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bathroom, my legs wobbly.
“Um, sorry to disturb,” I say awkwardly, and hold out the phone. “Sam, it’s Sir Nicholas
for you.”
Vicks’s expression of horror almost makes me want to laugh—except she looks as
though she wants to strangle someone. And that someone could be me.
“Who’s she?” she snaps, eyeing the stain on my T-shirt. “Is this your new PA?”
“No. She’s … ” Sam waves it off. “Long story. Nick!” he exclaims into the receiver.
“I’ve just heard. Jesus.”
“Did you hear any of that?” says Vicks to me in a savage undertone.
“No! I mean, yes. A bit.” I’m gabbling in fright. “But I wasn’t listening. I didn’t hear
anything. I was brushing my hair. Really hard.”
“OK. I’ll be in touch. Keep us posted.” Sam switches off the phone and shakes his head.
“When the hell will he learn to use the right number? Sorry.”
Distractedly, he puts the phone down on the desk. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to speak
to the techies myself. If they can’t find a lost email, for fuck’s sake, they should all be fired.
They should be fired anyway. They’re useless.”
“Could it be on your phone?” I suggest timidly.
Sam’s eyes light up for a moment—then he shakes his head.
“No. This was months ago. The phone doesn’t store emails beyond two months. Nice
idea, though, Poppy.”
Vicks looks as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Again—who’s she? Does
she have a pass?”
“Yes.” I hurriedly produce my laminated card.
“She’s … OK. She’s a visitor. I’ll deal with her. Come on. We need to talk to the
techies.”
Without a word in my direction, Sam hurries out into the corridor. A moment later,
looking absolutely livid, Vicks follows. I can hear a stream of low-pitched invective coming
from her as they walk off.
“Sam, when exactly were you pla
bathroom, listening to our fucking confidential crisis? You do realize my job is to control the
flow of information? Control it?”
“Vicks, relax.”
As they disappear from view, I sink down onto a chair, feeling a bit unreal. Yowzer. I
have no idea what to do now. Should I stay? Should I go? Is the meeting with the CEO still
going to happen?
I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere—but after about twenty minutes of sitting there
alone, I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable. I’ve leafed through a magazine full of words I
don’t understand, and I’ve thought about getting myself a coffee (and decided against it). The
CEO meeting must surely be off. Sam must be tied up. I’m gearing myself up to write him a note
and leave, when a blond guy taps at the glass door. He looks about twenty-three and is holding a
massive rolled-up piece of blue paper.
“Hi,” he says shyly. “Are you Sam’s new PA?”
“No. I’m just … er … helping him.”
“Oh, OK.” He nods. “Well, it’s about the competition. The ideas competition?”
Oh God. This again.
“Yes?” I say encouragingly. “Do you want to leave Sam a message?”
“I want this to get to him. It’s a visualization of the company? A restructuring exercise?
It’s self-explanatory, but I’ve attached some notes.”
He hands over the rolled-up paper, together with an exercise book full of writing.
I already know there is no way Sam is going to look at any of this. I feel quite sorry for
this guy.
“OK! Well … I’ll make sure he sees it. Thanks!”
As the blond guy heads off, I unroll a corner of the paper out of curiosity—and I don’t
believe it. It’s a collage! Like I used to do when I was about five!
I spread the whole thing out flat on the floor, anchoring the corners with chair legs. It’s in
the design of a tree, with photos of staff stuck onto the branches. God only knows what it’s
supposed to say about the structure of the company—I don’t care. What’s interesting for me is
that under each photo is the person’s name. Which means I can finally put faces to all the people
who have sent an email through Sam’s phone. This is riveting.
Jane Ellis is a lot younger than I expected, and Malcolm is fatter, and Chris Davies turns
out to be a woman. There’s Justin Cole … and there’s Lindsay Cooper … and there’s—
My finger stops dead.
Willow Harte.
She’s nestling on a lower branch, smiling out cheerfully. Thin and dark-haired, with very
arched black eyebrows. She’s quite pretty, I grudgingly admit, although not supermodel
standard.
And she works on the same floor as Sam. Which means …
Oh, I’ve got to. Come on. I’ve got to have a quick peek at the psycho fiancée before I go.
I head to Sam’s glass door and peer cautiously out at the floor. I have no idea if she’ll be
in the open-plan area or have her own office. I’ll just have to wander round. If anyone stops me,
I’ll be Sam’s new PA.
I grab a couple of files as camouflage and cautiously venture out. A couple of people
typing at their computers lift their heads and give me an uninterested glance. Skirting the edge of
the floor, I glance through windows and peer at names on doors, trying to catch a glimpse of a
girl with dark hair, listening out for a whiny, nasal voice. She has to have a whiny, nasal voice,
surely. And lots of stupid, made-up allergies, and about ten therapists—
I stop dead. That’s her! It’s Willow!
She’s ten yards away. Sitting in one of the glass-doored offices. To be honest, I can’t see
much of her except her profile and a hank of long hair hanging down the back of her chair and
some long legs ending in black ballet pumps—but it’s definitely her. I feel as though I’ve
stumbled on some mythological creature.
As I approach, I start to tingle all over. I have a dreadful feeling I might suddenly giggle.
This is so ridiculous. Spying on someone I’ve never met. I clutch my folders more tightly and
edge forward a little more.
There are two other women in the office with her, and they’re all drinking tea, and
Willow is talking.
Damn. She doesn’t have a whiny, nasal voice. In fact, it’s quite melodious and
sane-sounding—except when you start listening to what she’s saying.
“Of course this is all to get back at me,” she’s saying. “This whole exercise is one big
Fuck You, Willow. You know it was actually my idea?”
“No!” says one of the girls. “Really?”
“Oh yes.” She turns her head briefly and I catch sight of a sorrowful, pitying smile.
“New-idea generation is my thing. Sam ripped me off. I was pla
same email. Same words, everything. He probably saw it on my laptop one night.”
I’m listening, completely stu
say, “He couldn’t have ripped you off; he didn’t even send it!”
“That’s the kind of move he pulls all the time,” she adds, and takes a sip of tea. “That’s
how he’s made his career. No integrity.”
OK, I’m completely fogged now. Either I’m all wrong about Sam or she’s all wrong
about him, because in my opinion he’s the last person in the world you could imagine ripping
somebody else off.
“I just don’t know why he has to compete with me,” Willow’s saying. “What is that with