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The more voices I listen to, the more confident I feel. This is easier than I thought it
would be, because they’re all so different from the one on the phone. Except that we’ve already
been to four groups and eliminated them. I scan the room anxiously. What if I get all the way
round the room and I still haven’t heard the guy from the phone?
“Hi there, gang! Having a good time?” Sam is still in full flow as we approach the next
group. “Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Tony. Tony, why
don’t you tell Poppy about your department? And here’s Daniel, and this is … ah. Willow.”
She was turned away as we approached, so her face was averted, but now she faces us
full on.
Yowzer.
“Sam!” she says, after such a long pause I start to feel embarrassed for everybody.
“Who’s … this?”
OK. If my text to Magnus was laden with meaning, that little two-word sentence of
Willow’s was collapsing under its weight. You don’t have to be an expert in the Language of
Willow to know that what she actually meant was, “Who the FUCK is this girl and WHAT is she
doing here with YOU? Jesus, Sam, are you DELIBERATELY SCREWING AROUND WITH
ME? Because, believe me, you are going to regret that BADLY.”
You know. Paraphrasing.
I’ve never felt such overt hostility from anyone in my life. It’s like an electric current
between us. Willow’s nostrils are flared and whitening. Her eyes are all stary. Her hand has
gripped her glass so tightly, her tendons are showing through her pale skin. But her smile is still
soft and pleasant, and her voice is still mellifluous. Which is almost most creepy of all.
“Poppy’s thinking of joining the company,” says Sam.
“Oh.” Willow carries on smiling. “Lovely. Welcome, Poppy.”
She’s u
lizard.
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, we must press on… . See you later, Willow.” Sam takes my arm to guide me
away.
Uh-oh. Bad idea. I can feel her laser eyes in my back. Does Sam not feel them too?
We head to a new group and Sam launches into his spiel, and I dutifully crane my neck to
listen, but nobody sounds a bit like the phone guy. As we work our way farther round, I can tell
Sam’s getting dispirited, though he’s trying to hide it. After we leave a group of youngish IT
guys drinking beers, he says, “Really? None of those guys?”
“No.” I shrug apologetically. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry!” He gives a short, strained laugh. “You heard what you heard. You can’t
… If it’s not any of them—” He breaks off a moment. “Definitely not the blond guy? The one
talking about his car? He didn’t sound at all familiar?”
And now the disappointment in his voice is evident.
“Is that who you thought it was?”
“’I … don’t know.” He spreads his hands, exhaling. “Maybe. Yes. He’d have the IT
contacts, he’s new to the company, Justin and Ed could easily have talked him round … ”
I don’t know what to reply. Like he says, I heard what I heard.
“I think some people have gone out to the terrace,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“We’ll try there.” He nods. “Let’s finish up here first.”
Even I can tell that none of the four gray-haired men standing by the bar will be the guy
from the phone—and I’m right. As Sam is inveigled into a conversation about Malcolm’s
speech, I take the opportunity to edge away and see if Magnus has replied. Of course he hasn’t.
But flashing at the top of my in-box is an email sent to [email protected] /* */,
cc’ed to [email protected] /* */, which makes me splutter.
Sam,Nice try. I know EXACTLY what you’re up to and you’re PATHETIC. Where did you get
her from, an agency? I would have thought you could do better than that.Willow As I’m staring
at the screen in disbelief, a second email pops in.
I mean, Jesus, Sam. She isn’t even DRESSED for the occasion. Or are cutesy denim skirts
suddenly appropriate conference wear??My skirt is not cutesy! And I wasn’t exactly
pla
In outrage, I press reply and type an email.
Actually, I think she’s stu
the Witch.Sam.Then I delete it. Naturally. I’m about to put my phone away when a third
email pops in from Willow. Honestly. Can’t she give it a rest?
You want me to be jealous, Sam. Fine. I respect that. I even like it. We need sparks in our
relationship. But TRY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE JEALOUS OF!!!Because believe
me, no one here is impressed by your little stunt. I mean, parading around some nondescript girl
who clearly has NO IDEA HOW TO BLOW-DRY HER FUCKING HAIR … Well. It’s tragic,
Sam. TRAGIC.Talk to you when you’re a grown-up.WillowI touch my hair defensively. I
did blow-dry it this morning. It’s just hard to get to the back bits. I mean, not that I care what she
thinks, but I can’t help feeling a little stung—
My thoughts are interrupted mid-flow and I stare at the screen. I don’t believe it. An
email has arrived in the phone from Sam. He’s responded to Willow. He’s actually replied to
her! Except he’s pressed reply all, so it’s come to me too.
I glance up in astonishment and see that he’s still talking to the gray-haired men,
apparently engrossed. He must have rattled it off very quickly. I open up the email and see a
single line.
Cut it out, Willow. You’re not impressing anyone. I blink at the screen. She won’t like that.
I wait for her to launch some further scathing attack on Sam—but no more emails arrive.
Maybe she’s as taken aback as I am.
“Great. We’ll talk later.” Sam’s voice rises above the hubbub. “Poppy, few more people
I’d like you to meet.”
“OK.” I snap to attention, thrusting my phone away. “Let’s do it.”
We circulate around the rest of the room. Sam’s list is covered with ticks. I must have
listened to nearly every male voice in the company, and I haven’t heard anybody who sounds
anything like the guy on the phone. I’m even starting to wonder whether I’m remembering him
right. Or whether I hallucinated the whole thing.
As we head along a carpeted corridor toward the open terrace doors, I can tell Sam is
low. I feel pretty low myself.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Not your fault.” He looks up and seems to clock my mood. “Poppy, seriously. I know
you’re doing your best.” His face crinkles for a moment. “Hey, and I’m sorry about Willow.”
“Oh.” I brush it off. “Don’t worry about it.”
We walk in silence for a few moments. I want to say something like, “Thanks for sticking
up for me,’ but I’m too awkward. I feel like I shouldn’t really have been inside that email
exchange.
The terrace is covered in lanterns, and there are a few clusters of people but not nearly as
many as there were inside. I suppose it’s too cold. But it’s shame, because there’s actually quite a
nice partylike atmosphere out here. There’s a bar, and a couple of people are even dancing. On
the corner of the terrace, a guy holding a TV camera seems to be interviewing a pair of giggling
girls.
“So, maybe we’ll strike lucky.” I try to sound upbeat.