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Awkward change of subject. Morbid curiosity. Story about bigger, more gruesome crash that
friend of friend’s aunt was in.
One girl I told actually burst into tears right then and there. I had to watch her sobbing
and find her a tissue.
But … it’s weird. This time doesn’t seem to be awkward. Sam hasn’t looked away. He
hasn’t cleared his throat or gasped or changed the subject.
“Both at once?” he says at last, in a more gentle voice.
“My mother straightaway. My father the day after.” I flash him a brittle smile. “Never got
to say goodbye to him, though. He was pretty much gone at the … at the time.”
Smiling is actually the only way to get through these conversations, I’ve learned.
A waiter arrives with our coffees, and for a moment the conversation’s on hold. But as
soon as he’s moved away, the same mood is back. The same expression on Sam’s face.
“I’m very, very sorry.”
“No need to be!” I say in my standard upbeat voice. “It all worked out. We moved in with
my uncle and aunt; he’s a dentist, she’ a dental nurse. They looked after us, my little brothers and
me. So … it’s all good. All good.”
I can feel his eyes on me. I look one way and then the other, dodging them. I stir my
cappuccino, a little too fast, and take a gulp.
“That explains a lot,” says Sam at last.
I can’t bear his sympathy. I can’t bear anyone’s sympathy.
“It does not,” I say tightly. “It does not. It happened years ago and it’s over and I’m a
grown-up and I’ve dealt with it, OK? So you’re wrong. It doesn’t explain anything.”
Sam puts down his espresso cup, picks up his amaretto biscuit, and unwraps it
unhurriedly.
“I meant it explains why you’re obsessed with teeth.”
“Oh.”
Touché.
I give him a reluctant smile. “Yes, I suppose I am fairly familiar with dental care.”
Sam crunches into his biscuit and I take another gulp of cappuccino. After a minute or
two it seems as if we’ve moved on, and I’m wondering if we should get the bill, when Sam
suddenly says, “My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a lot of nights talking
with him. Lot of nights.” He pauses. “I know what it’s like. You don’t just get over it. And it
doesn’t make any difference if you’re supposedly a grown-up. It never goes away.”
He wasn’t supposed to come back to the subject. We’d moved on. Most people gallop off
to something else with relief.
“Well, I did get over it,” I say brightly. “And it did go away. So.”
Sam nods as though my words don’t surprise him. “Yes, that’s what he said. To other
people. I know. You have to.” He pauses. “Hard to keep up the façade, though.”
Smile. Keep smiling. Don’t meet his eyes.
But somehow I can’t help it, I do.
And my eyes are suddenly hot. Shit. Shit. This hasn’t happened for years. Years.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter fiercely, glaring at the table.
“Like what?” Sam sounds alarmed.
“Like you understand.” I swallow. “Stop it. Just stop it.”
I take a deep breath and a sip of water. Idiot, Poppy. Get a grip. I haven’t let myself be
taken off guard like that since … I can’t even remember when.
“I’m sorry,” says Sam, in a low voice. “I didn’t mean—”
“No! It’s fine, but let’s move on. Shall we get the bill?”
“Sure.” He summons a waiter, and I take out my lip gloss, and after about two minutes I
feel back to normal.
I try to pay for lunch, but Sam point-blank refuses, so we compromise on going Dutch.
After the waiter’s taken our money and wiped away the crumbs, I look at him across the empty
table.
“Well.” Slowly, I slide the phone across the table to him. “Here you are. Thanks. Nice
knowing you and everything.”
Sam doesn’t even look at it. He’s gazing at me with the sort of kind, concerned
expression that makes me prickle all over and want to throw things. If he says anything more
about my parents, I’ll just walk. I’ll go.
“I was wondering,” he says at last. “Out of interest, have you ever learned any methods
of confrontation?”
“What?” I laugh out loud with surprise. “Of course not. I don’t want to confront
anybody.”
Sam spreads his hands. “There you go. There’s your problem.”
“I don’t have a problem! You’re the one with a problem. At least I’m nice,” I can’t help
saying pointedly. “You’re … miserable.”
Sam roars with laughter, and I flush. OK, maybe miserable was the wrong word.
“I’m fine.” I reach for my bag. “I don’t need any help.”
“Come on. Don’t be a coward.”
“I’m not a coward!” I retort in outrage.
“If you can give it out, you can take it,” he says cheerfully. “When you read my texts,
you saw a curt, miserable git. And you told me so. Maybe you’re right.” He pauses. “But you
know what I saw when I read yours?”
“No.” I scowl at him. “And I don’t want to know.”
“I saw a girl who races to help others but doesn’t help herself. And right now you need to
help yourself. No one should walk up the aisle feeling inferior or in a different league or trying to
be something they’re not. I don’t know exactly who your issues are with, but … ”
He picks up the phone, clicks a button, and turns the screen to face me.
Fuck.
It’s my list. The list I wrote in the church.
THINGS TO DO BEFORE WEDDING
1. Become expert on Greek philosophy.2. Memorize Robert Burns poems.3. Learn long Scrabble
words.4. Remember: am HYPOCHONDRIAC.5. Beef stroganoff. Get to like. (Hypnosis?)
I feel drenched in embarrassment. This is why people shouldn’t share phones.
“’It’s nothing to do with you,” I mutter, staring at the table.
“I know,” he says gently. “I also know that standing up for yourself can be hard. But you
have to do it. You have to get it out there. Before the wedding.”
I’m silent a minute or two. I can’t bear him to be right. But deep down inside me,
everything he’s saying is feeling true. Like Tetris blocks falling one by one into place.
I let my bag drop down onto the table and rub my nose. Sam patiently waits while I get
my thoughts in order.
“It’s all very well you telling me that,” I say finally. “It’s all very well saying ‘get it out
there.’ What am I supposed to say to them?”
“ ‘Them’ being …”
“I du
I suddenly feel disloyal, talking about Magnus’s family behind his back. But it’s a bit late
for that.
Sam doesn’t hesitate for a minute.
“You say, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Tavish, you’re making me feel inferior. Do you really think I’m
inferior or is this just in my mind?’ ”
“What planet do you live on?” I stare at him. “I can’t say that! People don’t say things
like that!”
Sam laughs. “Do you know what I’m about to do this afternoon? I’m about to tell an
industry CEO that he doesn’t work hard enough, that he’s alienating his fellow board members,
and that his personal hygiene is becoming a management issue.”
“Oh my God.” I’m cringing at the thought. “No way.”
“It’s going to be fine,” says Sam calmly. “I’ll take him through, point by point, and by
the end he’ll be agreeing with me. It’s just technique and confidence. Awkward conversations