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a knowledgeable air, as though I’m Stephen Fry.42 “Used by Robert Burns. I was watching a
documentary about him the other night. He’s rather a passion of mine, in fact.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in Burns.” Magnus looks taken aback.
“Oh yes,” I say as convincingly as possible. “Always have been.”
“Which poem does whaizled come from?” Wanda persists.
“It’s … ” I swallow hard. “It’s actually rather a beautiful poem. I can’t remember the title
now, but it goes something like … ”
I hesitate, trying to think what Burns’s poetry sounds like. I heard some once at a
Hogmanay party, not that I could understand a word of it.
“’Twas whaizled … when the wully whaizle … wailed. And so on!” I break off brightly.
“I won’t bore you.”
Antony raises his head from the N–Z volume of the dictionary, which he instantly picked
up when I laid my tiles down and has been flicking through.
“Quite right.” He seems a bit flummoxed. “Whaizled. Scottish dialect for wheezed. Well,
well. Very impressive.”
“Bravo, Poppy.” Wanda is totting up. “So, that’s a triple word score, plus your fifty-point
bonus … so that’s … one hundred and thirty-one points! The highest score so far!”
“One hundred and thirty-one?” Antony grabs her paper. “Are you sure?”
“Congratulations, Poppy!” Felix leans over to shake my hand.
“It was nothing, really.” I beam modestly around. “Shall we keep going?”
35 I finally winkled this out of him on the phone at lunchtime.
36 Magnus says Wanda has never sunbathed in her life, and she thinks people who go on
holiday in order to lie on beds must be mentally deficient. That’ll be me, then.
37 “Study of Continuous Passive Motion Following Total Knee Arthroplasty.” I’ve still
got it, in its plastic folder.
38 She didn’t say exactly where it was questing to.
39 Although I am rather good at footnotes. They could put me in charge of those.
40 No idea what most of these words mean.
41 Which apparently is a word. Silly me.
42 Stephen Fry of QI, I mean. Not Jeeves and Wooster. Although Jeeves probably knew a
fair bit about Burns’s poetry too.
5
I won! I won the Scrabble game!
Everyone was gobsmacked. They pretended not to be—but they were. The raised
eyebrows and astonished glances became more frequent and less guarded as the game went on.
When I got that triple word score with saxatile, Felix actually broke out into applause and said,
“Bravo!” And as we were tidying the kitchen afterward, Wanda asked me if I’d ever thought of
studying linguistics.
My name was entered in the family Scrabble book, Antony offered me the “wi
glass of port,” and everyone clapped. It was such a sweet moment.
OK. I know it was cheating. I know it was a bad thing to do. To be honest, I kept
expecting someone to catch me out. But I put the ring tone on silent and no one realized I was
texting Sam all the way through.43
And, yes, of course I feel guilty. Halfway through, I felt even worse when I texted Sam in
admiration:, How do you know all these words?, and he replied, I don’t. The internet does.
The internet?
For a moment I felt too shocked to reply. I thought he was thinking of the words, not
finding them on Scrabblewords.com or whatever.
That’s CHEATING!!!! I typed.
You already crossed that line, he texted back. What’s the difference? And then he added,
Flattered you thought I was a genius.
Then, of course, I felt really stupid.
And he had a point. Once you’ve started cheating, does it matter what your methods are?
I know I’m storing up problems for the future. I know Sam Roxton won’t always be on
the end of my phone to feed me words. I know I couldn’t possibly repeat the feat. Which is why
I’m pla
now it’s over.
The only person who wasn’t entirely fulsome in his praise was Magnus, which was a bit
surprising. I mean, he said, “Well done,” along with everyone else—but he didn’t give me a
special hug or even ask me how come I knew all those words. And when Wanda said, “Magnus,
you didn’t tell us Poppy was so talented!” he flashed her this quick smile and said, “I told you,
Poppy’s brilliant at everything.” Which was nice—but kind of meaningless too.
The thing is … he came in second.
He can’t be jealous of me, surely?
It’s about eleven now, and we’re back in my flat. I’m half-tempted to go and talk to
Magnus about it, but he’s disappeared off to do some preparation for a lecture on Symbols and
Symbolic Thought in Dante44 which he’s giving tomorrow. So instead I curl up on the sofa and
forward some emails which came in earlier for Sam.
After a few I can’t help clicking my tongue with frustration. Half of these emails are
reminders and chasers. He still hasn’t replied about the conference accommodation at
Chiddingford Hotel, or the Fun Run, or the dentist. Or the new James & James bespoke suit
waiting for him to pick up at his convenience. How can you ignore new clothes?
There are only a few people he ever seems to reply to immediately. One is a girl called
Vicks, who runs the PR department. She’s very businesslike and curt, just like him, and has been
consulting him about some press launch they’re doing together. She often cc’s Violet’s address,
but by the time I forward the email, Sam’s already replied to her. Another is a guy called
Malcolm, who asks Sam’s opinion about something nearly every hour. And, of course, Sir
Nicholas Murray, who’s clearly very senior and important and is doing some work for the
government at the moment.45 He and Sam get on incredibly well, if their emails are anything to
go by. They zing back and forth like conversation between old friends. I can’t really understand
half of what they’re saying—especially all the in-jokes—but the tone is obvious, and so is the
fact that Sam has more emails to and from Sir Nicholas than anybody else.
Sam’s company is evidently some kind of consultancy. They tell companies how to run
their businesses and they do a lot of facilitating, whatever that is. I guess they’re like negotiators
or mediators or something. They must be pretty successful at it, because Sam seems very
popular. He’s been invited to three drinks parties this week alone and to a shooting event with a
private bank next weekend. And a girl called Blue has emailed for the third time, asking if he’d
like to attend a special reception to celebrate the merger of Johnson Ellison with Greene Retail.
It’s at the Savoy, with a jazz band and canapés and goody bags.
And he still hasn’t replied. Still.
I don’t understand him. If I’d been invited to something so amazing, I would have replied
instantly, Yes, please! Thank you so much! I can’t wait!. Whereas he hasn’t even
acknowledged it.
Rolling my eyes, I forward every single email, then type him a text:
Thx again for Scrabble! Have just sent on some new emails. Poppy
A moment later my phone rings. It’s Sam.
“Oh, hi—” I start.
“OK, you’re a genius,” he interrupts. “I had a hunch Vivien would be working late. I