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“You don’t send a single further email,” he snaps at last, dropping his hand.
“OK,” I say humbly.
“You detail for me a list of the emails you did send.”
“OK.”
“You hand the phone back tomorrow and that is the last I ever hear from you.”
“Shall I come to the office?”
“No!” He almost recoils at the idea. “We’ll meet at lunchtime. I’ll text you.”
“OK.” I heave a sigh, feeling quite downcast by now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess
up your life.”
I was half-hoping Sam might say something nice, like, “Don’t worry, you didn’t,” or
“Never mind, you meant well.” But he doesn’t. He looks as merciless as ever.
“Is there anything else I should know about?” he asks curtly. “Be honest, please. Any
more foreign trips you’ve signed me up to? Company initiatives you’ve started in my name?
Inappropriate poetry you’ve written on my behalf?”
“No!” I say nervously. “That’s it. I’m sure.”
“You realize how much havoc you’ve caused?”
“I know.” I gulp.
“You realize how many embarrassing situations you’ve put me in?”
“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” I say desperately. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I didn’t
mean to create trouble. I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“A favor?” He stares at me incredulously. “A favor?”
“Hey, Sam.” A breathy voice interrupts us, and I get a waft of perfume. I turn to see a girl
in her late twenties, wearing skyscraper heels and lots of makeup. Her red hair is tonged into
curls and her dress is really low-cut. I mean, I can practically see her navel. “Excuse me, could I
have a quick moment with Sam?” She shoots me an antagonistic glance.
“Oh! Er … sure.” I move away a few steps, but not so far that I can’t just about hear
them.
“So. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” She’s gazing up at Sam and batting her false
eyelashes.71 “In your office. I’ll be there.”
Sam looks perplexed. “Do we have an appointment?”
“That’s the way you want to play it?” She gives a soft, sexy laugh and swooshes her hair,
like actresses do on those American TV drama series set in beautiful kitchens. “I can play it any
way you like.” She lowers her voice to a throaty whisper. “If you know what I mean, Sam.”
“I’m sorry, Lindsay … ” Sam frowns, obviously at a loss.
Lindsay? I nearly spill my drink down my dress. This girl is Lindsay?
Oh no. Oh no, oh no. This isn’t good. I knew I should have canceled out Sam’s kisses. I
knew that winky face meant something. I’m almost hopping with alarm. Can I warn Sam?
Should I somehow semaphore to him?
“I knew,” she’s murmuring now. “The first time I saw you, Sam, I knew there was a
special vibe between us. You’re hot.”
Sam looks disconcerted. “Well … thanks, I guess. But, Lindsay, this really isn’t—”
“Oh, don’t worry. I can be very discreet.” She runs a lacquered nail gently down his shirt.
“I’d almost given up on you, you know that?”
Sam takes a step backward, looking alarmed. “Lindsay —”
“All this time, no signs—then out of the blue you start contacting me.” She opens her
eyes wide. “Wishing me happy birthday, complimenting my work—I knew what that was really
about. And then tonight … ” Lindsay moves close to Sam, speaking even more breathily. “You
have no idea what it did to me, seeing your email. Mmmm. Bad boy.”
“Email?” echoes Sam. He slowly turns his head to meet my agonized gaze.
I should have run. While I had the chance. I should have run.
66 Where did he get that? Why has nobody offered me a shot?
67 He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to
the left.
68 Doesn’t everyone want to go to Iceland? Why would you say no to Iceland?
69 So not that polite.
70 OK, I know it’s not brilliant. In my defense, I chose it in a hurry from some e-card
site, and the picture was really good. It was a line drawing of an empty dog basket, and it nearly
made me cry.
71 What is the etiquette when someone’s false eyelash is coming off a bit at the edge?
Tell them or politely ignore?
9
I am the sorriest sorry person there ever was.
I really screwed up. I can see that now. I’ve caused Sam a whole load of work and aggro
and I’ve abused his trust and been a complete pain in the neck.
Today was supposed to be a fun day. A weddingy day. I’ve got a whole load of days
booked off work for last-minute wedding preparation—and what am I doing instead? Trying to
think of all the different words for sorry that I can.
As I arrive for lunch, I’m wearing a suitably penitent gray T-shirt and denim-skirt combo.
We’re meeting at a restaurant round the corner from his office, and the first thing I see when I
walk in is a group of girls I remember from the Savoy last night, clustered at a circular table. I’m
sure they wouldn’t recognize me, but I duck hurriedly past anyway.
Sam described this as “a second office cafeteria’ on the phone. Some cafeteria. There are
steel tables and taupe linen-covered chairs and one of those cool menus where everything’s in
lowercase and each dish is described in the minimal amount of words.72 There aren’t even any
pound signs.73 No wonder Sam likes it.
I’ve ordered some water and am trying to decide between soup and salad, when Sam
appears at the door. Immediately, all the girls start waving him over, and after a moment’s
hesitation, he joins them. I can’t hear all the conversation, but I catch the odd word: amazing idea
… excited … so supportive. Everyone’s smiling and looking positive, even Sam.
Eventually he makes his excuses and heads over towards me.
“Hi. You made it.” No smile for me, I notice.
“Yes. Nice restaurant. Thanks for meeting me. I really appreciate it.” I’m trying to be as
mollifying as possible.
“I practically live here.” He shrugs. “Everyone at WGC does.”
“So … here’s a list of all the emails I sent in your name.” I want to get this over
straightaway. As I hand the sheet over, I can’t help wincing. It looks such a lot, written down.
“And I’ve forwarded everything.”
A waiter interrupts me with a jug of water and a “Welcome back, sir,” to Sam, and then
beckons over a waitress with the bread basket. As they leave, Sam folds my sheet and pockets it
without comment. Thank God. I thought he was going to go through it item by item, like a
headmaster.
“Those girls are from your company, aren’t they?” I nod at the circular table. “What were
they talking about?”
There’s a pause as Sam pours himself some water—then he looks up. “They were talking
about your project, as it happens.”
I stare at him. “My project? You mean my email about ideas?”
“Yes. It’s gone down well in admin.”
“Wow!” I let myself bask in this thought for a moment. “So … not everyone reacted
badly.”
“Not everyone, no.”
“Has anyone come up with any good ideas for the company?”
“As it happens … yes,” he says grudgingly. “Some interesting thoughts have emerged.”
“Wow! Great!”
“Though I still have several people convinced there’s a conspiracy theory to sack