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friend.”
I stare at him, taken aback. I’d written this guy off as a boorish moron. But he’s totally
nailed it.
“Yes,” I admit at last. “He did. How did you know?”
“He’s private like that, Sam.” David nods. “When it happened—the death—he didn’t tell
anyone at college for days. Only his two closest friends.”
“Right.” I hesitate doubtfully. “Is that … you?”
“Me!” David gives a short, rueful laugh. “No, not me. I’m not in the i
Tim and Andrew. They’re his right-hand men. All rowed in the same boat together. Know
them?”
I shake my head.
“Joined at the hip, even now, those three guys are. Tim’s over at Merrill Lynch;
Andrew’s a barrister in some chambers or other. And of course Sam’s pretty close to his brother,
Josh,” David adds. “He’s two years older. Used to come and visit. Sorted Sam out when things
went wrong for him. Spoke to his tutors. He’s a good guy.”
I didn’t know Sam had a brother either. As I sit there, digesting all this, I feel a bit
chastened. I’ve never even heard of Tim or Andrew or Josh. But then, why would I have heard of
them? They probably text Sam directly. They’re probably in touch like normal people. In private.
Not like Willow the Witch and old friends trying to hustle some money.
All this time I’ve thought I could see Sam’s entire life. But it wasn’t his entire life, was
it? It was one in-box. And I judged him on it.
He has friends. He has a life. He has a relationship with his family. He has a whole load
of stuff I have no idea about. I was an idiot if I thought I’d got to know the whole story. I know a
single chapter. That’s all.
I take a swig of wine, numbing the strange wistfulness that suddenly washes over me. I’ll
never know all of Sam’s other chapters. He’ll never tell me and I’ll never ask. We’ll part ways
and I’ll just have the impression I’ve already got. The version of him that lives in his PA’s
in-box.
I wonder what impression he’ll have of me. Oh God. Better not go there.
The thought makes me snort with laughter, and David eyes me curiously.
“Fu
“Am I?” My phone buzzes and I pull it to me, not caring if I’m rude. It’s telling me I
have a voice mail from Magnus.
Magnus?
I missed a call from Magnus?
Abruptly my thoughts swoop away from Sam, away from David and this place, to the rest
of my life. Magnus. Wedding. Anonymous text. Your fiancée has been unfaithful… . Jumbled
thoughts pile into my brain all at once, as though they’ve been clamoring at the door. I leap to
my feet, pressing voice mail, jabbing at the keys, impatient and nervous all at once. Although
what am I expecting? A confession? A rebuttal? Why would Magnus have any idea that I
received an anonymous message?
“Hey, Pops!” Magnus’s distinctive voice is muffled by a background thump of music.
“Could you call Professor Wilson and remind her I’m away? Thanks, sweets. Number’s on my
desk. Ciao! Having a great time!”
I listen to it twice over for clues, even though I have no idea what kind of clues I’m
hoping to glean.83 As I ring off, my stomach is churning. I can’t bear it. I don’t want this. If I’d
never got that text message, I’d be happy now. I’d be looking forward to my wedding and
thinking about the honeymoon and practicing my new signature. I’d be happy.
I’ve run out of conversational gambits, so I kick off my shoes, draw my feet up onto the
bench, and hug my knees morosely. I’m aware that around us, in the bar, the White Globe
Consulting employees have started to cluster. I can hear snatches of low, anxious conversation,
and I’ve caught the word memo a few times. The news must be seeping out. I glance at my
watch and feel a clench of alarm. It’s 9:40 p.m. Only twenty minutes till the ITN bulletin.
For the millionth time I wonder what Vicks and Sam are up to. I wish I could help. I wish
I could do something. I feel powerless sitting out here—“OK!” A sharp female voice interrupts
my thoughts, and I look up to see Willow standing in front of me, glaring down. She’s changed
into a halter-neck evening dress, and even her shoulders are twitchy. “I’m going to ask you this
straight, and I hope you’ll answer it straight. No games. No playing around. No little tricks.”
She’s practically spitting the words at me. Honestly. What little tricks am I supposed to
have played?
“Hello,” I say politely.
The trouble is, I can’t see this woman without remembering all her screwy capital-letter
emails. It’s as though they’re emblazoned on her face.
“Who are you?” she bristles at me. “Just tell me that. Who are you? And if you won’t tell
me, then believe me—”
“I’m Poppy,” I interrupt.
“ ‘Poppy.’ ” She sounds deeply suspicious, as though Poppy must be my invented
escort-agency name.
“Have you met David?” I add politely. “He’s an old university friend of Sam’s.”
“Oh.” At these words I can see interest flash across her features. “Hello, David, I’m
Willow.” Her gaze swivels to focus on him, and I swear I feel a cooling on my face.
“Charmed, Willow. Friend of Sam’s, are you?”
“I’m Willow.” She says it with slightly more emphasis.
“Nice name.” He nods.
“I’m Willow. Willow.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “Sam must have mentioned
me. Wi-llow.’
David wrinkles his brow thoughtfully. “Don’t think so.”
“But … ” She looks as though she’s going to expire with outrage. “I’m with him.”
“Not right now you’re not, are you?” says David jovially—then shoots me a tiny wink.
I’m actually warming to this David. Once you get past the bad shirt and the dodgy
investments, he’s OK.
Willow looks incandescent. “This is just … The world is going insane,” she says, almost
to herself. “You don’t know me, but you know her?” She jerks a thumb at me.
“I assumed she was Sam’s special lady,” says David i
“Her? You?”
Willow’s eyeing me up and down in a disbelieving, supercilious sort of way that nettles
me.
“Why not me?” I say robustly. “Why shouldn’t he be with me?”
Willow says nothing for a moment, just blinks very fast. “So that’s it. He’s two-timing
me,” she murmurs at last, her voice throbbing with intensity. “The truth finally comes out. I
should have known it. It explains … a lot.” She exhales sharply, her fingers raking through her
hair. “So where do we go now?” She addresses some unknown audience. “Where the fuck do we
go now?”
She’s a total fruit loop. I want to burst out laughing. Where does she think she is, acting
in her own private stage play? Who does she think is impressed by her performance?
And she’s missed a crucial fact. How can Sam be two-timing her if she’s not his
girlfriend?
On the other hand, as much as I’m enjoying winding her up, I don’t want to spread false
rumors.
“I didn’t say I was with him,” I clarify. “I said, ‘Why shouldn’t he be with me?’ Are you
Sam’s girlfriend, then?”
Willow flinches but doesn’t answer, I notice.
“Who the hell are you?” She rounds on me again. “You appear in my life, I have no idea
who you are or where you came from … ”