No. Stop it, Poppy. Don’t go there. Don’t remember, or wonder, or …
“What a day,” I say at last, groping for some nice bland words.
“You said it.” Sam ushers me to the sofa and I sit down awkwardly, feeling like someone who’s doing a job interview. “So. Now that we’re alone—how are you doing? What about the other stuff?”
“Nothing much to report.” I give a deliberately careless shrug. “Oh, except I’m calling my wedding off.”
As I say the words aloud, I feel slightly sick. How many times am I going to have to utter those words? How many times am I going to have to explain myself? How am I going to cope over the next few days?
Sam nods, wincing. “OK. That’s pretty grim.”
“Not brilliant.”
“You speak to him?”
“Wanda. I went to see her at her house. I said, ‘Wanda, do you really think I’m inferior, or is this just in my mind?’ ”
“You didn’t!” exclaims Sam, looking delighted.
“Word for word.” I can’t help laughing at his expression, even though I half-want to cry too. “You would have been proud of me.”
“Go, Poppy!” He lifts a hand to high-five me. “I know that took guts. And what was the answer?”
“It was all in my head,” I admit. “She’s actually quite a sweetie. Shame about her son.”
There’s silence for a while. I feel so surreal. The wedding’s off. I’ve said it aloud, so it must be true. But it feels about as real as Aliens have invaded.
“What are your plans now?” Sam meets my gaze, and I think I can see another question in his eyes. A question about him and me.
“Dunno,” I say after a pause.
I’m trying to answer his question silently—but I don’t know if my eyes are doing their job. I don’t know if Sam can understand. After a moment I can’t bear looking at him any longer and quickly lower my head. “Take things slowly, I guess. There’ll be a lot of crap to deal with.”
“I’m sure.” He hesitates. “Coffee?”
I’ve had so much coffee today I’m like a jumping bean, but, on the other hand, I can’t stand this heightened atmosphere. I can’t gauge anything. I can’t read Sam. I don’t know what I expect or want. We’re two people who were briefly thrown together by chance and are now conducting a business transaction. That’s all.
So why does my stomach lurch every time he opens his mouth to speak? What on earth am I expecting him to say ?
“Coffee would be great, thanks. Do you have decaf?” I watch as Sam fiddles with the Nespresso machine on a counter at the side of his office, trying to get the milk frother to work. I think it’s a welcome distraction for both of us.
“Don’t worry,” I say at last, as he jiggles the frother, looking frustrated. “I can have it black.”
“You hate black coffee.”
“How do you know that?” I laugh in surprise.
“You told Lucinda once in an email.” He turns, his mouth twisting. “You think you were the only one who did a little spying?”
“You have a good memory.” I shrug. “What else do you remember?”
There’s silence. As his gaze meets mine, my heart starts a little drumbeat. His eyes are so rich and dark and serious. The more I stare at them, the more I want to stare at them. If he’s thinking what I’m thinking, then—
No. Stop it, Poppy. Of course he’s not. And I don’t even know what I’m thinking, not exactly …
“Actually, don’t worry about the coffee.” I get to my feet abruptly. “I’ll head out for a bit.”
“You sure?” Sam sounds taken aback.
“Yes, I don’t want to get in your way.” I avoid his eyes as I pass him. “I’ve got errands to run. See you in an hour.”
I don’t run any errands. I don’t have the impetus. My future’s been derailed, and I know I’m going to have to take some action—but at the moment I can’t face dealing with it. From Sam’s office I wander as far as St. Paul’s Cathedral. I sit on the steps in a shaft of sunshine, watching the tourists, pretending I’m on holiday from my own life. Then, at last, I make my way back.
Sam is on a call as I’m shown in to his office, and he nods at me, gesturing apologetically at the phone.
“Knock knock!” Ted’s head appears around the door, and I start. “All done. We had three operatives on it.” He comes into the room, holding a massive sheaf of A4 paper. “Only trouble is, we’ve had to print each text on a separate piece of paper. It’s like ruddy War and Peace. ”
“Wow.” I can’t believe how many pieces of paper he’s holding. I surely can’t have sent that many texts and emails? I mean, I’ve only had the phone for a matter of days.
“So.” Ted puts the sheets down on the table with a businesslike air and separates them into three bundles. “One of the lads has been sorting them as we’ve gone along. These are all Sam’s. Business emails, so forth. In-box, out-box, drafts, everything. Sam, here you go.” He holds them out as Sam gets up from his desk.
“Great, thanks,” says Sam, flipping through them.
“We’ve printed out the attachments as well. They should all be on your computer too, Sam, but just in case… . And these are yours, Poppy.” He pats a second bundle. “Everything should be there.”