If I worked at White Globe Consulting, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I would spend all day texting the other people in the office, asking them what was going on today and had they heard anything new and what did they think was going to happen.

Hmm. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not in an office job.

“I can’t believe Sir Nicholas Murray used to live in Balham,” I say, suddenly remembering. “I mean, Balham!”

“Nick hasn’t always been grand, by any means.” Sam shoots me a curious look. “Didn’t you come across his background story during your little Googlefest? He was an orphan. Brought up in a children’s home. Everything he’s got, he’s worked his socks off for. Not a snobbish bone in his body. Not like some of these pretentious tossers trying to get rid of him.” He scowls and stuffs a bundle of rocket into his mouth.

“Fabian Taylor must be in Justin’s camp,” I observe thoughtfully. “He’s so sarcastic with you. I always wondered why.” I look up to see Sam regarding me with a lowered, furrowed brow.

“Poppy, be honest. How many of my emails have you read?”

I can’t believe he’s asking that.

“All of them, of course. What did you think?” His expression is so funny, I get the giggles. “The minute I got my hands on that phone, I started snooping on you. Emails from colleagues, emails from Willow … ” I can’t resist throwing out the name casually to see if he bites.

Sure enough, he blanks the reference completely. It’s as though the name Willow means nothing to him.

But this is our farewell lunch. It’s my last chance. I’m going to perservere.

“So, does Willow work on a different floor from you?” I say conversationally.

“Same floor.”

“Oh, right. And … you two met through work?”

He just nods. This is like getting blood out of a stone.

A waiter comes to clear my bowl and we order coffees. As the waiter moves away, I see Sam studying me thoughtfully. I’m about to ask another question about Willow, but he gets in first.

“Poppy, slight change of subject. Can I say something to you? As a friend?”

“Are we friends?” I reply dubiously.

“A disinterested spectator, then.”

Great. First of all, he’s dodging the Willow conversation. Secondly, what now? A speech on why you shouldn’t steal phones? Another lecture on being businesslike in emails?

“What is it?” I can’t help rolling my eyes. “Fire away.”

He picks up a teaspoon, as though marshaling his thoughts, then puts it down.

“I know this is none of my business. I haven’t been married. I haven’t met your fiancé. I don’t know the situation.”

As he speaks, blood creeps into my face. I don’t know why.

“No,” I say. “You don’t. So—”

He presses on without listening to me.

“But it seems to me you can’t—you shouldn’t—go into a marriage feeling inferior in any way.”

For a moment I’m too stunned to respond. I’m groping for reactions. Shout? Slap him? Stalk out?

“OK, listen,” I manage at last. My throat is tight, but I’m trying to sound poised. “First of all, you don’t know me, like you said. Second of all, I don’t feel inferior—”

“You do. It’s obvious from everything you say. And it’s baffling to me. Look at you. You’re a professional. You’re successful. You’re … ” He hesitates. “You’re attractive. Why should you feel the Tavishes are in a ‘different league’ from you?”

Is he being deliberately obtuse?

“Because they’re, like, major famous people! They’re all geniuses and they’ll all end up being knighted, and my uncle’s just a normal dentist from Taunton—” I break off, breathing hard.

Great. Now I’ve walked straight into it.

“What about your dad?”

Here goes. He asked for it.

“He’s dead,” I say bluntly. “Both my parents are dead. Car crash ten years ago.” I lean back in my chair, waiting for the awkward pause.

It can go so many different ways. Silence. Hand over mouth. Gasp.76 Exclamation. Awkward change of subject. Morbid curiosity. Story about bigger, more gruesome crash that friend of friend’s aunt was in.

One girl I told actually burst into tears right then and there. I had to watch her sobbing and find her a tissue.

But … it’s weird. This time doesn’t seem to be awkward. Sam hasn’t looked away. He hasn’t cleared his throat or gasped or changed the subject.

“Both at once?” he says at last, in a more gentle voice.

“My mother straightaway. My father the day after.” I flash him a brittle smile. “Never got to say goodbye to him, though. He was pretty much gone at the … at the time.”

Smiling is actually the only way to get through these conversations, I’ve learned.

A waiter arrives with our coffees, and for a moment the conversation’s on hold. But as soon as he’s moved away, the same mood is back. The same expression on Sam’s face.

“I’m very, very sorry.”

“No need to be!” I say in my standard upbeat voice. “It all worked out. We moved in with my uncle and aunt; he’s a dentist, she’ a dental nurse. They looked after us, my little brothers and me. So … it’s all good. All good.”

I can feel his eyes on me. I look one way and then the other, dodging them. I stir my cappuccino, a little too fast, and take a gulp.

“That explains a lot,” says Sam at last.

I can’t bear his sympathy. I can’t bear anyone’s sympathy.

“It does not,” I say tightly. “It does not. It happened years ago and it’s over and I’m a grown-up and I’ve dealt with it, OK? So you’re wrong. It doesn’t explain anything.”

Sam puts down his espresso cup, picks up his amaretto biscuit, and unwraps it unhurriedly.

“I meant it explains why you’re obsessed with teeth.”

“Oh.”

Touché.

I give him a reluctant smile. “Yes, I suppose I am fairly familiar with dental care.”

Sam crunches into his biscuit and I take another gulp of cappuccino. After a minute or two it seems as if we’ve moved on, and I’m wondering if we should get the bill, when Sam suddenly says, “My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a lot of nights talking with him. Lot of nights.” He pauses. “I know what it’s like. You don’t just get over it. And it doesn’t make any difference if you’re supposedly a grown-up. It never goes away.”

He wasn’t supposed to come back to the subject. We’d moved on. Most people gallop off to something else with relief.

“Well, I did get over it,” I say brightly. “And it did go away. So.”

Sam nods as though my words don’t surprise him. “Yes, that’s what he said. To other people. I know. You have to.” He pauses. “Hard to keep up the façade, though.”

Smile. Keep smiling. Don’t meet his eyes.

But somehow I can’t help it, I do.

And my eyes are suddenly hot. Shit. Shit. This hasn’t happened for years. Years.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter fiercely, glaring at the table.

“Like what?” Sam sounds alarmed.

“Like you understand.” I swallow. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

I take a deep breath and a sip of water. Idiot, Poppy. Get a grip. I haven’t let myself be taken off guard like that since … I can’t even remember when.

“I’m sorry,” says Sam, in a low voice. “I didn’t mean—”

“No! It’s fine, but let’s move on. Shall we get the bill?”

“Sure.” He summons a waiter, and I take out my lip gloss, and after about two minutes I feel back to normal.

I try to pay for lunch, but Sam point-blank refuses, so we compromise on going Dutch. After the waiter’s taken our money and wiped away the crumbs, I look at him across the empty table.

“Well.” Slowly, I slide the phone across the table to him. “Here you are. Thanks. Nice knowing you and everything.”

Sam doesn’t even look at it. He’s gazing at me with the sort of kind, concerned expression that makes me prickle all over and want to throw things. If he says anything more about my parents, I’ll just walk. I’ll go.

“I was wondering,” he says at last. “Out of interest, have you ever learned any methods of confrontation?”

“What?” I laugh out loud with surprise. “Of course not. I don’t want to confront anybody.”

Sam spreads his hands. “There you go. There’s your problem.”

“I don’t have a problem! You’re the one with a problem. At least I’m nice,” I can’t help saying pointedly. “You’re … miserable.”

Sam roars with laughter, and I flush. OK, maybe miserable was the wrong word.

“I’m fine.” I reach for my bag. “I don’t need any help.”

“Come on. Don’t be a coward.”

“I’m not a coward!” I retort in outrage.

“If you can give it out, you can take it,” he says cheerfully. “When you read my texts, you saw a curt, miserable git. And you told me so. Maybe you’re right.” He pauses. “But you know what I saw when I read yours?”

“No.” I scowl at him. “And I don’t want to know.”

“I saw a girl who races to help others but doesn’t help herself. And right now you need to help yourself. No one should walk up the aisle feeling inferior or in a different league or trying to be something they’re not. I don’t know exactly who your issues are with, but … ”

He picks up the phone, clicks a button, and turns the screen to face me.

Fuck.

It’s my list. The list I wrote in the church.

THINGS TO DO BEFORE WEDDING

1. Become expert on Greek philosophy.

2. Memorize Robert Burns poems.

3. Learn long Scrabble words.

4. Remember: am HYPOCHONDRIAC.

5. Beef stroganoff. Get to like. (Hypnosis?)

I feel drenched in embarrassment. This is why people shouldn’t share phones.

“’It’s nothing to do with you,” I mutter, staring at the table.

“I know,” he says gently. “I also know that standing up for yourself can be hard. But you have to do it. You have to get it out there. Before the wedding.”

I’m silent a minute or two. I can’t bear him to be right. But deep down inside me, everything he’s saying is feeling true. Like Tetris blocks falling one by one into place.

I let my bag drop down onto the table and rub my nose. Sam patiently waits while I get my thoughts in order.

“It’s all very well you telling me that,” I say finally. “It’s all very well saying ‘get it out there.’ What am I supposed to say to them?”

“ ‘Them’ being …”

“I dunno. His parents, I guess.”

I suddenly feel disloyal, talking about Magnus’s family behind his back. But it’s a bit late for that.

Sam doesn’t hesitate for a minute.

“You say, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Tavish, you’re making me feel inferior. Do you really think I’m inferior or is this just in my mind?’ ”

“What planet do you live on?” I stare at him. “I can’t say that! People don’t say things like that!”

Sam laughs. “Do you know what I’m about to do this afternoon? I’m about to tell an industry CEO that he doesn’t work hard enough, that he’s alienating his fellow board members, and that his personal hygiene is becoming a management issue.”

“Oh my God.” I’m cringing at the thought. “No way.”

“It’s going to be fine,” says Sam calmly. “I’ll take him through, point by point, and by the end he’ll be agreeing with me. It’s just technique and confidence. Awkward conversations are kind of my specialism. I learned a lot from Nick,” he adds. “He can tell people that their company is a pile of shit, and they lap out of his hand. Or even that their country is a pile of shit.”

“Wow.” I’m a bit awestruck.

“Come and sit in on the meeting. If you’re not busy. There’ll be a couple of other people.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “It’s how you learn.”

I had no idea you could be a specialist at awkward conversations. I’m trying to picture myself telling someone that their personal hygiene is an issue. I can’t imagine finding the words to do that in a million years.

Oh, come on. I have to see this.

“OK!” I find myself smiling. “I will. Thanks.”

He hasn’t picked up the phone, I suddenly notice. It’s still lying on the table.

“So … shall I bring this along to your office?” I say casually.

“Sure.” He’s shrugging on his jacket. “Thanks.”

Excellent. I get to check my texts again. Result!




72 soup, duck, etc. Which I know looks all cool and streamlined, but what sort of soup? What sort of duck?

73 Isn’t that illegal? What if I wanted to pay in dollars? Would they have to let me?

74 OK, this is ridiculous. You write a menu which no one understands and then you pay someone to explain it.