“Why not?” I stare at him.

“I have no particular reason to.” He shrugs. “And it’s a heavy week for social events.”

I don’t believe this. How can he not want to go to the Savoy? God, it’s all right for top businessmen, isn’t it? Free champagne, yawn, yawn. Goody bags, yet another party, yawn, how tedious and dull.

“Well, you should let them know, then.” I barely hide my disapproval. “In fact, I’ll do it right now. Dear Blue, Thanks so much for the invitation,” I read aloud as I type. “Unfortunately, Sam will be unable to attend on this occasion. Best wishes, Poppy Wyatt.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Sam is staring at me, bemused. “One of the PAs at the office is helping me out now. Girl called Jane Ellis. She can do that.”

Yes, but will she do it? I want to retort. I’m aware of this Jane Ellis, who has started making an occasional appearance in Sam’s in-box. But her real job is working for Sam’s colleague Malcolm. I’m sure the last thing she wants to be doing is wrangling Sam’s schedule on top of her usual workload.

“It’s OK.” I shrug. “It’s been really bugging me.” Our coffees have arrived on the counter and I hand him his. “So … thanks again.”

“No trouble.” He holds the door open for me. “Hope you find the ring. As soon as you’ve finished with the phone—”

“I know.” I cut him off. “I’ll bike it round. The same nanosecond.”

“Fine.” He allows me a half smile. “Well, I hope everything goes well for you.” He extends a hand and I shake it politely.

“Hope everything goes well for you too.”

I haven’t even asked him when his wedding is. Perhaps it’s a week from tomorrow, like ours. In the same church, even. I’ll arrive and see him on the steps with Willow the Witch on his arm, telling him he’s toxic.

He strides away and I hurry off toward the bus stop. There’s a 45 bus disgorging passengers, and I climb on board. It’ll take me to Streatham Hill, and I can walk from there.

As I take my seat, I look out and see Sam walking swiftly along the pavement, his face impassive, almost stony. I don’t know if it’s the wind or he’s been knocked by a passerby, but somehow his tie has gone skew-whiff, and he doesn’t even seem to have noticed. Now that’s bugging me. I can’t resist sending him a text.

Your tie’s crooked.

I wait about thirty seconds, then watch his face jolt in surprise. As he’s looking around, searching the pedestrians on the pavement, I text again:

On the bus.

The bus has moved off by now, but the traffic’s heavy and I’m pretty much keeping pace with Sam. He looks up, straightening his tie, and flashes me a smile.

I’ll have to admit, he does have quite a smile. Kind of heart-stopping, especially as it comes out of nowhere.

I mean … you know. If your heart was in the kind of place to be stopped.

Anyway. An email has just come in from Lindsay Cooper, and I briskly open it.

Dear Sam,

Thank you so much! Your words mean a lot to me—it’s so nice to know you are appreciated!! I’ve told the whole team who helped me with the strategy document, and it’s really boosted morale!

Best,

Lindsay

It’s cc’ed to his other address too, so he’ll have got it on his phone. A moment later my phone bleeps with a text from Sam.

What did you write to Lindsay??

I can’t help giggling as I type back:

Happy birthday. Just like you said.

What else??

I don’t see why I need to answer. Two can play at selective deafness.

Have you contacted the dentist yet? I counter.

I wait a while—but we’re back to radio silence. Another email has arrived in the phone, this time from one of Lindsay’s colleagues, and as I read it I can’t help feeling vindicated.

Dear Sam,

Lindsay passed on your kind words about the website strategy. We were so honored and delighted you took the time to comment. Thanks, and look forward to chatting about more initiatives, maybe at the next monthly meeting.

Adrian (Foster)

Ha. You see? You see?

It’s all very well sending off two-word emails. It might be efficient. It might get the job done. But no one likes you. Now that whole website team will feel happy and wanted and work brilliantly. And it’s all because of me! Sam should have me doing his emails all the time.

On a sudden impulse, I scroll down to Rachel’s zillionth email about the Fun Run and press Reply.

Hi, Rachel.

Count me in for the Fun Run. It’s a great endeavor and I look forward to supporting it. Well done!

Sam

He looks fit. He can do a Fun Run, for God’s sake.

On a roll now, I scroll down to that guy in IT who’s been politely asking about sending Sam his CV and ideas for the company. I mean, surely Sam should be encouraging people who want to get ahead?

Dear James,

I would be very glad to see your CV and hear about your ideas. Please make an appointment with Jane Ellis, and well done for being so proactive!

Sam

And now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. As the bus chugs along, I email the guy wanting to assess Sam’s workstation for health and safety, set up a time, then email Jane to tell her to put it in the schedule.59 I email Sarah, who has been off with shingles, and ask her if she’s better.

All those unanswered emails that have been nagging away at me. All those poor ignored people trying to get in touch with Sam. Why shouldn’t I answer them? I’m doing him such a service! I feel like I’m repaying him for his favor with the ring. At least, when I hand this phone back, his in-box will have been dealt with.

In fact, what about a round-robin email telling everyone they’re fab? Why not? Who can it hurt?

Dear Staff,

I just wanted to say that you’ve all done a great job so far this year.

As I’m typing, an even better thought comes to me.

As you know, I value all your views and ideas. We are lucky to have such talent at White Globe Consulting and want to make the most of it. If you have any ideas for the company you would like to share, please send them to me. Be honest!

All best wishes and here’s to a great year ahead.

Sam

I press send with satisfaction. There. Talk about motivational. Talk about team spirit! As I sit back, my fingers are aching from so much typing. I take a sip of latte, reach for my muffin, stuff a massive chunk into my mouth—and my phone starts ringing.

Shit. Of all the times.

I press talk, lift the receiver to my ear, and try to say “Just a moment,” but it comes out as “Gobblllllg.” My whole mouth is full of claggy muffin. What do they put in these things?

“Is that you?” A youthful, reedy male voice is speaking. “It’s Scottie.”

Scottie? Scottie?

Something sparks in my mind. Scottie. Wasn’t that the name mentioned by Violet’s friend who rang before? The one who was talking about liposuction?

“It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself. Adiós, Santa Claus.”

I’m chewing my muffin as frantically as I can, but I still can’t utter a sound.

“Are you there? Is this the right—Oh, fucking—” The voice disappears as I manage to swallow.

“Hello? Can I take a message?”

He’s gone. I check the caller ID, but it’s Unknown Number.

You’d think all Violet’s friends would know her new number by now. Clicking my tongue, I reach inside my bag for the Lion King program, which is still there.

Scottie rang, I scribble next to the first message. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa Claus.

If I ever meet this Violet, I hope she’s grateful for all my efforts. In fact, I hope I do meet her. I haven’t been taking all these messages for nothing.

I’m about to put the phone away when a crowd of new emails arrives in a flashing bunch. Replies to my round robin already? I scroll down—and to my disappointment, most of them are standard company messages or ads. But the second-to-last makes me stop in my tracks. It’s from Sam’s dad.

I’ve been wondering about him.

I hesitate—then click the email open.

Dear Sam,

Just wondering if you got my last email. You know I’m not much of a technological expert, probably sending it off to the wrong place. But here goes again.

Hope all is well and you are flourishing in London as ever. You know how proud we are of your success. I see you in the business pages. Amazing. I always knew you were destined for big things, you know that.

As I said, there is something I’d love to talk to you about. Are you ever down Hampshire way? It’s been so long and I do miss the old days.

Yours ever,

Your old

Dad

As I get to the end, I feel rather hot around the eyes. I can’t quite believe it. Did Sam not even reply to that last email? Doesn’t he care about his dad? Have they had a big row or something?

I have no idea what the story is. I have no idea what could have happened between them. All I know is, there’s a father sitting at a computer, putting out feelers to his son, and they’re being ignored, and I can’t bear it. I just can’t. Whatever’s gone before, life’s too short not to make amends. Life’s too short to bear a grudge.

On impulse, I press reply. I don’t dare reply in Sam’s voice to his own father; that would be going too far. But I can make contact. I can let a lonely old man know that his voice is being heard.

Hello.

This is Sam’s PA. Just to let you know, Sam will be at his company conference at the Chiddingford Hotel in Hampshire next week, April 24 . I’m sure he’d love to see you.

Best,

Poppy Wyatt

I press send before I can chicken out, then sit for a few moments, a bit breathless at what I’ve done. I’ve masqueraded as Sam’s PA. I’ve contacted his father. I’ve waded right into his personal life. He’d be livid if he knew—in fact, the very thought of it makes me quail.

But sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes you have to show people what’s important in life. And I have this very strong gut instinct that what I’ve done is the right thing. Maybe not the easy thing—but the right thing.

I have a vision of Sam’s dad sitting at his desk, his gray head bowed. The computer beeping with a new email, the light of hope in his face as he opens it … a sudden smile of joy … turning to his dog, patting his head, saying, “We’re going to see Sam, boy!”60

Yes. It was the right thing to do.

Exhaling slowly, I open the last email, which is from Blue:

Hello.

We’re so sorry to hear that Sam can’t make the Savoy reception. Would he like to nominate another person to attend in his place? Please email over the name and we will be sure to add them to the guest list.

Kind regards,

Blue.

The bus has come to a halt, chugging at a set of traffic lights. I take a bite of muffin and stare silently at the email.

Another person. That could be anybody.

I’m free on Monday night. Magnus has a late seminar in Warwick.

OK. Here’s the thing. There’s no way I’d ever be invited to anything glitzy like this in the normal way of things. Physiotherapists just aren’t. And Magnus’s events are all academic book launches or stuffy college dinners. They’re never at the Savoy. There are never goody bags or cocktails or jazz bands. This is my one and only chance.

Maybe this is karma. I’ve come into Sam’s life, I’ve made a difference for the good—and this is my reward.

My fingers are moving almost before I’ve made a decision.

Thank you so much for your email, I find myself typing. Sam would like to nominate Poppy Wyatt.




50 Is unethical the same as dishonest? This is the kind of moral debate I could have asked Antony about. In different circumstances.

51 Which is a shame, because what I’m dying to ask is: Why does Willow keep sending messages via me when she must know I’m not Violet by now? And what’s all this communication through his PA, anyway?

52 Which makes me wonder: If man can make an emerald these days, why do we all keep on spending loads of money on real ones? Also: Should I get some earrings?

53 I did actually think it was quite a lot. But I figured that was the hit I had to take. I would certainly never query the price of a ring in a posh shop, never in a million years.

54 “I could draw you a graph, Poppy. A graph.”

55 Aha! Clearly the same Ed who was in the Groucho Club, the worse for wear. Just call me Poirot.