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 awhile—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. Adios, 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. Adios, 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 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 some
thing 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.
56Daily Mail gossip column.
57 I actually half-remember seeing that story in the paper.
58 Good thing he isn’t my boss, is all I can say.
59 I know he’s free on Wednesday at lunchtime, because someone has just canceled.
60 I know he may not have a dog. I just feel pretty sure that he does.
The fake ring’s perfect!
OK, not perfect. It’s a tad smaller than the original. And a bit tinnier. But who’s going to know without the other one to compare? I’ve worn it most of the afternoon and it feels really comfortable. In fact, it’s lighter than the real thing, which is an advantage.
Now I’ve finished my last appointment of the day and am standing with my hands spread out on the reception desk. All the patients have gone, even sweet Mrs. Randall, with whom I’ve just had to be quite firm. I told her not to come back here for two weeks. I told her she was perfectly capable of exercising at home alone, and there was no reason she shouldn’t be back on the tennis court.
Then, of course, it all came out. It turned out she was nervous of letting down her doubles partner, and that’s why she was coming in so often: to give herself confidence. I told her she was absolutely ready and I wanted her to text me her next score before she came back to see me. I said if it came to it, I’d play tennis with her, at which point she laughed and said I was right, she was being nonsensical.
Then, when she’d gone, Angela told me that Mrs. Randall is some shit-hot player who once played in Junior Wimbledon. Yowzer. Probably a good thing we didn’t play, since I can’t even hit a backhand.
Angela’s gone home too now. It’s just Annalise, Ruby, and me, and we’re surveying the ring in silence except for a spring storm outside. One minute it was a bright breezy day; the next, rain was hammering at the windows.
“Excellent.” Ruby is nodding energetically. Her hair is up in a ponytail today, and it bounces as she nods. “Very good. You’d never know.”
“I’d know,” Annalise retorts at once. “It’s not the same green.”
“Really?” I peer at it in dismay.
“The question is, how observant is Magnus?” Ruby raises her eyebrows. “Does he ever look at it?”
“I don’t think so….”
“Well, maybe keep your hands away from him for a while, to be on the safe side.”
“Keep my hands away from him? How do I do that?”
“You’ll have to restrain yourself!” says Annalise tartly. “It can’t be that hard.”
“How about his parents?” says Ruby.
“They’re bound to want to see it. We’re meeting in the church, so the lights will be pretty dim, but even so …” I bite my lip, suddenly nervous. “Oh God. Does it look real?”
“Yes!” says Ruby at once.
“No,” says Annalise, equally firmly. “Sorry, but it doesn’t. Not if you look carefully.”
“Well, don’t let them!” says Ruby. “If they start looking too closely, create a diversion.”
“Like what?”
“Faint? Pretend to have a fit? Tell them you’re pregnant?”
“Pregnant?” I stare at her, wanting to laugh. “Are you nuts?”
“I’m only trying to help,” she says defensively. “Maybe they’d like you to be pregnant. Maybe Wanda’s gunning to be a granny.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No way. She’d freak out.”
“Perfect! Then she won’t look at the ring. She’ll be too consumed with rage.” Ruby nods in satisfaction, as though she’s solved all my problems.
“I don’t want a raging mother-in-law, thanks very much!”
“She’ll be raging either way,” Annalise points out. “You just have to decide which is worse: pregnant daughter-in-law or flaky daughter-in-law who lost the priceless heirloom ring? I’d say go with pregnant.”
“Stop it! I’m not saying I’m pregnant!” I look at the ring again and rub the fake emerald. “I think it’ll be fine,” I say, as
much to convince myself as anything. “It’ll be fine.”
“Is that Magnus?” says Ruby suddenly. “Across the street?”
I follow her gaze. There he is, holding an umbrella against the rain, waiting for the traffic lights to change.
“Shit.” I leap to my feet and clasp my right hand casually over my left. No. Too unnatural. I thrust my left hand into my uniform pocket, but my arm is left sticking out at an awkward angle.
“Bad.” Ruby is watching. “Really bad.”
“What shall I dooo?” I wail.
“Hand cream.” She reaches for a tube. “Come on. I’m giving you a manicure. Then you can leave a bit of the cream on. Accidentally on purpose.”
“Genius.” I glance over at Annalise and blink in surprise. “Er … Annalise? What are you doing?”
In the thirty seconds since Ruby spotted Magnus, Annalise seems to have applied a fresh layer of lip gloss and sprayed scent on, and is now pulling a few sexy strands of hair out of her ballerina’s bun.
“Nothing!” she says defiantly, as Ruby starts rubbing cream into my hands.
I only have time to dart her a suspicious look before the door opens and Magnus appears, shaking water from his umbrella.
“Hello, girls!” He beams around as though we’re an appreciative audience waiting for his entrance. Which I suppose we are.
“Magnus! Let me take your coat.” Annalise has rushed forward. “It’s OK, Poppy. You’re having your manicure. I’ll do it. And maybe a cup of tea?”