“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 inner sanctum. It’s 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.
“Funny girl, aren’t you?”
“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 fiancee 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. Willow.”
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 innocently.
“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….”
She’s playing to the gallery again. I wonder if she went to drama school and got chucked out for being too melodramatic.84
“It’s … complicated.”
The word complicated seems to inflame Willow even more.
“Oh, ‘complicated.’ ” She makes little jabby quote gestures. ” ‘Complicated.’ Wait a minute.” Her eyes suddenly narrow to disbelieving slits as she surveys my outfit. “Is that Sam’s shirt?”
Ah. A-ha-ha. She’s really not going to like that. Maybe I won’t answer.
“Is that Sam’s shirt? Tell me right now!” Her voice is so hectoring and abrasive, I flinch. “Are you wearing Sam’s shirt? Tell me! Is that his shirt? Answer me!”
“Mind your own Brazilian!” The words fly out of my mouth before I can st
op them. Oops.
OK. The trick when you’ve said something embarrassing by mistake is not to overreact. Instead, keep your chin up and pretend nothing happened. Maybe Willow didn’t even notice what I said. I’m sure she didn’t notice. Of course she didn’t.
I dart a surreptitious look at her, and her eyes have widened so much, I think her eyeballs might pop out. All right, so she did notice. And from David’s gleeful expression, it’s clear he did too.
“I mean … business,” I amend, clearing my throat. “Business.”
Over David’s shoulder I suddenly see Vicks. She’s striding through the clusters of White Globe Consulting employees, and her grim expression makes my stomach turn over. I glance at my watch. Quarter to ten.
“Vicks!” Willow has noticed her too. She blocks Vicks’s way, her arms folded imperiously. “Where’s Sam? Someone said he was with you.”
“Excuse me, Willow.” Vicks tries to get past.
“Just tell me where Sam is!”
“I have no idea, Willow!” Vicks snaps. “Can you get out of my way? I need to speak to Poppy.”
“Poppy? You need to speak to Poppy?” Willow looks as if she’s going to explode with frustration. “Who is this fucking Poppy?”
I almost feel sorry for Willow. Completely ignoring her, Vicks comes round to my seat, bends down low, and mutters, “Do you know where Sam is?”
“No.” I look at her in alarm. “What’s happened?”
“Has he texted you? Anything?”
“No!” I double-check my phone. “Nothing. I thought he was with you.”
“He was.” Vicks does her eye-rubbing thing with the heels of her hands, and I resist the temptation to grab her wrists.
“What happened?” I lower my voice further. “Please, Vicks. I’ll be discreet. I swear.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Vicks nods. “OK. We ran out of time. I guess you could say Sam lost.”
I feel a plunge of disappointment. After all that.
“What did Sam say?”
“Not a lot. He stormed out.”
“What will happen to Sir Nicholas?” I speak as quietly as I can.
Vicks doesn’t reply, but her head turns away as though she wants to escape that particular thought.
“I have to go,” she says abruptly. “Let me know if you hear from Sam. Please.”
“OK.”
I wait as Vicks walks away, then casually raise my head. Sure enough, Willow is fixated on me, like a cobra.
“So,” she says.
“So.” I smile back pleasantly, just as Willow’s eyes land on my left hand. Her mouth opens. For an instant she seems incapable of speech.
“Who gave you that ring?” she utters at last.
What bloody business is it of hers?
“A girl called Lucinda,” I say, to wind her up. “I’d lost it, you see. She gave it back.”
Willow draws breath and I swear she’s about to launch her fangs into me, when Vicks’s voice comes blasting through the PA system at top volume.
“I’m sorry to interrupt the party, but I have an important announcement to make. All employees of White Globe Consulting, please make your way back into the main conference hall immediately. That’s back into the main conference hall, immediately. Thank you.”
There’s an outbreak of chatter around us, and all the clusters of people start moving toward the double doors, some quickly refilling their glasses.
“Looks like my cue to leave,” says David, getting to his feet. “You’ll be needing to go. Give my regards to Sam.”
“I’m not actually an employee,” I say, for accuracy’s sake. “But, yes, I do need to go. Sorry about that.”
“Really?” David shakes his head, looking mystified. “Then she’s got a point.” He jerks his head at Willow. “You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and you don’t work for this company. Who the hell are you and what have you got to do with Sam?”
“Like I said.” I can’t help smiling at his quizzical expression. “It’s … complicated.”
“I can believe it.” He raises his eyebrows, then produces a business card and presses it into my hand. “Tell Sam. Exotic mini-pets. I’ve got a great opportunity for him.”
“I’ll tell him.” I nod seriously. “Thanks.” I watch him disappear toward the exit, then carefully put his card away for Sam.
“So.” Willow looms in front of me again, arms folded. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
“Are you serious?” I can’t hide my exasperation. “Isn’t there something else you need to be doing right now?” I gesture at the crowds surging into the conference room.
“Oh, nice try.” She doesn’t even flicker. “I’m hardly going to make some tedious corporate announcement my priority.”
“Believe me, this tedious corporate announcement is one you’re going to want to hear.”
“You know all about it, I suppose,” Willow shoots back sarcastically.
“Yes.” I nod, suddenly feeling despondent. “I know all about it. And … I think I’m going to get a drink.”
I stalk away to the bar. I can see Willow in the mirror, and after a few seconds she turns and heads toward the conference room, her expression mutinous. I feel drained just from talking to her.
No, I feel drained by the whole day. I order myself a large glass of wine, then slowly walk toward the conference room. Vicks is standing on the stage, talking to a rapt, shocked audience. Behind her, the massive screen is on silent TV.
“… as I say, we don’t know exactly what shape the report will take, but we have made our response, and that’s the only thing we can do at the present time. Are there any questions? Nihal?”
“Where’s Sir Nicholas now?” comes Nihal’s voice from the crowd.
“He’s in Berkshire. We’ll have to see what happens about the rest of the conference. As soon as any decisions have been made, obviously you will all be informed.”
I’m looking around at the faces. Justin is a few feet away from me, gazing up at Vicks in a pantomime of shock and concern. Now he raises his hand.
“Justin?” says Vicks reluctantly.
“Vicks, bravo.” His smooth voice travels through the room. “I can only imagine how difficult these last few hours have been for you. As a member of the senior management team, I’d like to thank you for your sterling efforts. Whatever Sir Nicholas may or may not have said, whatever the truth of the matter—and of course none of us can really know that—your loyalty to the company is what we value. Well done, Vicks!” He leads a round of applause.
Ooh. Snake. Clearly I’m not the only one to think this, because another hand shoots straight up.
“Malcolm!” says Vicks in plain relief.
“I’d like to make it clear to all employees that Sir Nicholas did not make these remarks.” Unfortunately, Malcolm’s voice is a bit rumbly and I’m not sure everyone can hear. “I received the original memo he sent, and it was completely different—”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt you now,” Vicks chimes in. “The bulletin’s starting. Volume up, please.”
Where’s Sam? He should be here. He should be replying to Justin and crushing him. He should be watching the bulletin. I just don’t get it.
The familiar ITN News at Ten music begins, and the swirling graphics fill the massive screen onstage. I’m feeling ridiculously nervous, even though it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Maybe they won’t run the story, I keep thinking. You hear about items being bumped all the time….
Big Ben’s chimes have begun. Any second they’ll start announcing the headlines. My stomach clenches with nerves, and I take a swig of wine. Watching the news is a completely different experience when it’s something to do with you. This is what prime ministers must feel like all the time. God, I wouldn’t be them for anything. They must spend every evening hiding behind the sofa, peering through their fingers.
Bong! “Fresh attacks in the Middle East lead to fears of instability.”
Bong! “House prices make a surprise recovery—but will it last?” Bong! “A leaked memo casts doubts on the integrity of a top government adviser.”
There it is. They’re running it.
There’s an almost eerie silence in the room. No one has gasped or even reacted. I think everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for the full item. The Middle Eastern report has started and there are pictures of gunfire in a dusty street, but I’m barely taking it in. I’ve pulled out my phone and am texting Sam.
Are you watching? Everyone is in conference room. P
My phone remains silent. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he in here with everyone else?
I stare fixedly at the screen as the footage changes to house-price graphs and an interview with a family trying to move to Thaxted, wherever that is. I’m willing the presenters to speak more quickly, to get through it. Never have I been less interested in house prices in my life.85
And then both the first two items are done and we’re back in the studio and the newsreader is saying, with her grave face on:
“Tonight, doubts were cast on the integrity of Sir Nicholas Murray, the founder of White Globe Consulting and government adviser. In a confidential memo obtained exclusively by ITN, he refers to corrupt practices and the soliciting of bribes, apparently condoning them.”
There are a few gasps and whispers around the room. I glance at Vicks. Her face is amazingly composed as she watches the screen. I suppose she knew what to expect.
“But in a new twist, within the last few minutes ITN has discovered that another staff member at White Globe Consulting may in fact have written the words credited to Sir Nicholas, something which official company sources deny all knowledge of. Our reporter Damian Standforth asks: Is Sir Nicholas a villain—or the victim of a smear attempt?”
“What?” Vicks’s voice rips across the room. “What the fuck—”
A babble has broken out, interspersed with “Shh!” and “Listen!” and “Shut up!” Someone has ramped the sound to top volume. I stare at the screen, utterly confused.
Did Sam find some proof? Did he pull it out of the bag? My phone bleeps and I yank it from my pocket. It’s a text from Sam.