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“An e-card of condolence for a dog,” says Sam at last, in a strange voice. “Yes, I’m
pretty amazed at myself.”
He’s staring straight at me. It’s not the most friendly of expressions. I fact, I feel like
backing away, only there’s nowhere to go.
“Oh, Loulou!” Rachel suddenly waves a hand across the room. “Do excuse me, Sam.”
She heads off, pushing her way through the throng, leaving us alone.
There’s silence. Sam regards me evenly, without a flicker. He’s waiting for me to start, I
realize.
“I thought … ” I swallow hard.
“Yes?” His voice is curt and unforgiving.
“I thought you might like to do a Fun Run.”
“You did.”
“Yes. I did.” My voice is a little husky with nerves. “I mean … they’re fun! So I thought
I’d reply. Just to save you time.”
“You wrote an email and signed it as me?” He sounds thunderous.
“I was trying to help!” I say hurriedly. “I knew you didn’t have time, and they kept
asking you, and I thought—”
“The e-card was you too, I take it?” He shuts his eyes briefly. “Jesus. Is there anything
else you’ve been meddling in?”
I want to bury my head like an ostrich. But I can’t. I have to tell him, quickly, before
anyone else accosts him.
“OK, I had this … this other idea,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Only
everyone got a bit carried away, and now everyone’s emailing about it, and they think there’s a
job involved—”
“A job?” He stares at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Sam.” A guy claps him on the back as he passes. “Glad you’re interested in coming to
Iceland. I’ll be in touch.”
“Iceland?” Sam’s face jerks in shock.
I’d forgotten about accepting the Iceland trip too.68 But I only have time to make another
apologetic smile before someone else is accosting Sam.
“Sam, OK, I don’t know what’s going on.” It’s a girl with glasses and a very intense way
of speaking. “I don’t know if you’re playing us for fools or what … ” She seems a bit stressed
out and keeps pushing her hair back off her brow. “Anyway. Here’s my CV. You know how
many ideas I’ve had for this company, but if we all have to keeping jumping through even more
bloody hoops, then … whatever, Sam. Your call.”
“Elena—” Sam breaks off in bafflement.
“Just read my personal statement. It’s all in there.” She stalks off.
There’s a silent beat, then Sam wheels round, his face so ominous I feel a quailing inside.
“Start from the begi
“I sent an email.” I scuff my foot, feeling like a naughty child. “From you.”
“To whom?”
“Everyone in the company.” I cringe as I say the words. “I just wanted everyone to feel
… encouraged and positive. So I said everyone should send their ideas in. To you.”
“You wrote that? Under my name?”
He looks so livid I actually back away, feeling a bit petrified.
“I’m sorry,” I say breathlessly. “I thought it was a good idea. But some people thought
you were trying to sack them, and other people think you’re secretly interviewing for a job, and
everyone’s got into a tizz about it … I’m sorry,” I end lamely.
“Sam, I got your email!” A girl with a ponytail interrupts us eagerly. “So, I’ll see you at
dance classes.”
“Wh—” Sam’s eyes swivel in his head.
“Thanks so much for the support. Actually, you’re my only pupil so far! Bring
comfortable clothes and soft shoes, OK?”
I glance at Sam and gulp at his expression. He seems literally unable to speak. What’s
wrong with dance classes? He’s going to need to dance at his wedding, isn’t he? He should be
grateful I signed him up.
“Sounds great!” I say encouragingly.
“See you next Tuesday evening, Sam!”
As she disappears into the hubbub, I fold my arms defensively, all ready to tell him that
I’ve done him a huge favor. But as he turns back, his face is so stony, I lose my nerve.
“Exactly how many emails have you sent in my name?” He sounds calm, but not in a
good way.
“I—not many,” I flounder. “I mean … just a few. I only wanted to help—”
“If you were my PA, I’d have you fired on the spot and quite possibly prosecuted.” He
fires the words out as though he’s a machine gun. “As it is, I can only ask for my phone back and
request that you—”
“Sam! Thank God for a friendly face!”
“Nick.” Sam’s demeanor instantly changes. His eyes light up and his icy expression
seems to melt. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming.”
A man in his sixties, wearing a pin-striped suit over a groovy floral shirt, is raising a glass
to us. I raise mine back, feeling awestruck. Sir Nicholas Murray! When I was Googling the
company, I saw pictures of him with the prime minister, and Prince Charles, and everybody.
“Never turn down a bash if I can help it,” Sir Nicholas says cheerfully. “Missed the
speeches, have I?”
“Spot-on timing.” Sam grins. “Don’t tell me you sent your driver in to see if they were
over.”
“I couldn’t possibly comment.” Sir Nicholas winks at him. “Did you get my email?”
“Did you get mine?” counters Sam, and lowers his voice. “You’ve nominated Richard
Doherty for this year’s Dealmaker Award?”
“He’s a bright young talent, Sam,” says Sir Nicholas, looking a little caught out.
“Remember his work with Hardwicks last year? He deserves recognition.”
“You put the Ryan Energy deal together. Not him.”
“He helped,” Sir Nicholas retorts. “He helped in many ways. Some of them …
intangible.”
For a moment they stare at each other. They both look as though they’re suppressing
laughter.
“You’re incorrigible,” says Sam at last. “I hope he’s grateful. Now, you know I’m just
back from Germany? Few things we should discuss.”
He’s totally frozen me out of the conversation, but I really don’t mind. Really. In fact,
maybe I’ll just creep away while I have the chance.
“Sam, do introduce me to your friend,” Sir Nicholas cuts into my thoughts, and I smile
back nervously.
Sam obviously has no desire at all to introduce me to Sir Nicholas. But he’s obviously
also a polite man, because after about thirty seconds of what is clearly an internal struggle,69 he
says, “Sir Nicholas, Poppy Wyatt. Poppy, Sir Nicholas Murray.”
“How do you do.” I shake his hand, trying not to give away my excitement. Wow. Sir
Nicholas Murray and me. Chatting at the Savoy. I’m already thinking of ways I could casually
drop this into conversation with Antony.
“Are you at Johnson Ellison or Greene Retail?” inquires Sir Nicholas politely.
“Neither,” I say awkwardly. “Actually, I’m a physiotherapist.”
“A physiotherapist!” His face lights up. “How wonderful! The most underrated of all the
medical arts, I always think. I’ve been going to a super man in Harley Street for my back,
although he hasn’t quite cracked it… . ” He winces slightly.
“You want Ruby,” I say, nodding wisely. “My boss. She’s amazing. Her deep-tissue
massage makes grown men weep.”
“I see.” Sir Nicholas looks interested. “Do you have a card?”
Yessss! Ruby made us all cards when we first started out, and I have never been asked for