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glow.
I turn to Vicks. “You’re wrong. I do owe Sam one. And Sir Nicholas is a potential patient
at my physio practice, actually. So he is something to do with me too.”
I quite liked dropping that in, although I bet Sir Nicholas never does make it down to
Balham.
“And anyway,” I continue, lifting my chin nobly, “whoever it was, whether I knew them
or not, if I could help in some way, I would. I mean, if you can help, you have to help. Don’t you
think?”
Vicks stares at me for a moment, as though trying to work me out—then gives a strange,
wry smile.
“OK. Well, you got me. I can’t argue against that.”
“Let’s go.” Sam makes for the door.
I grab my bag and wish yet again that my T-shirt didn’t have a huge great splotch on it.
“Hey, Wallander,” Vicks chimes in sarcastically. “Small point. In case you’d forgotten,
everyone’s either at the conference or on their way to the conference.”
There’s another silence, apart from Sam tapping his pen furiously again. I don’t dare
speak. I certainly don’t dare look at Vicks.
“Poppy,” says Sam at last. “Do you have a few hours? Could you come down to
Hampshire?”
77 Or than I do, for that matter. Not that anyone’s asked me.
11
This is totally surreal. And thrilling. And a bit of a pain. All at the same time.
It’s not that I’m regretting my noble gesture, exactly. I still mean what I said in the office.
How could I possibly walk away? How could I not at least try to help Sam out? But, on the other
hand, I thought it would take about half an hour. Not a train journey down to Hampshire, just for
starters.
I’m supposed to be at the hairdresser’s right now. I’m supposed to be talking about updos
and trying on my tiara. Instead, I’m on Waterloo station concourse, buying a cup of tea and
clutching the phone, which, needless to say, I grabbed from the desk as we left. Sam could
hardly complain. I’ve texted Sue to tell her that I’m really sorry, I’ll have to miss the
appointment with Louis, but of course I’ll pay the whole fee and please give Louis my love.
I looked at it after I’d finished typing it, and I deleted half the kisses. Then I put them
back in again. Then I took them out again. Maybe five is enough.
Now I’m waiting for Magnus to pick up. He’s leaving for his stag trip to Bruges this
afternoon, so it’s not like I was going to see him, but still. I feel like if I don’t at least ring him,
it’ll be wrong.
“Oh, hi, Magnus!”
“Pops!” The line is terrible, and I can hear the public-address system in the background.
“We’re about to board. You OK?”
“Yes! I just wanted to … ” I trail off, not sure where I’m going with this.
Just wanted to tell you that I’m off to Hampshire with a man you know nothing about,
embroiled in a situation you know nothing about.
“I’ll … be out tonight,” I say lamely. “In case you call.”
There. That’s honest. Kind of.
“OK!” He laughs. “Well, you have fun. Sweets, I’ve got to go.”
“OK! Bye! Have a good time!” The phone goes dead and I look up to see Sam watching
me. I tug my shirt self-consciously, wishing again that I’d popped to the shops. It turns out that
Sam does keep a spare shirt in his office, and my T-shirt was so frightful that I borrowed it. But
it makes the situation even stranger, wearing his stripy Turnbull & Asser.
“Saying goodbye to Magnus,” I explain needlessly, as he’s been standing there the whole
time and must have heard every word.
“That’ll be two pounds.” The woman at the sandwich shop hands me my cup.
“Thanks! Right … shall we go?”
As Sam and I walk down the concourse and get into the carriage, I feel unreal. I’m stiff
with awkwardness. We must look like a couple to anyone watching. What if Willow sees us?
No. Don’t be paranoid. Willow was on the second coach to the conference. She sent an
email to Sam, telling him. And, anyway, it’s not like Sam and I are doing anything illicit. We’re
just … friends.
No, friends doesn’t feel right. Not colleagues either. Not really acquaintances …
OK. Let’s face it. It’s weird.
I glance over at Sam to see if he’s thinking the same, but he’s staring blankly out the train
window. The train jolts and moves off down the tracks, and he comes to. As he catches me
gazing at him, I quickly look away.
I’m trying to appear relaxed, but secretly I’m feeling more and more freaked out. What
have I agreed to? Everything rests on my memory. It’s up to me, Poppy Wyatt, to identify some
voice I heard down a phone days ago, for about twenty seconds. What if I fail?
I take a sip of tea to calm myself, and I wince. First the soup was too cold. Now this is
too hot. The train starts rushing along the tracks and a spot of tea jumps out of the lid, scalding
my hand.
“OK?” Sam’s noticed me.
“Fine.” I smile.
“Can I be honest?” he says bluntly. “You don’t look fine.”
“I’m good!” I protest. “I’m just … you know. There’s a lot going on at the moment.”
Sam nods.
“I’m sorry we never got to go through those confrontation techniques I promised.”
“Oh! That.” I brush it off with a hand. “This is more important.”
“Don’t say, ‘Oh! That.’ ” Sam shakes his head, looking exasperated. “That’s what I’m
talking about. You automatically put yourself second.”
“I don’t! I mean … you know.” I shrug awkwardly. “Whatever.”
The train pulls up at Clapham Junction, and a group of people files into the carriage. For
a while Sam is engrossed in texting. His phone has been constantly flashing, and I can only
imagine how many messages are flying around. Eventually though, he puts the phone back in his
pocket and leans forward, resting his elbow on the little table between us.
“Everything OK?” I ask timidly, immediately realizing what an inane question this is. To
his credit, Sam ignores it.
“I have a question for you,” he says calmly. “What is it about these Tavishes that makes
you feel as though they’re superior? Is it the titles? The doctorates? The brains?”
Not this again.
“Everything! It’s obvious! They’re just … I mean, you respect Sir Nicholas, don’t you?”
I throw back at him defensively. “Look at all this effort you’re making for him. It’s because you
respect him.”
“Yes, I respect him. Of course I do. But I don’t feel as though I’m inherently inferior to
him. He doesn’t make me feel like a second-class citizen.”
“I don’t feel like a second-class citizen! You don’t know anything about it. So … stop!”
“OK.” Sam lifts his hands up high. “If I’m wrong, I apologize. It’s only an impression
I’ve got. I only wanted to help, as a … ” I can sense him reaching for the word friend, then
rejecting it, like I did. “I just wanted to help,” he ends finally. “But it’s your life. I’ll butt out.”
There’s silence for a while. He’s stopped. He’s given up. I’ve won.
Why don’t I feel like I’ve won?
“Excuse me.” Sam puts his phone to his ear. “Vicks. What’s up?”
He heads out of the carriage and, without meaning to, I exhale in a massive sigh. The
gnawing pain is back, nestling beneath my ribs. But right now I can’t tell if it’s because the