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“You know, I heard Justin talking about you last night,” I say in a low voice, and lean
across the table. “He called you a stubborn fuck.”
Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I expect he did.”
A fresh bowl of butternut squash soup arrives in front of me, steaming hot, and suddenly
I feel ravenous.
“Thanks for doing that,” I say awkwardly to Sam.
“My pleasure.” He tilts his head. “Bon appétit.”
“So, why did he call you a stubborn fuck?” I take a spoonful of soup.
“Oh, we disagree pretty fundamentally about how to run the company,” he says
carelessly. “My camp had a recent victory, so his camp is feeling sore.”
Camps? Victories? Are they all permanently at war?
“What happened?”
God, this soup is good. I’m ladling it down as though I haven’t eaten for weeks.
“You’re really interested?” He appears to be amused.
“Yes! Of course!”
“A member of perso
Justin’s.” He takes a bite of baguette and reaches for his water.
That’s it? That’s all he’s going to tell me? A member of perso
“You mean John Gregson?” I suddenly remember my Google search.
“What?” He looks taken aback. “How do you know about John Gregson?”
“Daily Mail online, of course.” I roll my eyes. What does he think, that he works in a
secret, private bubble?
“Oh. I see.” Sam seems to digest this. “Well … no. That was something different.”
“Who was this one, then? C’mon,” I wheedle as he hesitates. “You can tell me. I’m best
friends with Sir Nicholas Murray, you know. We have drinks at the Savoy together. We’re like
this.” I cross my fingers, and Sam gives a reluctant snort of laughter.
“OK. I don’t suppose it’s any great secret.” He hesitates and lowers his voice. “It was a
guy called Ed Exton. Finance director. The truth is, he was fired. Turned out he’d been
defrauding the company for a while. Nick wouldn’t press charges, but that was a big mistake.
Now Ed’s suing for wrongful dismissal.”
“Yes!” I nearly squeak. “I knew it! And that’s why he was worse for wear in the
Groucho.”
Sam gives a short, incredulous laugh. “You know about that. Of course you do.”
“And … Justin was angry when Ed was fired?” I’m trying to get this clear.
“Justin was gu
Sam wryly. “So, yes, you could say he was fairly angry.”
“CEO?” I say in astonishment. “But … what about Sir Nicholas?”
“Oh, they would have ousted Nick if they’d got enough support,” says Sam
matter-of-factly. “There’s a faction in this company that’s more interested in creaming off short
term profits and dressing in Paul Smith than anything else. Nick’s all about playing the long
game. Not always the most popular position.”
I finish my soup, digesting all this. Honestly, these office politics are all so complicated.
How does anyone get any work done? It’s bad enough when A
about whose turn it is to buy the coffee and we all get distracted and forget to write up our
reports.
If I worked at White Globe Consulting, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I would spend
all day texting the other people in the office, asking them what was going on today and had they
heard anything new and what did they think was going to happen.
Hmm. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not in an office job.
“I can’t believe Sir Nicholas Murray used to live in Balham,” I say, suddenly
remembering. “I mean, Balham!”
“Nick hasn’t always been grand, by any means.” Sam shoots me a curious look. “Didn’t
you come across his background story during your little Googlefest? He was an orphan. Brought
up in a children’s home. Everything he’s got, he’s worked his socks off for. Not a snobbish bone
in his body. Not like some of these pretentious tossers trying to get rid of him.” He scowls and
stuffs a bundle of rocket into his mouth.
“Fabian Taylor must be in Justin’s camp,” I observe thoughtfully. “He’s so sarcastic with
you. I always wondered why.” I look up to see Sam regarding me with a lowered, furrowed
brow.
“Poppy, be honest. How many of my emails have you read?”
I can’t believe he’s asking that.
“All of them, of course. What did you think?” His expression is so fu
giggles. “The minute I got my hands on that phone, I started snooping on you. Emails from
colleagues, emails from Willow … ” I can’t resist throwing out the name casually to see if he
bites.
Sure enough, he blanks the reference completely. It’s as though the name Willow means
nothing to him.
But this is our farewell lunch. It’s my last chance. I’m going to perservere.
“So, does Willow work on a different floor from you?” I say conversationally.
“Same floor.”
“Oh, right. And … you two met through work?”
He just nods. This is like getting blood out of a stone.
A waiter comes to clear my bowl and we order coffees. As the waiter moves away, I see
Sam studying me thoughtfully. I’m about to ask another question about Willow, but he gets in
first.
“Poppy, slight change of subject. Can I say something to you? As a friend?”
“Are we friends?” I reply dubiously.
“A disinterested spectator, then.”
Great. First of all, he’s dodging the Willow conversation. Secondly, what now? A speech
on why you shouldn’t steal phones? Another lecture on being businesslike in emails?
“What is it?” I can’t help rolling my eyes. “Fire away.”
He picks up a teaspoon, as though marshaling his thoughts, then puts it down.
“I know this is none of my business. I haven’t been married. I haven’t met your fiancé. I
don’t know the situation.”
As he speaks, blood creeps into my face. I don’t know why.
“No,” I say. “You don’t. So—”
He presses on without listening to me.
“But it seems to me you can’t—you shouldn’t—go into a marriage feeling inferior in any
way.”
For a moment I’m too stu
Stalk out?
“OK, listen,” I manage at last. My throat is tight, but I’m trying to sound poised. “First of
all, you don’t know me, like you said. Second of all, I don’t feel inferior—”
“You do. It’s obvious from everything you say. And it’s baffling to me. Look at you.
You’re a professional. You’re successful. You’re … ” He hesitates. “You’re attractive. Why
should you feel the Tavishes are in a ‘different league’ from you?”
Is he being deliberately obtuse?
“Because they’re, like, major famous people! They’re all geniuses and they’ll all end up
being knighted, and my uncle’s just a normal dentist from Taunton—” I break off, breathing
hard.
Great. Now I’ve walked straight into it.
“What about your dad?”
Here goes. He asked for it.
“He’s dead,” I say bluntly. “Both my parents are dead. Car crash ten years ago.” I lean
back in my chair, waiting for the awkward pause.
It can go so many different ways. Silence. Hand over mouth. Gasp.76 Exclamation.