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must have seen some other light.
Can’t see you.
I’m coming.
You’re nowhere near.
Yes I am. Coming.
And then suddenly I hear his footsteps approaching. He’s behind me, thirty feet away, at
a guess. No wonder I couldn’t see him.
I should turn. Right now I should turn. This is the moment that it would be natural to
swivel round and greet him. Call out a hello; wave my phone in the air.
But my feet are rooted to the spot. I can’t bring myself to move. Because as soon as I do,
it will be time to be polite and matter-of-fact and back to normal. And I can’t bear that. I want to
stay here. In the place where we can say anything to each other. In the magic spell.
Sam pauses, right behind me. There’s an unbearable fragile beat as I wait for him to
shatter the quiet. But it’s as though he feels the same way. He says nothing. All I can hear is the
gentle sound of his breathing. Slowly, his arms wrap round me from behind. I close my eyes and
lean back against his chest, feeling unreal.
I’m standing in a wood with Sam and his arms are around me and they really shouldn’t
be. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going with this.
Except … I do. Of course I do. Because as his hands gently cup my waist, I don’t make a
sound. As he swivels me around to face him, I don’t make a sound. And as his stubble rasps my
face, I don’t make a sound. I don’t need to. We’re still talking. Every touch he makes, every
imprint of his skin is like another word, another thought, a continuation of our conversation. And
we’re not done yet. Not yet.
I don’t know how long we’re there. Five minutes, maybe. Ten minutes.
But the moment can’t last forever, and it doesn’t. The bubble doesn’t so much burst as
evaporate, leaving us back in the real world. Realizing our arms are round each other; awkwardly
stepping apart; feeling the chill night air rush between us. I look away, clearing my throat,
rubbing his touch off my skin.
“So, shall we—”
“Yes.”
As we pad through the woods, neither of us speaks. I can’t believe what just happened.
Already it seems like a dream. Something impossible.
It was in the forest. No one saw it or heard it. So did it actually happen?.87
Sam’s phone is buzzing and this time he takes it to his ear.
“Hi, Vicks.”
And just like that, it’s over. At the edge of the wood I can see a posse of people striding
over the grass toward us. And the aftermath begins. I must be a little dazed from our encounter,
because I can’t engage with any of this. I’m aware of Vicks and Robbie and Mark all raising
their voices, and Sam staying calm, and Vicks getting near to tears, which seems a bit unlikely
for her, and talk of trains and cars and emergency press briefings and then Mark saying, “It’s Sir
Nicholas for you, Sam,” and everyone moving back a step, almost respectfully, as Sam takes the
call.
And then suddenly the cars are here to take everyone back to London, and we’re heading
out to the drive and Vicks is bossing everyone around and everyone’s going to regroup at 7:00
a.m. at the office.
I’ve been allotted to a car with Sam. As I get in, Vicks leans in and says, “Thanks,
Poppy.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.
“It’s OK,” I say, just in case she’s not. “And … I’m sorry. About—”
“Yup,” she says tightly.
And then the car moves off. Sam is texting intently, a deep frown on his face. I don’t dare
make a sound. I check my phone for a message from Magnus, but there’s nothing. So I drop it
down on the seat and stare out the window, letting the streetlamps blur into a stream of light,
wondering where the hell I’m going.
I didn’t even know I’d fallen asleep.
But somehow my head is on Sam’s chest and he’s saying, “Poppy? Poppy?” Suddenly I
wake up properly, and my neck is cricked and I’m looking out of a car window at a fu
“Oh.” I scramble to a sitting position, wincing as my head spins. “Sorry. God. You
should have—”
“No problem. Is this your address?”
I peer blearily out the window. We’re in Balham. We’re outside my block of flats. I
glance at my watch. It’s gone midnight.
“Yes,” I say in disbelief. “This is me. How did you—”
Sam nods at my phone, still on the car seat. “Your address was in there.”
“Oh. Right.” I can hardly complain about him invading my privacy.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“No. Of course. That’s fine.” I nod. “Thanks.”
Sam picks up the phone and seems about to hand it to me—then he hesitates.
“I read your messages, Poppy. All of them.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat, unsure how to react. “Wow. Well. That’s … that’s a bit much,
don’t you think? I mean, I know I read your emails, but you didn’t need to—”
“It’s Lucinda.”
“What?” I stare at him dumbly.
“For my money. Lucinda’s your girl.”
Lucinda?
“But what—Why?”
“She’s been lying to you. Consistently. She couldn’t have been in all the places she says
she has at the times she’s said. It’s not physically possible.”
“Actually … I noticed that too,” I admit. “I thought she was trying to bill me for more
hours or something.”
“Does she bill by the hour?”
I rub my nose, feeling stupid. In fact, she doesn’t. It’s an all–inclusive fee.
“Have you ever noticed that Magnus and Lucinda inevitably texts you within ten minute
of each other?”
Slowly, I shake my head. Why would I notice that? I get zillions of texts every day, from
all kinds of people. And, anyway, how did he notice?
“I started off life as an analyst.” He looks a bit abashed. “This is my kind of thing.”
“What’s your kind of thing?” I say, puzzled.
Sam produces a piece of paper and I clap a hand over my mouth. I don’t believe it. He’s
drawn a chart. Times and dates. Calls. Texts. Emails. Has he been doing this while I’ve been
asleep?
“I analyzed your messages. You’ll see what’s going on.”
He analyzed my messages. How do you analyze messages?
He hands me the paper and I blink at it.
“What … ”
“You see the correlation?”
Correlation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It sounds like something from math
exams.
“Um … ”
“Take this date.” He points at the paper. “They both email at around six p.m. asking how
you’re doing, being chatty. Then at eight p.m. Magnus tells you he’s working late at the London
Library, and a few minutes later Lucinda tells you she’s working on garters for the bridesmaids
at a fashion warehouse in Shoreditch. At eight at night? Please.”
I’m silent for a few moments. I remember that email about the garters now. It seemed a
bit odd, even at the time. But you can’t jump to conclusions from one weird email, surely?
“Who asked you to analyze my messages, anyway?” I know I sound all prickly, but I
can’t help it. “Who said it was any of your business?”
“No one. You were asleep.” He spreads his hands. “I’m sorry. I just started looking idly
and then a pattern built up.”
“Two emails aren’t a pattern.”
“It’s not only two.” He gestures at the paper. “Next day, Magnus has a special evening