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now.”
“Hmm.” He barely nods.
“Aren’t you going to answer? And what about your hotel room for this conference in
Hampshire? Do you need it for one night or two?”
“I’ll see. Not sure yet.” Sam seems so unmoved, I feel a stab of frustration.
“Don’t you answer your emails?”
“I prioritize.” He calmly taps at his screen.
“Ooh, it’s Lindsay Cooper’s birthday!” Now I’m reading a round-robin email. “Lindsay
in marketing. Do you want to say happy birthday to her?”
“No, I do not.” He sounds so adamant, I feel a bit affronted.
“What’s wrong with saying happy birthday to a colleague?”
“I don’t know her.”
“Yes, you do! You work with her.”
“I work with two hundred forty-three people.”
“But isn’t she the girl who came up with that website strategy document the other day?” I
say, suddenly remembering an old email correspondence. “Weren’t you all really pleased?”
“Yes,” he says blankly. “What’s that got to do with this?”
God, he’s stubborn. Giving up on Lindsay’s birthday, I scroll down to the next email.
“Peter has finalized the Air France deal. He wants to give you his full report on Monday
straight after the team meeting. Is that OK?”
“Fine.” Sam barely glances up. “Just forward it. Thanks.”
If I forward it, he’ll let it sit there all day without answering.
“Why don’t I reply?” I offer. “Since you’re here and I’ve got the email open? It’ll only
take a minute.”
“Oh.” He seems surprised. “Thanks. Just say, Yes.”
Yes. I carefully type. “Anything else?”
“Put Sam.”
I stare at the screen, dissatisfied. Yes. Sam. It looks so bare. So curt.
“What about adding something like, Well done?” I suggest. “Or You did it! Yay! Or just
Best wishes and thanks for everything>”
Sam looks unimpressed. “Yes, Sam will be plenty.”
“Typical,” I mutter under my breath. Except perhaps it wasn’t quite as submerged under
my breath as I’d intended, because Sam looks up.
“Excuse me?”
I know I should bite my tongue. But I’m so frustrated I can’t stop myself.
“You’re so abrupt! Your emails are so short! They’re awful!”
There’s a long pause. Sam looks as astonished as if the chair had started to speak.
“Sorry,” I add giving an awkward shrug. “But it’s true.”
“OK,” says Sam at last. “Let’s just get things straight. In the first place, borrowing this
phone does not give you a license to read and critique my emails.” He hesitates. “In the second
place, short is good.”
I’m already regretting having spoken. But I can’t back down now.
“Not that short,” I retort. “And you ignore most people completely! It’s rude!”
There. Said it.
Sam is glowering at me. “Like I said, I prioritize. Now, since your ring situation is sorted,
maybe you’d like to hand the phone back and my emails won’t have to bother you anymore.” He
holds out his hand.
Oh God. Is that why he’s helping me? So I’ll give the phone back?
“No!” I clutch the phone. “I mean … please. I still need it. The hotel might phone me any
minute; Mrs. Fairfax will have this number … ”
I know it’s irrational, but I feel like the moment I give this phone up, I’m saying goodbye
to any chance of finding the ring.
I put it behind my back for good measure and gaze beseechingly at him.
“Jesus,” Sam exhales. “This is ridiculous. I’m interviewing for a new PA this afternoon.
That’s a company phone. You can’t just keep it!”
“I won’t! But can I have it a few more days? I won’t critique your emails anymore,” I add
tamely. “Promise.”
“OK, guys!” Mark interrupts us. “Good news. I’ve found a mount. Now I’ll select some
stones for you to look at. Excuse me a moment… .”
As he heads out of the room, my phone bleeps with a new text.
“It’s from Willow,” I say, glancing down. “Look.” I gesture at my hands. “Forwarding.
Not passing any comment. None at all.”51
“Hrrmm.” Sam gives the same noncommittal growl he gave before when I mentioned
Willow.
There’s an odd little pause. What should happen now is I ask something polite like, “So,
how did you two meet?” and “When are you getting married?” and we start a conversation about
wedding lists and the price of caterers. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to. Their
relationship is so peculiar, I don’t want to go there.
I know he can be growly and curt, but I still can’t see him with a self-obsessed, whingy
bitch like Willow. Especially now I’ve met him in the flesh. She must be really, really, really
attractive, I decide. Like, supermodel standard. Her dazzling looks have blinded him to
everything else about her. It’s the only explanation.
“Loads of people are replying to the email about Lindsay’s birthday,” I observe, to fill the
silence. “They obviously don’t have a problem with it.”
“Round-robin emails are the work of the devil.” Sam barely misses a beat. “I’d rather
shoot myself than reply to one.”
Well, that’s a nice attitude.
This Lindsay is obviously popular. Every twenty seconds some fresh reply all message
arrives on the screen, like, Happy birthday, Lindsay! Have a wonderful celebration, whatever
you’re doing. The phone keeps buzzing and flashing. It’s like a party in here. And only Sam is
refusing to join in.
Oh, I can’t stand it. How hard is it to type happy birthday? Why wouldn’t you? It’s two
words.
“Can’t I write happy birthday from you?” I beg. “Go on. You don’t have to do anything.
I’ll type it.”
“Fuck’s sake!” Sam looks up from his own phone. “OK. Whatever. Say happy birthday.
But no smiley faces or kisses,” he adds warningly. “Just happy birthday. Sam.”
Happy birthday, Lindsay! I type defiantly. Hope you’re having a great time today. Well
done again on that website strategy, it was awesome. Best wishes, Sam.
Hurriedly, I send it, before he can wonder why I’m typing so much.
“What about the dentist?” I decide to push my luck.
“What about the dentist?” he echoes, and I feel an almighty surge of exasperation. Is he
pretending he doesn’t know what I’m talking about or has he genuinely forgotten?
“Here we are!” The door opens and Mark appears, holding out a dark-blue velvet tray.
“These are our simulated emeralds.”
“Wow,” I breathe, my attention torn away from the phone.
In front of me are ten rows of gleaming emeralds. I mean, I know they’re not real, but
quite frankly I couldn’t tell the difference.52
“Is there any stone which strikes you as having a resemblance to the one you’ve lost?”
“That one.” I point to an oval rock in the middle. “It’s almost exactly the same. It’s
amazing!”
“Great.” He picks it up with a pair of tweezers and places it on a small plastic dish. “The
diamonds are obviously smaller and less noticeable, so I’m fairly confident of a match. You want
a little distressing?” he adds. “Take the shine off?”
“Can you do that?” I say in amazement.
“We can do anything,” he says confidently. “We once made the Crown Jewels for a
Hollywood movie. Looked absolutely genuine, although they never even used them in the end.”