know that won’t work. I mean, we’re not not going to apply for one, but—”

He stops midstream as we arrive in a big lobby. Wow. This conference is a lot more high-tech than our annual physiotherapists’ one. There are massive WHITE GLOBE CONSULTING logos everywhere and big screens mounted all round the lobby. Someone is clearly using some kind of TV camera inside the hall, because images of an audience sitting in rows are being beamed out. There are two sets of closed double doors straight ahead of us, and the sound of an audience laughing suddenly emanates from them, followed, ten seconds later, by laughter from the screens.

The whole lobby is empty except for a table bearing a few lonely name badges, behind which a bored-looking girl is lolling. She stands up straighter as she sees us and smiles uncertainly at me.

“They’re having a good time,” says Sam, glancing at the TV screen.

“Malcolm’s speaking,” says Mark. “He’s doing a great job. We’re in here.” He ushers us into a side room and shuts the door firmly behind us.

“So, Poppy.” Robbie turns to me politely. “Sam’s filled us in on your … theory.”

“It’s not my theory,” I say in horror. “I don’t know anything about it! I just got these messages, and I wondered if they could be relevant, and Sam worked it out.”

“I think she has something.” Sam faces up to Mark and Robbie as though daring them to disagree. “The memo was planted. We all agree on that.”

“The memo is … uncharacteristic,” amends Robbie.

“Uncharacteristic?” Sam looks like he wants to explode. “He didn’t bloody write it! Someone else wrote it and inserted it into the system. We’re going to find out who. Poppy heard the voice. Poppy will recognize it.”

“OK.” Robbie exchanges wary glances with Mark. “All I will say, Sam, is that we have to be very, very careful. We’re still working on breaking this news to the company. If you go crashing in with accusations—”

“I won’t crash in with anything.” Sam glowers at him. “Have a little trust. Jesus.”

“So what are you planning to do?” Mark looks genuinely interested.

“Walk around. Listen. Find the needle in the haystack.” Sam turns to me. “You up for that, Poppy?”

“Totally.” I nod, trying to hide how panicked I feel. I’m half-wishing I never took those messages down now.

“And then … ” Robbie still looks dissatisfied.

“Let’s cross that bridge.”

There’s silence in the room.

“OK,” says Robbie at last. “Do it. Go on. I guess it can’t do any harm. And how will you explain away Poppy?”

“New PA?” suggests Mark.

Sam shakes his head. “I’ve appointed a new PA, and half the floor has met her already. Let’s keep it simple. Poppy’s thinking of joining the company. I’m showing her round. OK with that, Poppy?”

“Yes! Fine.”

“Got that personnel list?”

“Here.” Robbie hands it to him. “But be discreet, Sam.”

Mark has opened the door a crack and is looking into the lobby.

“They’re coming out,” he says. “All yours.”

We head out of the room, into the lobby. Both sets of double doors are open and people are streaming out of them, all wearing badges and chatting, some laughing. They all look pretty fresh, given it’s 6:30 p.m. and they’ve been listening to speeches all afternoon.

“There are so many.” I stare at the groups of people, feeling totally daunted.

“It’s fine,” says Sam firmly. “You know it’s a male voice. That already cuts it down. We’ll just go round the room and rule them out, one by one. I have my suspicions, but … I won’t bias you.”

Slowly, I follow him into the mêlée. People are grabbing drinks from waiters and greeting each other and shouting jokes across other people’s heads. It’s cacophony. My ears feel as though they’re radar sensors, straining this way and that to catch the sound of voices.

“Heard our guy yet?” Sam says, as he hands me a glass of orange juice. I can tell he’s half joking, half hopeful.

I shake my head. I’m feeling overwhelmed. The sound in the room is like a melded roar in my head. I can barely distinguish any individual strands, let alone pick out the exact tones of a voice I heard for twenty seconds, days ago, down a mobile-phone line.

“OK, let’s be methodical.” Sam is talking almost to himself. “We’ll go round the room in concentric circles. Does that sound like a plan?”

I flash him a smile, but I’ve never felt so pressured in my life. No one else can do this. No one else heard that voice. It’s down to me. Now I know how sniffer dogs must feel at airports.

We head to a group of women, who are standing together with two middle-aged men.

“Hi there!” Sam greets them all pleasantly. “Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Jeremy … and Peter… . Jeremy, how many years have you been with us now? And Peter? Is it three years?”

OK. Now that I’m listening properly, close up, this is easier. One man has a low growly voice and the other is Scandinavian. After about ten seconds I shake my head at Sam, and he moves us swiftly off to another group, discreetly ticking his list as we go.

“Hi there! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, you’ve already met Nihal. Now, Colin, what are you up to these days?”

It’s amazing how different voices are, once you start to pay attention. Not only the pitch but the accents, the timbres, the little speech impediments and slurs and quirks.

“What about you?” I join in, smiling at a bearded guy who hasn’t uttered a syllable.

“Well, it’s been a tricky year … ” he begins ponderously.

No. Uh-uh. Nothing like. I glance at Sam, shaking my head, and he abruptly takes hold of my arm.

“Sorry, Dudley, we must dash.” He heads to the next group along and charges straight in, interrupting an anecdote. “Poppy, this is Simon… . Stephanie you’ve met, I think … Simon, Poppy was just admiring your jacket. Where’s it from?”

I can’t believe how blatant Sam’s being. He’s practically ignoring all the women and being totally unsubtle about getting the men to talk. But I guess it’s the only way.

The more voices I listen to, the more confident I feel. This is easier than I thought it would be, because they’re all so different from the one on the phone. Except that we’ve already been to four groups and eliminated them. I scan the room anxiously. What if I get all the way round the room and I still haven’t heard the guy from the phone?

“Hi there, gang! Having a good time?” Sam is still in full flow as we approach the next group. “Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Tony. Tony, why don’t you tell Poppy about your department? And here’s Daniel, and this is … ah. Willow.”

She was turned away as we approached, so her face was averted, but now she faces us full on.

Yowzer.

“Sam!” she says, after such a long pause I start to feel embarrassed for everybody. “Who’s … this?”

OK. If my text to Magnus was laden with meaning, that little two-word sentence of Willow’s was collapsing under its weight. You don’t have to be an expert in the Language of Willow to know that what she actually meant was, “Who the FUCK is this girl and WHAT is she doing here with YOU? Jesus, Sam, are you DELIBERATELY SCREWING AROUND WITH ME? Because, believe me, you are going to regret that BADLY.”

You know. Paraphrasing.

I’ve never felt such overt hostility from anyone in my life. It’s like an electric current between us. Willow’s nostrils are flared and whitening. Her eyes are all stary. Her hand has gripped her glass so tightly, her tendons are showing through her pale skin. But her smile is still soft and pleasant, and her voice is still mellifluous. Which is almost most creepy of all.

“Poppy’s thinking of joining the company,” says Sam.

“Oh.” Willow carries on smiling. “Lovely. Welcome, Poppy.”

She’s unnerving me. She’s like some alien. Behind the soft smile and the dulcet voice is a lizard.

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, we must press on… . See you later, Willow.” Sam takes my arm to guide me away.

Uh-oh. Bad idea. I can feel her laser eyes in my back. Does Sam not feel them too?

We head to a new group and Sam launches into his spiel, and I dutifully crane my neck to listen, but nobody sounds a bit like the phone guy. As we work our way farther round, I can tell Sam’s getting dispirited, though he’s trying to hide it. After we leave a group of youngish IT guys drinking beers, he says, “Really? None of those guys?”

“No.” I shrug apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry!” He gives a short, strained laugh. “You heard what you heard. You can’t … If it’s not any of them—” He breaks off a moment. “Definitely not the blond guy? The one talking about his car? He didn’t sound at all familiar?”

And now the disappointment in his voice is evident.

“Is that who you thought it was?”

“’I … don’t know.” He spreads his hands, exhaling. “Maybe. Yes. He’d have the IT contacts, he’s new to the company, Justin and Ed could easily have talked him round … ”

I don’t know what to reply. Like he says, I heard what I heard.

“I think some people have gone out to the terrace,” I say, trying to be helpful.

“We’ll try there.” He nods. “Let’s finish up here first.”

Even I can tell that none of the four gray-haired men standing by the bar will be the guy from the phone—and I’m right. As Sam is inveigled into a conversation about Malcolm’s speech, I take the opportunity to edge away and see if Magnus has replied. Of course he hasn’t. But flashing at the top of my in-box is an email sent to samroxton@whiteglobeconsulting.com, cc’ed to pasamroxtonpa@whiteglobeconsulting.com, which makes me splutter.

Sam,

Nice try. I know EXACTLY what you’re up to and you’re PATHETIC. Where did you get her from, an agency? I would have thought you could do better than that.

Willow

As I’m staring at the screen in disbelief, a second email pops in.

I mean, Jesus, Sam. She isn’t even DRESSED for the occasion. Or are cutesy denim skirts suddenly appropriate conference wear??

My skirt is not cutesy! And I wasn’t exactly planning to come to a conference when I got dressed this morning, was I?

In outrage, I press reply and type an email.

Actually, I think she’s stunningly beautiful. And her denim skirt isn’t cutesy. So there, Willow the Witch.

Sam.

Then I delete it. Naturally. I’m about to put my phone away when a third email pops in from Willow. Honestly. Can’t she give it a rest?

You want me to be jealous, Sam. Fine. I respect that. I even like it. We need sparks in our relationship. But TRY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE JEALOUS OF!!!

Because believe me, no one here is impressed by your little stunt. I mean, parading around some nondescript girl who clearly has NO IDEA HOW TO BLOW-DRY HER FUCKING HAIR … Well. It’s tragic, Sam. TRAGIC.

Talk to you when you’re a grown-up.

Willow

I touch my hair defensively. I did blow-dry it this morning. It’s just hard to get to the back bits. I mean, not that I care what she thinks, but I can’t help feeling a little stung—

My thoughts are interrupted mid-flow and I stare at the screen. I don’t believe it. An email has arrived in the phone from Sam. He’s responded to Willow. He’s actually replied to her! Except he’s pressed reply all, so it’s come to me too.

I glance up in astonishment and see that he’s still talking to the gray-haired men, apparently engrossed. He must have rattled it off very quickly. I open up the email and see a single line.

Cut it out, Willow. You’re not impressing anyone.

I blink at the screen. She won’t like that.

I wait for her to launch some further scathing attack on Sam—but no more emails arrive. Maybe she’s as taken aback as I am.

“Great. We’ll talk later.” Sam’s voice rises above the hubbub. “Poppy, few more people I’d like you to meet.”

“OK.” I snap to attention, thrusting my phone away. “Let’s do it.”

We circulate around the rest of the room. Sam’s list is covered with ticks. I must have listened to nearly every male voice in the company, and I haven’t heard anybody who sounds anything like the guy on the phone. I’m even starting to wonder whether I’m remembering him right. Or whether I hallucinated the whole thing.

As we head along a carpeted corridor toward the open terrace doors, I can tell Sam is low. I feel pretty low myself.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Not your fault.” He looks up and seems to clock my mood. “Poppy, seriously. I know you’re doing your best.” His face crinkles for a moment. “Hey, and I’m sorry about Willow.”

“Oh.” I brush it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

We walk in silence for a few moments. I want to say something like, “Thanks for sticking up for me,’ but I’m too awkward. I feel like I shouldn’t really have been inside that email exchange.

The terrace is covered in lanterns, and there are a few clusters of people but not nearly as many as there were inside. I suppose it’s too cold. But it’s shame, because there’s actually quite a nice partylike atmosphere out here. There’s a bar, and a couple of people are even dancing. On the corner of the terrace, a guy holding a TV camera seems to be interviewing a pair of giggling girls.

“So, maybe we’ll strike lucky.” I try to sound upbeat.

“Maybe.” Sam nods, but I can tell he’s given up.

“What happens if we don’t find him out here?”

“Then … we tried.” Sam’s face is taut, but for the briefest of moments his smile pops out. “We tried.”

“OK. Well, let’s do it.” I put on my best motivational you-can-get-mobility-back-into-that-hip-joint voice. “Let’s try.”

We head out and Sam launches into the same old routine.

“Hi there, gang! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is James. James, why don’t you tell Poppy what your line is? And here’s Brian, and this is Rhys.”

It’s not James or Brian or Rhys. Or Martin or Nigel.

Every name on Sam’s list is ticked off. I almost want to cry when I look at his face. At last we step away from a group of interns who weren’t even on the list and can’t possibly be Scottie.

We’re done.

“I’ll phone Vicks,” Sam says, his voice a little heavy. “Poppy, thanks for giving up your time. It was a stupid plan.”

“It wasn’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “It … could have worked.”

Sam looks up and for a moment we just stand there.

“You’re very kind,” he says at last.

“Hi, Sam! Hi, guys!” A girl’s raised voice makes me flinch. Maybe I’m sensitive because I’ve been listening more carefully to the way people speak—but this voice is setting my teeth on edge. I turn to see a bubbly-looking girl with a pink scarf tied in her hair approaching us with the TV camera guy, who has a dark crew cut and jeans.

Uh-oh.

“Hi, Amanda.” Sam nods. “What’s up?”

“We’re filming all the conference guests,” she says cheerfully. “Just a little shout-out, say hi, we’ll show it at the gala dinner.”

The TV camera is pointing in my face, and I flinch. I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t do a “little shout-out.”

“Anything you like,” Amanda prompts me. “A personal message, a joke … ” She consults her list, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what department you’re in… .”

“Poppy’s a guest,” says Sam.

“Oh!” The girl’s brow clears. “Lovely! Tell you what, since you’re a special guest, why don’t you do our Q and A interview? What do you think, Ryan? Do you know Ryan?” she adds to Sam. “He’s on an internship from the LSE for six months. He’s been doing all our promotional filming. Hey, Ryan, get a close-up. Poppy’s a special guest!”

What? I’m not a “special guest.” I want to escape, but somehow I feel pinned to the spot by the TV camera.

“Just introduce yourself and Ryan will ask the questions!” says the girl brightly. “So, tell us your name.”

“Hi,” I say reluctantly to the camera. “I’m … Poppy.” This is so stupid. What am I going to say to a conference of strangers?

Maybe I’ll do a shout-out to Willow.

Hey, Willow the Witch. You know how you think I’m ‘parading around’ with your boyfriend? Well, here’s the news flash. He’s not your boyfriend anymore.

The thought makes me snort, and Amanda gives me an encouraging smile.

“That’s right! Enjoy yourself. Ryan, do you want to start the Q and A?”

“Sure. So, Poppy, what do you think of the conference so far?”

The high-pitched, reedy voice which comes from behind the camera hits my ears like a twenty-volt shock.

It’s him.

That’s the voice I heard down the phone. This person talking to me now. This guy, with a crew cut and a camera on his shoulder. This is him.

“Having fun?” he prompts me, and my brain explodes with recognition again. The memory of his voice on the phone is running through my head like a TV sports replay.

It’s Scottie. It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike.

“Which was your favorite speech of the conference?”

“She didn’t go to any of the speeches,” interjects Sam.

“Oh. OK.”

No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself. Adiós, Santa Claus.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the drinks party?”

It’s Scottie.

This is Scottie. No question.

“Are you all right?” He leans round the camera, looking impatient. “You can talk. We’re rolling.”

I stare at his thin, intelligent face, my heart thumping, willing myself not to give anything away. I feel like a rabbit being mesmerized by a snake.

“It’s OK, Poppy.” Sam steps forward, looking sympathetic. “Don’t worry. A lot of people get stage fright.”

“No!” I manage. “It’s not—It’s—”

I stare up at him helplessly. My voice won’t work. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you can’t shout out that you’re being murdered.

“Guys, I don’t think she’s up for it,” Sam’s saying. “Could you … ” He gestures with his hand.

“Sorry!” Amanda puts a hand over her mouth. “Didn’t mean to freak you out! Have a good evening!” They head off to accost another group of people, and I stare after them, transfixed.

“Poor old Poppy.” Sam smiles ruefully. “Just what you needed. Sorry about that, it’s a new thing they’re doing at the conferences, although I can’t see what it adds—”

“Shut up.” Somehow I cut him off, although I can still barely speak. “Shut up, shut up.”

Sam looks astonished. I move closer to him and reach up on tiptoe until my mouth is touching his ear, his hair brushing against my skin. I inhale, breathing in his warmth and smell, then murmur, as quietly as a breath, “That’s him.”

We stay outside for another twenty minutes. Sam has a long telephone conversation with Sir Nicholas—none of which I can hear—then a brief, brusque call with Mark, of which I catch bits and pieces as he strides around, his hand to his head: Well, company policy can fuck itself… . the minute Vicks gets here …

It’s clear that tension levels are rising. I thought Sam would be happy that I’d helped, but he looks even more grim than before. He ends the call by snapping, “Whose side are you on, anyway? Jesus, Mark.”

“So … what are you going to do?” I say timidly as he rings off.

“Ryan’s company email is being searched. But he’s sharp. He won’t have used the company system. He’ll have set it all up by phone or with some private email account.”

“What, then?

“That’s the debate.” Sam screws up his face in frustration. “Trouble is, we don’t have time for a discussion on protocol. We don’t have time to consult our lawyers. If it were me—”

“You’d have him arrested, all his personal property confiscated, and a lie-detector test forcibly conducted,” I can’t help saying. “In a dark cellar somewhere.”

A reluctant smile passes across Sam’s face. “Something like that.”

“How’s Sir Nicholas?” I venture.

“Acting chipper. You can imagine. He keeps his chin up. But he feels it far more than he’s letting on.” Sam’s face twists briefly and he hunches his arms round his chest.

“You do too,” I say gently, and Sam looks up in a startled movement, as though I’ve caught him out.

“I suppose I do,” he says after a long pause. “Nick and I go back a long time. He’s a good guy. He’s done some remarkable things over his lifetime. But if this smear gets out unchallenged, it’ll be the only thing the wider world ever remembers about him. It’ll be the same headline over and over, till he dies. Sir Nicholas Murray, suspected of corruption. He doesn’t deserve that. He especially doesn’t deserve to be stitched up by his own board.”

There’s a somber moment, then Sam visibly pulls himself together. “Anyway. Come on. They’re waiting for us. Vicks is nearly here.”

We head back, past a group of girls clustered round a table, past an ornamental garden, toward the huge double doors leading into the hotel. My phone has been buzzing and I quietly take it out to check my in-box, just to see if Magnus has replied—

I blink at the screen. I don’t believe it. I give a tiny involuntary whimper, and Sam shoots me an odd look.

There’s a brand-new email right at the top of my in-box and I click on it, desperately hoping it won’t say what I’m dreading—

Shit. Shit.

I stare at it in dismay. What am I going to do? We’re nearly at the hotel. I have to speak. I have to tell him.

“Um, Sam.” My voice is a bit strangled. “Um, stop a minute.”

“What?” He halts with a preoccupied frown, and my stomach lurches with nerves.

OK. Here’s the thing. In my defense, if I’d known Sam was going to be mired in a massive, urgent crisis involving leaked memos and senior government advisers and ITN News, I wouldn’t have sent that email to his father. Of course I wouldn’t.

But I didn’t know. And I did send the email. And now …

“What’s up?” Sam looks impatient.

Where on earth do I start? How do I soften him up?

“Please don’t get angry,” I throw out as a preemptive sally, even though it feels a bit like chucking an ice cube into the path of a forest fire.

“About what?” There’s an ominous tone to Sam’s voice.

“The thing is … ” I clear my throat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I can see that you may not view it exactly that way… .”

“What on earth are you—” He breaks off, his face suddenly clearing with appalled understanding. “Oh, Jesus. No. Please don’t say you’ve been telling your friends about this—”

“No!” I say in horror. “Of course not!”

“Then what?”

I feel slightly emboldened by his wrong suspicions. At least I haven’t been blabbing everything to my friends. At least I haven’t been selling my story to The Sun.

“It’s a family thing. It’s about your dad.”

Sam’s eyes widen sharply, but he says nothing.

“I just felt bad that you and he weren’t in contact. So I emailed him back. He’s desperate to see you, Sam. He wants to reach out! You never go down to Hampshire, you never see him—”

“For God’s sake,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I really don’t have time for this.”

“You don’t have time for your own father?” His words sting me. “You know what, Mr. Big Shot, maybe your priorities are a little screwed. I know you’re busy, I know this crisis is important, but—”

“Poppy, stop right there. You’re making a big mistake.”

He looks so impassive, I feel a surge of outrage. How dare he be so sure of himself all the time?

“Maybe you’re the one who’s making a big mistake!” The words burst out before I can stop them. “Maybe you’re the one who’s letting your life pass by without engaging in it! Maybe Willow’s right!”

“Excuse me?” Sam looks thunderous at the mention of Willow.

“You’re going to miss out! You’re going to miss out on relationships which could give you so much, because you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to listen… .”

Sam glances around, looking embarrassed. “Poppy, cool it,” he mutters. “You’re getting too emotional.”

“Well, you’re staying too calm!” I feel like exploding. “You’re too stoic!” An image suddenly comes to me of those Roman senators, all waiting in the arena to be massacred. “You know something, Sam? You’re turning into stone.”

“Stone?” He gives a burst of laughter.

“Yes, stone. You’ll wake up one day and you’ll be a statue, but you won’t know it. You’ll be trapped inside yourself.” My voice is wobbling; I’m not sure why. It’s nothing to me whether he turns into a statue or not.

Sam is eyeing me warily.

“Poppy, I“ve no idea what you’re talking about. But we have to put this on pause. I have stuff I need to do.” His phone buzzes and he lifts it to his ear. “Hey, Vicks. You made it. OK, on my way.”

“I know you’re dealing with a crisis.” I grab his arm fiercely. “But there’s an old man waiting to hear from you, Sam. Longing to hear from you. For only five minutes. And you know what? I envy you.”

Sam exhales sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Poppy, you’ve got this all wrong.”

“Have I?” I stare up at him, feeling all my buried emotions starting to bubble. “I just wish I had your chance. To see my dad. You don’t know how lucky you are. That’s all.”

A tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away brusquely.

Sam is silent. He puts his phone away and faces me square-on. When he speaks, his voice is gentle.

“Listen, Poppy. I can understand how you feel. I don’t mean to trivialize family relationships. I have a very good relationship with my father, and I see him whenever I can. But it’s not that easy, bearing in mind that he lives in Hong Kong.”

I gasp with horror. Are they so out of touch? Did he not even know his father had moved back to this country?

“Sam!” My words tumble out. “You don’t understand! He’s moved back. He lives in Hampshire! He sent you an email. He wanted to see you. Don’t you read anything?”

Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter, and I stare at him, affronted.

“OK,” he says at last, wiping his eyes. “Let’s start from the beginning. Let’s get this straight. You’re talking about the email from David Robinson, right?”

“No, I’m not! I’m talking about the one from—”

I break off midstream, suddenly uncertain. Robinson? Robinson? I grab my phone and check the email address: Davidr452@hotmail.com.

I just assumed he was David Roxton. It seemed obvious he was David Roxton.

“Contrary to your assumptions, I did read that email,” Sam is saying. “And I chose to ignore it. Believe me, David Robinson is not my father.”

“But he called himself Dad.” I’m totally bewildered. “That’s what he wrote. Dad. Is he … your stepdad? Your halfdad?”

“He’s not my dad in any shape or form,” says Sam patiently. “If you must know, when I was at college I hung out with a group of guys. He was one of them. David Andrew Daniel Robinson. D.A.D. Robinson. We called him Dad. OK? Got it, finally?”

He starts walking toward the hotel as though the subject is closed, but I’m rooted to the spot, my mind flitting around in shock. I can’t get over this. Dad isn’t Sam’s dad? Dad is a friend? How was I supposed to know that? People shouldn’t be allowed to sign themselves as Dad unless they are your dad. It should be the law.

I’ve never felt so stupid in all my life.

Except … Except. As I’m standing there, I can’t help replaying all David Robinson’s emails in my head.

It’s been a long time. I think of you often… . Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow… . As I said, there is something I’d love to talk to you about. Are you ever down Hampshire way?

OK. So maybe I got it wrong about Sam’s father and the cottage and the faithful dog. But these words still touch a nerve in me. They sound so humble. So self-effacing. This David is clearly an old, old friend who wants to reach out. Maybe this is another relationship which Sam is leaving to wither. Maybe they’ll see each other and the years will fall away and afterward Sam will thank me and tell me how he needs to value friendship more, he simply didn’t realize it, and I’ve transformed his life… .

Abruptly, I hurry after Sam and catch up with him.

“So, is he a good friend?” I begin. “David Robinson? Is he, like, a really old, close chum?”

“No.” Sam doesn’t break his stride.

“But you must have been friends once.”

“I suppose so.”

Could he sound any less enthusiastic? Does he realize how empty his life will be if he doesn’t keep up with the people who were once important to him?

“So, surely he’s someone you still have a bond with! If you saw him, maybe you’d rekindle that! You’d bring something positive into your life!”

Sam stops dead and stares at me. “What business is this of yours, anyway?”

“Nothing,” I say defensively. “I just … I thought you might like to get in touch with him.”

“I am in touch with him.” Sam sounds exasperated. “Every year or so we meet for a drink, and it’s always the same story. He has some new entrepreneurial project he needs investors for, usually involving some ridiculous product or pyramid scheme. If it’s not fitness equipment, it’s double-glazing or time-shares in Turkey. Against my better judgment I give him some money. Then the business folds and I don’t hear from him again for another year. It’s a ridiculous cycle I need to break. Which is why I blanked his email. I’ll call him in a month or two, maybe, but right now, frankly, the last thing I need in my life is David bloody Robinson—” He breaks off and peers at me. “What?”

I gulp. There’s no way round this. None.

“He’s waiting for you in the bar.”

Maybe Sam hasn’t turned into a statue quite yet. Because as we head into the hotel, he says nothing, but I can easily read his feelings on his face, the entire range of them: from anger, to fury, to frustration, to …

Well. Back to anger again.82

“Sorry,” I say yet again. “I thought … ”

I peter out. I’ve already explained what I thought. It hasn’t really helped, to be honest.

We push our way through the heavy double doors to see Vicks hurrying down the corridor toward us, holding a phone to her ear, struggling with a pile of stuff and looking harassed.

“Sure,” she’s saying as she nears us. “Mark, wait a minute. Just met Sam. I’ll ring you back.” She looks up and launches in with no niceties. “Sam, I’m sorry. We’re going with the original statement.”

“What?” Sam’s voice is so thunderous, I jump. “You have to be kidding.”

“We have nothing on Ryan. No proof of anything untoward. There’s no more time. I’m sorry, Sam. I know you tried, but … ”

There’s a tense silence. Sam and Vicks aren’t even looking at each other, but the body language is obvious. Vicks’s arms are now wrapped defensively around her laptop and a mass of papers. Sam is kneading both fists into his forehead.

Personally, I’m trying to blend into the wallpaper.

“Vicks, you know this is bollocks.” Sam sounds as though he’s trying hard to control his impatience. “We know what happened. What, we ignore all this new information?”

“It’s not information, it’s guesswork! We don’t know what happened!” Vicks looks up and down the empty corridor and lowers her voice. “And if we don’t get a statement out to ITN, pronto, we are sitting fucking ducks, Sam.”

“We have time,” he says mutinously. “We can talk to this guy Ryan. Interview him.”

“How long will that take? What will that achieve?” Vicks puts a hand to her head. “Sam, these are grave accusations. They have no substance. Unless we find some solid proof … ”

“So we stand back. We wash our hands. They win.” Sam’s voice is calm, but I can tell he’s simmering with rage.

“The techies are still investigating in London.” Vicks sounds weary. “But unless they find proof … ” She glances at her watch. “It’s coming up to nine. Jesus. We have no time, Sam.”

“Let me speak to them.”

“OK.” She sighs. “Not here. We’ve moved to a bigger room with a Skype screen.”

“Right. Let’s go.”

They both start walking briskly along, and I follow, not sure if I should or not. Sam looks so preoccupied, I don’t dare utter a sound. Vicks leads us through a ballroom filled with banqueting tables, into the lobby, past the bar …

Has he forgotten about David Robinson?

“Sam,” I mutter hastily. “Wait! Don’t go near the bar; we should go a different way—”

“Sam!” A throaty voice hails us. “There you are!”

My heart freezes in horror. That must be him. That’s David Robinson. That guy with curly, receding dark hair and a pale-gray metallic suit, which he’s accessorized with a black shirt and white leather tie. He’s striding toward us with a massive beam on his fleshy face and a whiskey in his hand.

“Been far, far too long!” He envelops Sam in a bear hug. “What can I get you, my old mucker? Or is it all on the house? In which case, mine’s a double!” He gives a high-pitched laugh that makes me cringe.

I glance desperately at Sam’s tight face.

“Who’s this?” says Vicks, looking astonished.

“Long story. College friend.”

“I know all Sam’s secrets!” David Robinson bangs Sam on the back. “You want me to dish the dirt, cross my hand with a fifty. Only joking! I’ll take a twenty!” He roars with laughter again.

This is officially unbearable.

“Sam.” Vicks can barely conceal her impatience. “We have to go.”

“Go?” David Robinson makes a mock stagger backward. “Go? When I’ve only just arrived?”

“David.” Sam’s politeness is so chill I want to shiver. “Sorry about this. Change of schedule. I’ll try to catch up with you later.”

“After I’ve driven for forty minutes?” David shakes his head in a pantomime of disappointment. “Can’t even spare ten minutes for your old mate. What am I supposed to do, drink here on my own?”

I’m feeling worse and worse. I’ve totally landed Sam in this. I have to do something about it.

“I’ll have a drink with you!” I chime in hurriedly. “Sam, you go. I’ll entertain David. I’m Poppy Wyatt, hi!” I thrust my hand out and try not to wince at his clammy touch. “Go.” I meet eyes with Sam. “Go on.”

“OK.” Sam hesitates a moment, then nods. “Thanks. Use the company tab.” Already he and Vicks are hurrying away.

“Well!” David seems a bit unsure how to react. “That’s a fine thing! Some people get a bit too big for their boots, if you ask me.”

“He’s very busy at the moment,” I say apologetically. “I mean really busy.”

“So where do you fit in? Sam’s PA?”

“Not exactly. I’ve kind of been helping Sam out. Unofficially.”

“Unofficially.” David gives a great big wink. “Say no more. All on expenses. Got to look kosher.”

OK, now I get it: This man is a nightmare. No wonder Sam spends his life avoiding him.

“Would you like another drink?” I say as charmingly as I can. “And then maybe you could tell me what you do. Sam said you were an investor? In … fitness equipment?”

David scowls and drains his glass. “I was in that line for a while. Too much health and safety, that’s the problem with that game. Too many inspectors. Too many namby-pamby rules. Another double whiskey, if you’re buying.”

I order the whiskey and a large glass of wine for myself, rigid with mortification. I still can’t believe how wrong I called this. I am never interfering in anyone’s emails ever, ever again.

“And after fitness equipment?” I prompt him. “What did you do then?”

“Well.” David Robinson leans back and cracks his knuckles. “Then I went down the self-tanning route … ”

Half an hour later, my mind is numbed. Is there any business this man hasn’t been in? Each story seems to follow the same pattern. The same phrases have been rolled out every time. Unique opportunity, I mean, unique, Poppy … serious investment … on the brink … megabucks, I mean, megabucks, Poppy … events outside my control … damn stupid banks … shortsighted investors … bloody regulation …

There’s been no sign of Sam. No sign of Vicks. Nothing in my phone. I’m almost beside myself with tension, wondering what’s going on. Meanwhile, David has sunk two whiskeys, torn into three packets of crisps, and is now scooping up a dish of hummus with taco chips.

“Interested in children’s entertainment, are you, Poppy?” he suddenly says.

Why would I be interested in children’s entertainment?

“Not really,” I say politely, but he ignores me. He’s produced a brown furry animal glove puppet from his briefcase and is dancing it round the table.

“Mr. Wombat. Goes down a storm with the kids. Want to have a go?”

No, I do not want to have a go. But, in the interests of keeping the conversation going, I shrug. “OK.”

I have no idea what to do with a glove puppet, but David seems galvanized as soon as I have it on my hand.

“You’re a natural! You take these along to a kids’ party, playground, whatever, they fly. And the beauty is the profit margin. Poppy, you would not believe it.” He smacks the table. “Plus, it’s flexible. You can sell them around your daytime job. I’ll show you the whole kit… .” He reaches into his briefcase again and produces a plastic folder.

I stare at him in bewilderment. What does he mean, sell them? He surely doesn’t mean …

“Have I spelled your name right?” He looks up from writing on the folder, and I gape at it. Why is he writing my name on the front of a folder entitled Mr. Wombat Official Franchise Agreement?

“What you’d do is take a small consignment at first. Say … a hundred units.” He waves a hand airily. “You’ll sell that in a day, easy. Especially with our new free gift, Mr. Magical.” He places a plastic wizard on the table and twinkles at me. “The next step is the exciting one. Recruitment!”

“Stop!” I rip the glove puppet off. “I don’t want to sell glove puppets! I’m not doing this!”

David doesn’t even seem to hear me. “Like I say, it’s totally flexible. It’s all profit, direct to you, into your pocket—”

“I don’t want any profit in my pocket!” I lean across the bar table. “I don’t want to join! Thanks anyway!” For good measure I take his pen and cross through Poppy Wyatt on the folder, and David flinches as though I’ve wounded him.

“Well! No need for that! Just trying to do you a favor.”

“I appreciate it.” I try to sound polite. “But I don’t have time to sell wombats. Or … ” I pick up the wizard. “Who’s this? Dumbledore?”

It’s all so random. What’s a magician got to do with a wombat, anyway?

“No!” David seems mortally offended. “It’s not Dumbledore. This is Mr. Magical. New TV series. Next big thing. It was all lined up.”

“Was? What happened?”

“It’s been temporarily canceled,” he says stiffly. “But it’s still a very exciting product. Versatile, unbreakable, popular with both girls and boys. I could let you have five hundred units for … two hundred pounds?”

Is he nuts?

“I don’t want any plastic wizards,” I say as politely as I can. “Thanks anyway.” A thought suddenly crosses my mind. “How many of these Mr. Magicals have you got, then?”

David looks as though he doesn’t want to answer the question. At last he says, “I believe my current stock is ten thousand,” and takes a glug of whiskey.

Ten thousand? Oh my God. Poor David Robinson. I feel quite sorry for him now. What’s he going to do with ten thousand plastic wizards? I dread to ask how many wombats he’s got.

“Maybe Sam will know someone who wants to sell them,” I say encouragingly. “Someone with children.”

“Maybe.” David raises his eyes lugubriously from his drink. “Tell me something. Does Sam still blame me for flooding his house?”

“He hasn’t mentioned it,” I say honestly.

“Well, maybe the damage wasn’t as bad as it looked. Bloody Albanian fish tanks.” David looks downcast. “Absolute tat. And the fish weren’t much better. Word of advice, Poppy: Steer clear of fish.”

I have an urge to giggle and bite my lip hard.

“OK.” I nod as seriously as I can. “I’ll remember that.”

He polishes off the last taco chip, exhales noisily, and looks around the lobby. Uh-oh. He seems to be getting restless. I can’t let him go wandering around.

“So, what was Sam like at college?” I ask, to spin out the conversation a little more.

“Highflier.” David looks a little grouchy. “You know the type. Rowed for the college. Always knew he’d end up doing well. Went off the rails a bit in his second year. Got in a bit of trouble. But that was understandable.”

“How come?” I frown, not following,

“Well, you know.” David shrugs. “After his mum died.”

I freeze, my glass halfway to my lips. What did he just say?

“I’m sorry.” I’m trying—not very well—to conceal my shock. “Did you say Sam’s mother died?”

“Didn’t you know?” David seems surprised. “Beginning of the second year. Heart disease, I think it was. She’d not been well, but no one was expecting her to peg it so soon. Sam took it badly, poor bloke. Though I always say to him, you’re welcome to my old lady, any time you want … ”

I’m not listening. My head is buzzing with confusion. He said it was a friend of his. I know he did. I can hear him now: My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a lot of nights talking with him. Lot of nights… . And it never goes away… .

“Poppy?” David is waving his hand in front of my face. “You all right?”

“Yes!” I try to smile. “Sorry. I’m just … I thought it was a friend of his who lost his mother. Not Sam himself. I must have got confused. Silly me. Um, do you want another whiskey?”

David doesn’t reply to my offer. He’s silent awhile, then shoots me an appraising look, cradling his empty drink in his hands. His fleshy thumbs are tracing a pattern on the glass, and I watch them, mesmerized.

“You weren’t confused,” he says at last. “Sam didn’t tell you, did he? He said it was a friend.”

I stare at him, taken aback. I’d written this guy off as a boorish moron. But he’s totally nailed it.

“Yes,” I admit at last. “He did. How did you know?”

“He’s private like that, Sam.” David nods. “When it happened—the death—he didn’t tell anyone at college for days. Only his two closest friends.”

“Right.” I hesitate doubtfully. “Is that … you?”

“Me!” David gives a short, rueful laugh. “No, not me. I’m not in the inner sanctum. It’s Tim and Andrew. They’re his right-hand men. All rowed in the same boat together. Know them?”

I shake my head.

“Joined at the hip, even now, those three guys are. Tim’s over at Merrill Lynch; Andrew’s a barrister in some chambers or other. And of course Sam’s pretty close to his brother, Josh,” David adds. “He’s two years older. Used to come and visit. Sorted Sam out when things went wrong for him. Spoke to his tutors. He’s a good guy.”

I didn’t know Sam had a brother either. As I sit there, digesting all this, I feel a bit chastened. I’ve never even heard of Tim or Andrew or Josh. But then, why would I have heard of them? They probably text Sam directly. They’re probably in touch like normal people. In private. Not like Willow the Witch and old friends trying to hustle some money.

All this time I’ve thought I could see Sam’s entire life. But it wasn’t his entire life, was it? It was one in-box. And I judged him on it.

He has friends. He has a life. He has a relationship with his family. He has a whole load of stuff I have no idea about. I was an idiot if I thought I’d got to know the whole story. I know a single chapter. That’s all.

I take a swig of wine, numbing the strange wistfulness that suddenly washes over me. I’ll never know all of Sam’s other chapters. He’ll never tell me and I’ll never ask. We’ll part ways and I’ll just have the impression I’ve already got. The version of him that lives in his PA’s in-box.

I wonder what impression he’ll have of me. Oh God. Better not go there.

The thought makes me snort with laughter, and David eyes me curiously.

“Funny girl, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” My phone buzzes and I pull it to me, not caring if I’m rude. It’s telling me I have a voice mail from Magnus.

Magnus?

I missed a call from Magnus?

Abruptly my thoughts swoop away from Sam, away from David and this place, to the rest of my life. Magnus. Wedding. Anonymous text. Your fiancée has been unfaithful… . Jumbled thoughts pile into my brain all at once, as though they’ve been clamoring at the door. I leap to my feet, pressing voice mail, jabbing at the keys, impatient and nervous all at once. Although what am I expecting? A confession? A rebuttal? Why would Magnus have any idea that I received an anonymous message?

“Hey, Pops!” Magnus’s distinctive voice is muffled by a background thump of music. “Could you call Professor Wilson and remind her I’m away? Thanks, sweets. Number’s on my desk. Ciao! Having a great time!”

I listen to it twice over for clues, even though I have no idea what kind of clues I’m hoping to glean.83 As I ring off, my stomach is churning. I can’t bear it. I don’t want this. If I’d never got that text message, I’d be happy now. I’d be looking forward to my wedding and thinking about the honeymoon and practicing my new signature. I’d be happy.

I’ve run out of conversational gambits, so I kick off my shoes, draw my feet up onto the bench, and hug my knees morosely. I’m aware that around us, in the bar, the White Globe Consulting employees have started to cluster. I can hear snatches of low, anxious conversation, and I’ve caught the word memo a few times. The news must be seeping out. I glance at my watch and feel a clench of alarm. It’s 9:40 p.m. Only twenty minutes till the ITN bulletin.

For the millionth time I wonder what Vicks and Sam are up to. I wish I could help. I wish I could do something. I feel powerless sitting out here—“OK!” A sharp female voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see Willow standing in front of me, glaring down. She’s changed into a halter-neck evening dress, and even her shoulders are twitchy. “I’m going to ask you this straight, and I hope you’ll answer it straight. No games. No playing around. No little tricks.”

She’s practically spitting the words at me. Honestly. What little tricks am I supposed to have played?

“Hello,” I say politely.

The trouble is, I can’t see this woman without remembering all her screwy capital-letter emails. It’s as though they’re emblazoned on her face.

“Who are you?” she bristles at me. “Just tell me that. Who are you? And if you won’t tell me, then believe me—”

“I’m Poppy,” I interrupt.

“ ‘Poppy.’ ” She sounds deeply suspicious, as though Poppy must be my invented escort-agency name.

“Have you met David?” I add politely. “He’s an old university friend of Sam’s.”

“Oh.” At these words I can see interest flash across her features. “Hello, David, I’m Willow.” Her gaze swivels to focus on him, and I swear I feel a cooling on my face.

“Charmed, Willow. Friend of Sam’s, are you?”

“I’m Willow.” She says it with slightly more emphasis.

“Nice name.” He nods.

“I’m Willow. Willow.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “Sam must have mentioned me. Wi-llow.’

David wrinkles his brow thoughtfully. “Don’t think so.”

“But … ” She looks as though she’s going to expire with outrage. “I’m with him.”

“Not right now you’re not, are you?” says David jovially—then shoots me a tiny wink.

I’m actually warming to this David. Once you get past the bad shirt and the dodgy investments, he’s OK.

Willow looks incandescent. “This is just … The world is going insane,” she says, almost to herself. “You don’t know me, but you know her?” She jerks a thumb at me.

“I assumed she was Sam’s special lady,” says David innocently.

“Her? You?”

Willow’s eyeing me up and down in a disbelieving, supercilious sort of way that nettles me.

“Why not me?” I say robustly. “Why shouldn’t he be with me?”

Willow says nothing for a moment, just blinks very fast. “So that’s it. He’s two-timing me,” she murmurs at last, her voice throbbing with intensity. “The truth finally comes out. I should have known it. It explains … a lot.” She exhales sharply, her fingers raking through her hair. “So where do we go now?” She addresses some unknown audience. “Where the fuck do we go now?”

She’s a total fruit loop. I want to burst out laughing. Where does she think she is, acting in her own private stage play? Who does she think is impressed by her performance?

And she’s missed a crucial fact. How can Sam be two-timing her if she’s not his girlfriend?

On the other hand, as much as I’m enjoying winding her up, I don’t want to spread false rumors.

“I didn’t say I was with him,” I clarify. “I said, ‘Why shouldn’t he be with me?’ Are you Sam’s girlfriend, then?”

Willow flinches but doesn’t answer, I notice.

“Who the hell are you?” She rounds on me again. “You appear in my life, I have no idea who you are or where you came from … ”

She’s playing to the gallery again. I wonder if she went to drama school and got chucked out for being too melodramatic.84

“It’s … complicated.”

The word complicated seems to inflame Willow even more.

“Oh, ‘complicated.’ ” She makes little jabby quote gestures. “ ‘Complicated.’ Wait a minute.” Her eyes suddenly narrow to disbelieving slits as she surveys my outfit. “Is that Sam’s shirt?”

Ah. A-ha-ha. She’s really not going to like that. Maybe I won’t answer.

“Is that Sam’s shirt? Tell me right now!” Her voice is so hectoring and abrasive, I flinch. “Are you wearing Sam’s shirt? Tell me! Is that his shirt? Answer me!”

“Mind your own Brazilian!” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Oops.

OK. The trick when you’ve said something embarrassing by mistake is not to overreact. Instead, keep your chin up and pretend nothing happened. Maybe Willow didn’t even notice what I said. I’m sure she didn’t notice. Of course she didn’t.

I dart a surreptitious look at her, and her eyes have widened so much, I think her eyeballs might pop out. All right, so she did notice. And from David’s gleeful expression, it’s clear he did too.

“I mean … business,” I amend, clearing my throat. “Business.”

Over David’s shoulder I suddenly see Vicks. She’s striding through the clusters of White Globe Consulting employees, and her grim expression makes my stomach turn over. I glance at my watch. Quarter to ten.

“Vicks!” Willow has noticed her too. She blocks Vicks’s way, her arms folded imperiously. “Where’s Sam? Someone said he was with you.”

“Excuse me, Willow.” Vicks tries to get past.

“Just tell me where Sam is!”

“I have no idea, Willow!” Vicks snaps. “Can you get out of my way? I need to speak to Poppy.”

“Poppy? You need to speak to Poppy?” Willow looks as if she’s going to explode with frustration. “Who is this fucking Poppy?”

I almost feel sorry for Willow. Completely ignoring her, Vicks comes round to my seat, bends down low, and mutters, “Do you know where Sam is?”

“No.” I look at her in alarm. “What’s happened?”

“Has he texted you? Anything?”

“No!” I double-check my phone. “Nothing. I thought he was with you.”

“He was.” Vicks does her eye-rubbing thing with the heels of her hands, and I resist the temptation to grab her wrists.

“What happened?”’ I lower my voice further. “Please, Vicks. I’ll be discreet. I swear.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Vicks nods. “OK. We ran out of time. I guess you could say Sam lost.”

I feel a plunge of disappointment. After all that.

“What did Sam say?”

“Not a lot. He stormed out.”

“What will happen to Sir Nicholas?” I speak as quietly as I can.

Vicks doesn’t reply, but her head turns away as though she wants to escape that particular thought.

“I have to go,” she says abruptly. “Let me know if you hear from Sam. Please.”

“OK.”

I wait as Vicks walks away, then casually raise my head. Sure enough, Willow is fixated on me, like a cobra.

“So,” she says.

“So.” I smile back pleasantly, just as Willow’s eyes land on my left hand. Her mouth opens. For an instant she seems incapable of speech.

“Who gave you that ring?” she utters at last.

What bloody business is it of hers?

“A girl called Lucinda,” I say, to wind her up. “I’d lost it, you see. She gave it back.”

Willow draws breath and I swear she’s about to launch her fangs into me, when Vicks’s voice comes blasting through the PA system at top volume.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the party, but I have an important announcement to make. All employees of White Globe Consulting, please make your way back into the main conference hall immediately. That’s back into the main conference hall, immediately. Thank you.”

There’s an outbreak of chatter around us, and all the clusters of people start moving toward the double doors, some quickly refilling their glasses.

“Looks like my cue to leave,” says David, getting to his feet. “You’ll be needing to go. Give my regards to Sam.”

“I’m not actually an employee,” I say, for accuracy’s sake. “But, yes, I do need to go. Sorry about that.”

“Really?” David shakes his head, looking mystified. “Then she’s got a point.” He jerks his head at Willow. “You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and you don’t work for this company. Who the hell are you and what have you got to do with Sam?”

“Like I said.” I can’t help smiling at his quizzical expression. “It’s … complicated.”

“I can believe it.” He raises his eyebrows, then produces a business card and presses it into my hand. “Tell Sam. Exotic mini-pets. I’ve got a great opportunity for him.”

“I’ll tell him.” I nod seriously. “Thanks.” I watch him disappear toward the exit, then carefully put his card away for Sam.

“So.” Willow looms in front of me again, arms folded. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“Are you serious?” I can’t hide my exasperation. “Isn’t there something else you need to be doing right now?” I gesture at the crowds surging into the conference room.

“Oh, nice try.” She doesn’t even flicker. “I’m hardly going to make some tedious corporate announcement my priority.”

“Believe me, this tedious corporate announcement is one you’re going to want to hear.”

“You know all about it, I suppose,” Willow shoots back sarcastically.

“Yes.” I nod, suddenly feeling despondent. “I know all about it. And … I think I’m going to get a drink.”

I stalk away to the bar. I can see Willow in the mirror, and after a few seconds she turns and heads toward the conference room, her expression mutinous. I feel drained just from talking to her.

No, I feel drained by the whole day. I order myself a large glass of wine, then slowly walk toward the conference room. Vicks is standing on the stage, talking to a rapt, shocked audience. Behind her, the massive screen is on silent TV.

“ … as I say, we don’t know exactly what shape the report will take, but we have made our response, and that’s the only thing we can do at the present time. Are there any questions? Nihal?”

“Where’s Sir Nicholas now?” comes Nihal’s voice from the crowd.

“He’s in Berkshire. We’ll have to see what happens about the rest of the conference. As soon as any decisions have been made, obviously you will all be informed.”

I’m looking around at the faces. Justin is a few feet away from me, gazing up at Vicks in a pantomime of shock and concern. Now he raises his hand.

“Justin?” says Vicks reluctantly.

“Vicks, bravo.” His smooth voice travels through the room. “I can only imagine how difficult these last few hours have been for you. As a member of the senior management team, I’d like to thank you for your sterling efforts. Whatever Sir Nicholas may or may not have said, whatever the truth of the matter—and of course none of us can really know that—your loyalty to the company is what we value. Well done, Vicks!” He leads a round of applause.

Ooh. Snake. Clearly I’m not the only one to think this, because another hand shoots straight up.

“Malcolm!” says Vicks in plain relief.

“I’d like to make it clear to all employees that Sir Nicholas did not make these remarks.” Unfortunately, Malcolm’s voice is a bit rumbly and I’m not sure everyone can hear. “I received the original memo he sent, and it was completely different—”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt you now,” Vicks chimes in. “The bulletin’s starting. Volume up, please.”

Where’s Sam? He should be here. He should be replying to Justin and crushing him. He should be watching the bulletin. I just don’t get it.

The familiar ITN News at Ten music begins, and the swirling graphics fill the massive screen onstage. I’m feeling ridiculously nervous, even though it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Maybe they won’t run the story, I keep thinking. You hear about items being bumped all the time… .

Big Ben’s chimes have begun. Any second they’ll start announcing the headlines. My stomach clenches with nerves, and I take a swig of wine. Watching the news is a completely different experience when it’s something to do with you. This is what prime ministers must feel like all the time. God, I wouldn’t be them for anything. They must spend every evening hiding behind the sofa, peering through their fingers.

Bong! “Fresh attacks in the Middle East lead to fears of instability.” Bong! “House prices make a surprise recovery—but will it last?” Bong! “A leaked memo casts doubts on the integrity of a top government adviser.”

There it is. They’re running it.

There’s an almost eerie silence in the room. No one has gasped or even reacted. I think everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for the full item. The Middle Eastern report has started and there are pictures of gunfire in a dusty street, but I’m barely taking it in. I’ve pulled out my phone and am texting Sam.

Are you watching? Everyone is in conference room. P

My phone remains silent. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he in here with everyone else?

I stare fixedly at the screen as the footage changes to house-price graphs and an interview with a family trying to move to Thaxted, wherever that is. I’m willing the presenters to speak more quickly, to get through it. Never have I been less interested in house prices in my life.85

And then both the first two items are done and we’re back in the studio and the newsreader is saying, with her grave face on:

“Tonight, doubts were cast on the integrity of Sir Nicholas Murray, the founder of White Globe Consulting and government adviser. In a confidential memo obtained exclusively by ITN, he refers to corrupt practices and the soliciting of bribes, apparently condoning them.”

There are a few gasps and whispers around the room. I glance at Vicks. Her face is amazingly composed as she watches the screen. I suppose she knew what to expect.

“But in a new twist, within the last few minutes ITN has discovered that another staff member at White Globe Consulting may in fact have written the words credited to Sir Nicholas, something which official company sources deny all knowledge of. Our reporter Damian Standforth asks: Is Sir Nicholas a villain—or the victim of a smear attempt?”

“What?’ Vicks’s voice rips across the room. “What the fuck—”

A babble has broken out, interspersed with “Shh!” and “Listen!” and “Shut up!” Someone has ramped the sound to top volume. I stare at the screen, utterly confused.

Did Sam find some proof? Did he pull it out of the bag? My phone bleeps and I yank it from my pocket. It’s a text from Sam.

How did Vicks react?

I look at Vicks and flinch.

She looks like she wants to eat someone alive.

“White Globe Consulting has been a major influence on business for the last three decades,” a voice-over is saying on-screen, accompanied by a long-lens shot of the White Globe Consulting building.

My thumbs are so full of adrenaline the text almost writes itself.

Did you do this?

I did this.

You contacted ITN yourself?

Correct.

Thought the techies didn’t find any proof. What happened?!

They didn’t.

I swallow hard, trying to get my head round this. I know nothing about PR. I’m a physiotherapist, for God’s sake. But even I’d say that you don’t phone up ITN with a story of a smear without something to back it up.

How

As I start typing, I realize I don’t even know how to frame the question, so I send it as it is. There’s silence for a little while—then a two page text arrives in my phone.

I blink at it in amazement. This is the longest text Sam has ever sent me, by approximately 2,000 percent.

I went on the record. I stand by what I said. Tomorrow I give them an exclusive interview about original memo, directors washing hands of Nick, everything. It’s a stitch-up. Corporate spin has gone too far. The true story needs to be out there. Wanted Malcolm to join me but he won’t. He has three kids. Can’t risk it. So it’s just me.

My head is buzzing. Sam’s put himself on the line. He’s turned into a whistle-blower. I can’t believe he’s done something so extreme. But at the same time … I can.

That’s a pretty big deal.

I have no idea what else to type. I’m in a state of shock.

Someone had to have the guts to stand by Nick.

I stare at his words, my brow crinkled, thinking this through.

Doesn’t prove anything though, surely? It’s only your word.

A moment later he replies:

Raises question mark over story. That’s enough. Where are you now?

In conference hall.

Anyone know you’re texting me?

Vicks is talking volubly to some guy while holding a phone to her ear. She happens to look my way, and I don’t know if it’s my expression, but her eyes narrow a smidgen. She glances at my phone, then at my face again. I feel a dart of apprehension.

Don’t think so. Yet.

Can you get away without anyone noticing?

I count to three, then casually scan the room as though I’m interested in the light fittings. Vicks is in my peripheral vision. Now she’s gazing straight at me. I lower my phone out of sight and text:

Where are you exactly?

Outside.

Doesn’t help much.

All I’ve got. No idea where I am.

A moment later another one arrives:

It’s dark, if that’s a clue. Grass underfoot.

Are you in big trouble?

There’s no reply. I guess that’s a yes.

OK. I won’t look at Vicks. I will simply yawn, scratch my nose—yes, good, unconcerned—turn on my heel, and move behind this group of people. Then I’ll duck down behind this big fat pillar.

Now I’ll peek out.

Vicks is looking around with a frustrated expression. People are trying to get her attention, but she’s batting them away. I can almost see the calculation in her eyes—how much brain space does she allocate the strange girl who might know something but might also be a red herring?

Within five seconds I’m in the corridor. Ten seconds, through the deserted lobby, avoiding the eye of the disconsolate-looking barman. He’ll be getting enough business in a minute. Fifteen seconds, I’m outside, ignoring the doorman, running over the gravel drive, round the corner, until grass is underfoot and I feel as though I’ve got away.

I walk slowly, waiting for my breath to return. I’m still in shock over what’s just happened.

Are you going to lose your job over this?

Another silence. I walk a little more, adjusting to the night sky, the cool air with a little breeze, the soft grass. The hotel is a good four hundred yards away by now, and I start to unwind.

Maybe.

He sounds quite relaxed about the fact. If a one-word text can sound relaxed.86

I’m outside now. Where should I head?

God knows. I went out back of hotel and walked into oblivion.

That’s what I’m doing now.

So we’ll meet.

You never said your mum had died.

I’ve typed it and pressed send before I can stop myself. I stare at the screen, cringing at my own crassness. I can’t believe I said that. Of all the times. Like this is going to be his priority right now.

No. I never did.

I’ve reached the edge of what seems to be a croquet lawn. There’s a wooded area ahead. Is that where he is? I’m about to ask him, when another text bleeps into my phone.

I just get tired of telling people. The awkward pause. You know?

I blink at the screen. I can’t believe someone else knows about the awkward pause.

I understand.

I should have told you.

There’s no way I’m guilt-tripping him over this. That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I wanted him to feel. As quickly as I can, I type a reply:

No. No should. Never any should. That’s my rule.

That’s your rule for life?

Rule for life? That’s not exactly what I meant. But I like the idea that he thinks I have a rule for life.

No, my rule for life is …

I pause, trying to think. A rule for life. That’s quite a huge one. I can think of quite a few good rules, but for life …

On tenterhooks here.

Stop it, I’m thinking.

Then, suddenly, inspiration hits. Confidently, I type:

If it’s in a bin it’s public property.

There’s silence, then the phone bleeps again with his reply:

I stare in disbelief. A smiley face. Sam Roxton typed a smiley face! A moment later he sends a follow-up.

I know. I don’t believe it either.

I laugh out loud, then shiver as a breeze hits my shoulders. This is all very well. But I’m standing in a field in Hampshire with no coat and no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. Come on, Poppy. Focus. There’s no moon, and all the stars must be hidden behind clouds. I can hardly see to type.

Where ARE you? In the wood? Can’t see a thing.

Through the wood. Other side. I’ll meet you.

Cautiously, I start picking my way through the trees, cursing as a bramble catches my leg. There are probably stinging nettles and snake pits. There are probably man traps. I reach for my phone, trying to text and avoid brambles at the same time.

My new rule for life. Don’t go into spooky dark woods on your own.

There’s silence a moment—then my phone bleeps.

You’re not on your own.

I clutch the phone more tightly. It’s true; with him on the other end, I do feel secure. I walk on a bit more, nearly tripping over a tree root, wondering where the moon’s got to. Waxing, I suppose. Or waning. Whichever.

Look for me. I’m coming.

I peer at his text in disbelief. Look for him? How can I look for him?

It’s pitch-black. Hadn’t you noticed?

My phone. Look for the light. Don’t call out. Someone might hear.

I peer into the gloom. I can’t see anything at all except the dark shadows of trees and looming mounds of bramble bushes. Still, I guess the worst that can happen is I fall off a cliff and break all my limbs. I take another few steps forward, listening to my own padding footsteps, breathing in the musky, damp air.

OK?

Still here.

I’ve reached a tiny clearing and I hesitate, biting my lip. Before I go on, I want to say the things I won’t be able to when I see him. I’ll be too embarrassed. It’s different by text.

Just wanted to say I think you’ve done an amazing thing. Putting yourself on the line like that.

It had to be done.

That’s typical of him to brush it off.

No. It didn’t. But you did it.

I wait a little while, feeling the breeze on my face and listening to an owl hooting above me somewhere—but he doesn’t reply. I don’t care, I’m going to press on. I have to say these things, because I have a feeling no one else will.

You could have taken an easier path.

Of course.

But you didn’t.

That’s my rule for life.

And with no warning I feel a hotness behind my eyes. I have no idea why. I don’t know why I suddenly feel affected. I want to type I admire you, but I can’t bring myself to. Not even by text. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, I type:

I understand you.

Of course you do. You’d do the same.

I stare at the screen, discomfited. Me? What have I got to do with it?

I wouldn’t.

I’ve got to know you pretty well, Poppy Wyatt. You would.

I don’t know what to say, so I start moving through the wood again, into what seems even blacker darkness. My hand is wrapped round the phone so tightly I’m going to get a cramp. But somehow I can’t loosen my fingers. I feel as though the harder I grip, the more I’m connected to Sam. I feel as though I’m holding his hand.

And I don’t want to let go. I don’t want this to end. Even though I’m stumbling and cold and in the middle of nowhere. We’re in a place that we won’t ever be again.

On impulse, I type:

I’m glad it was your phone I picked up.

A moment later his reply comes:

So am I.

I feel a tiny glow inside. Maybe he’s just being polite. But I don’t think so.

It’s been good. Weird but good.

Weird but good would sum it up, yes.

He sent another smiley face! I don’t believe it!

What’s happened to the man formerly known as Sam Roxton?

He’s broadening his horizons. Which reminds me, where have all your kisses gone?

I peer at my phone, surprised at myself.

Dunno. You’ve cured me.

I’ve never sent kisses to Sam, it occurs to me. Not once. Strange. Well, I can make up for that now. I’m almost giggling as I press the X button down firmly.

Xxxxxxxx

A moment later his reply arrives:

Xxxxxxxxxx

Ha! With a snuffle of laughter, I type an even longer row of kisses.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

xxx xxx xxx

I see you.

I peer through the gloom again, but he must have better eyesight than I do, because I can’t see anything.

Really?

Coming.

I lean forward, craning my neck, squinting for a glimpse of light, but there’s nothing. He must have seen some other light.

Can’t see you.

I’m coming.

You’re nowhere near.

Yes I am. Coming.

And then suddenly I hear his footsteps approaching. He’s behind me, thirty feet away, at a guess. No wonder I couldn’t see him.

I should turn. Right now I should turn. This is the moment that it would be natural to swivel round and greet him. Call out a hello; wave my phone in the air.

But my feet are rooted to the spot. I can’t bring myself to move. Because as soon as I do, it will be time to be polite and matter-of-fact and back to normal. And I can’t bear that. I want to stay here. In the place where we can say anything to each other. In the magic spell.

Sam pauses, right behind me. There’s an unbearable fragile beat as I wait for him to shatter the quiet. But it’s as though he feels the same way. He says nothing. All I can hear is the gentle sound of his breathing. Slowly, his arms wrap round me from behind. I close my eyes and lean back against his chest, feeling unreal.

I’m standing in a wood with Sam and his arms are around me and they really shouldn’t be. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going with this.

Except … I do. Of course I do. Because as his hands gently cup my waist, I don’t make a sound. As he swivels me around to face him, I don’t make a sound. And as his stubble rasps my face, I don’t make a sound. I don’t need to. We’re still talking. Every touch he makes, every imprint of his skin is like another word, another thought, a continuation of our conversation. And we’re not done yet. Not yet.

I don’t know how long we’re there. Five minutes, maybe. Ten minutes.

But the moment can’t last forever, and it doesn’t. The bubble doesn’t so much burst as evaporate, leaving us back in the real world. Realizing our arms are round each other; awkwardly stepping apart; feeling the chill night air rush between us. I look away, clearing my throat, rubbing his touch off my skin.

“So, shall we—”

“Yes.”

As we pad through the woods, neither of us speaks. I can’t believe what just happened. Already it seems like a dream. Something impossible.

It was in the forest. No one saw it or heard it. So did it actually happen?.87

Sam’s phone is buzzing and this time he takes it to his ear.

“Hi, Vicks.”

And just like that, it’s over. At the edge of the wood I can see a posse of people striding over the grass toward us. And the aftermath begins. I must be a little dazed from our encounter, because I can’t engage with any of this. I’m aware of Vicks and Robbie and Mark all raising their voices, and Sam staying calm, and Vicks getting near to tears, which seems a bit unlikely for her, and talk of trains and cars and emergency press briefings and then Mark saying, “It’s Sir Nicholas for you, Sam,” and everyone moving back a step, almost respectfully, as Sam takes the call.

And then suddenly the cars are here to take everyone back to London, and we’re heading out to the drive and Vicks is bossing everyone around and everyone’s going to regroup at 7:00 a.m. at the office.

I’ve been allotted to a car with Sam. As I get in, Vicks leans in and says, “Thanks, Poppy.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

“It’s OK,” I say, just in case she’s not. “And … I’m sorry. About—”

“Yup,” she says tightly.

And then the car moves off. Sam is texting intently, a deep frown on his face. I don’t dare make a sound. I check my phone for a message from Magnus, but there’s nothing. So I drop it down on the seat and stare out the window, letting the streetlamps blur into a stream of light, wondering where the hell I’m going.

I didn’t even know I’d fallen asleep.

But somehow my head is on Sam’s chest and he’s saying, “Poppy? Poppy?” Suddenly I wake up properly, and my neck is cricked and I’m looking out of a car window at a funny angle.

“Oh.” I scramble to a sitting position, wincing as my head spins. “Sorry. God. You should have—”

“No problem. Is this your address?”

I peer blearily out the window. We’re in Balham. We’re outside my block of flats. I glance at my watch. It’s gone midnight.

“Yes,” I say in disbelief. “This is me. How did you—”

Sam nods at my phone, still on the car seat. “Your address was in there.”

“Oh. Right.” I can hardly complain about him invading my privacy.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“No. Of course. That’s fine.” I nod. “Thanks.”

Sam picks up the phone and seems about to hand it to me—then he hesitates.

“I read your messages, Poppy. All of them.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat, unsure how to react. “Wow. Well. That’s … that’s a bit much, don’t you think? I mean, I know I read your emails, but you didn’t need to—”

“It’s Lucinda.”

“What?” I stare at him dumbly.

“For my money. Lucinda’s your girl.”

Lucinda?

“But what—Why?”

“She’s been lying to you. Consistently. She couldn’t have been in all the places she says she has at the times she’s said. It’s not physically possible.”

“Actually … I noticed that too,” I admit. “I thought she was trying to bill me for more hours or something.”

“Does she bill by the hour?”

I rub my nose, feeling stupid. In fact, she doesn’t. It’s an all–inclusive fee.

“Have you ever noticed that Magnus and Lucinda inevitably texts you within ten minute of each other?”

Slowly, I shake my head. Why would I notice that? I get zillions of texts every day, from all kinds of people. And, anyway, how did he notice?

“I started off life as an analyst.” He looks a bit abashed. “This is my kind of thing.”

“What’s your kind of thing?” I say, puzzled.

Sam produces a piece of paper and I clap a hand over my mouth. I don’t believe it. He’s drawn a chart. Times and dates. Calls. Texts. Emails. Has he been doing this while I’ve been asleep?

“I analyzed your messages. You’ll see what’s going on.”

He analyzed my messages. How do you analyze messages?

He hands me the paper and I blink at it.

“What … ”

“You see the correlation?”

Correlation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It sounds like something from math exams.

“Um … ”

“Take this date.” He points at the paper. “They both email at around six p.m. asking how you’re doing, being chatty. Then at eight p.m. Magnus tells you he’s working late at the London Library, and a few minutes later Lucinda tells you she’s working on garters for the bridesmaids at a fashion warehouse in Shoreditch. At eight at night? Please.”

I’m silent for a few moments. I remember that email about the garters now. It seemed a bit odd, even at the time. But you can’t jump to conclusions from one weird email, surely?

“Who asked you to analyze my messages, anyway?” I know I sound all prickly, but I can’t help it. “Who said it was any of your business?”

“No one. You were asleep.” He spreads his hands. “I’m sorry. I just started looking idly and then a pattern built up.”

“Two emails aren’t a pattern.”

“It’s not only two.” He gestures at the paper. “Next day, Magnus has a special evening seminar which he “forgot” to mention. Five minutes later, Lucinda tells you about a lace workshop in Nottinghamshire. But she was in Fulham two hours earlier. Fulham to Nottinghamshire? In the rush hour? That’s not real. My guess is it’s an alibi.”

The word alibi makes me feel a bit cold.

“Two days later, Magnus texts you, canceling your lunch date. A moment later, Lucinda emails you, telling you she’s frantically busy till two p.m. She doesn’t give you any other reason for emailing. Why would she need to let you know that she’s frantically busy over some random lunchtime?”

He looks up, waiting for a reply. Like I’ll have one.

“I … I don’t know,” I say at last. “I don’t know.”

As Sam continues, I knead my eyes briefly with my fists. I get why Vicks does this now. It’s to block the world out, for just a second. Why didn’t I see this? Why didn’t I see any of this?

Magnus and Lucinda. It’s like a bad joke. One of them’s supposed be organizing my wedding. The other’s supposed to be in my wedding. To me.

But wait. My head jerks with a thought. Who sent me the anonymous text? Sam’s theory can’t be right, because someone must have sent that. It wouldn’t have been any of Magnus’s friends, and I don’t know any of Lucinda’s friends, so who on earth …

“Remember when Magnus told you he had to counsel some PhD student? And Lucinda pulled out of your drinks meeting? She sent Clemency along instead? If you look at the timings … ”

Sam’s still talking, but I can barely hear him. My heart has constricted. Of course. Clemency.

Clemency.

Clemency is dyslexic. She would have spelled fiancé wrong. She would have been too terrified of Lucinda to give her name. But she would have wanted me to know. If there was something to know.

My fingers are shaking as I grab my phone and find the text again. Now that I read it over, I can hear the words in Clemency’s sweet, anxious voice. It feels like her. It sounds like her.

Clemency wouldn’t invent something like that. She must believe it’s true. She must have seen something … heard something …

I sag back against the car seat. My limbs are aching. I feel parched and worn out and a little like I want to cry.

“Anyway.” Sam seems to realize I’ve stopped listening. “I mean, it’s a theory, that’s all.” He folds the paper up and I take it.

“Thanks. Thanks for doing that.”

“I … ” He shrugs, a bit awkward. “Like I said. It’s my thing.”

For a while we’re both silent, although it feels like we’re still communicating. I feel as though our thoughts are circling above our heads, interweaving, looping, meeting for a moment, then diverging again. Him on his path, me on mine.

“So.” I exhale at last. “I should let you go. It’s late. Thanks for—”

“No,” he interrupts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Thank you.”

I nod simply. I think both of us are probably too drained to get into long speeches.

“It’s been … ”

“Yes.”

I look up and make the mistake of catching his eye, silvered in the light from the streetlamp. And just for a moment I’m transported—

No. Don’t, Poppy. It never happened. Don’t think about it. Blank it.

“So. Um.” I reach for the door handle, trying to force myself into reality, into rationality. “I still need to give you this phone back—”

“You know what? Have it, Poppy. It’s yours.” He clasps my fingers over it and holds them tight for a moment. “You earned it. And please don’t bother to forward anything else. As from tomorrow all my emails will go to my new PA. Your work here is done.”

“Well, thanks!” I open the door—then on impulse turn around. “Sam … I hope you’re OK.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He flashes his wonder smile, and I suddenly feel like hugging him tight. He’s about to lose his job and he can still smile like that. “I hope you’re OK,” he adds. “I’m sorry about … it all.”

“Oh, I’ll be OK!” I give a brittle laugh, even though I have no idea what I mean by this. My husband-to-be is possibly shagging my wedding planner. In what sense will I be OK?

The driver clears his throat, and I start. It’s the middle of the night. I’m sitting in a car on the street. Come on, Poppy. Get with it. Move. The conversation has to end.

So, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, I force myself to get out, bang the door shut, and call, “Good night!” I head to my front door and open it, because I know instinctively that Sam won’t drive away till he’s seen I’m safely in. Then I stand on the doorstep, watching his car drive away.

As it rounds the corner, I check my phone, half-hoping, half-expecting …

But it’s dark and silent. It remains dark and silent. And for the first time in a long while, I feel utterly alone.

81 OK, he won’t get. I know.

82 Not such a huge range, then.

83 Magnus is doing it with Professor Wilson? No. Surely not. She has a beard.

84 And, by the way, in what sense have I appeared in her life?

85 And we’re not exactly starting from a high bar.

86 I think it can. It’s all in the timing.

87 Another one for Antony. Not.