As I arrive for lunch, I’m wearing a suitably penitent gray T-shirt and denim-skirt combo. We’re meeting at a restaurant round the corner from his office, and the first thing I see when I walk in is a group of girls I remember from the Savoy last night, clustered at a circular table. I’m sure they wouldn’t recognize me, but I duck hurriedly past anyway.
Sam described this as “a second office cafeteria’ on the phone. Some cafeteria. There are steel tables and taupe linen-covered chairs and one of those cool menus where everything’s in lowercase and each dish is described in the minimal amount of words.72 There aren’t even any pound signs.73 No wonder Sam likes it.
I’ve ordered some water and am trying to decide between soup and salad, when Sam appears at the door. Immediately, all the girls start waving him over, and after a moment’s hesitation, he joins them. I can’t hear all the conversation, but I catch the odd word: amazing idea … excited … so supportive. Everyone’s smiling and looking positive, even Sam.
Eventually he makes his excuses and heads over towards me.
“Hi. You made it.” No smile for me, I notice.
“Yes. Nice restaurant. Thanks for meeting me. I really appreciate it.” I’m trying to be as mollifying as possible.
“I practically live here.” He shrugs. “Everyone at WGC does.”
“So … here’s a list of all the emails I sent in your name.” I want to get this over straightaway. As I hand the sheet over, I can’t help wincing. It looks such a lot, written down. “And I’ve forwarded everything.”
A waiter interrupts me with a jug of water and a “Welcome back, sir,” to Sam, and then beckons over a waitress with the bread basket. As they leave, Sam folds my sheet and pockets it without comment. Thank God. I thought he was going to go through it item by item, like a headmaster.
“Those girls are from your company, aren’t they?” I nod at the circular table. “What were they talking about?”
There’s a pause as Sam pours himself some water—then he looks up. “They were talking about your project, as it happens.”
I stare at him. “ My project? You mean my email about ideas?”
“Yes. It’s gone down well in admin.”
“Wow!” I let myself bask in this thought for a moment. “So … not everyone reacted badly.”
“Not everyone, no.”
“Has anyone come up with any good ideas for the company?”
“As it happens … yes,” he says grudgingly. “Some interesting thoughts have emerged.”
“Wow! Great!”
“Though I still have several people convinced there’s a conspiracy theory to sack everyone and one threatening legal action.”
“Oh.” I feel chastened. “Right. Sorry about that.”
“Hello.” A cheerful girl in a green apron approaches. “May I explain the menu?74 We have a butternut squash soup today, made with an organic chicken stock … ”
She goes through each item and, needless to say, I stop concentrating immediately. So by the end I have no idea what’s available except butternut squash soup.
“Butternut squash soup, please.” I smile.
“Steak baguette, rare, and a green salad. Thanks.” I don’t think Sam was listening either. He checks something on his phone and frowns, and I feel a pang of guilt. I must have increased his workload a ton with all this.
“I just want to say, I’m really, really sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry about the e-card. I’m sorry about Guatemala. I got carried away. I know I’ve caused you a lot of grief, and if I can help in any way I will. I mean … shall I send some emails for you?”
“No!” Sam sounds like he’s been scalded. “Thank you,” he adds more calmly. “You’ve done enough.”
“So, how are you managing?” I venture. “I mean, processing everyone’s ideas.”
“Jane’s taken charge for now. She’s sending out my brush-off email.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Your brush-off email? What’s that?”
“You know the sort of thing. Sam is delighted to have received your email. He’ll get back to you as soon as he possibly can. Meanwhile, thanks for your interest. Translation: Don’t expect to hear from me anytime soon. ” He raises his eyebrows. “You must have a brush-off email. They come in pretty useful for fending off unwanted advances too.”
“No, I don’t,” I say, a little offended. “I never want to brush people off. I answer them!”
“OK, that explains a lot. ” He tears off a chunk of bread and chews it. “If I’d known that, I never would have agreed to share a phone.
“Well, you don’t have to anymore.”
“Thank God. Where is it?”
I rummage in my bag, take the phone out, and put it on the table between us.
“What the hell is that ?” Sam exclaims, looking horrified.
“What?” I follow his gaze, puzzled, then realize. There were some diamanté phone stickers in the Marie Curie goody bag, and I stuck them on the phone the other day.
“Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes at his expression. “They come off.”
“They’d better.” He still seems stunned by the sight of it. Honestly. Doesn’t anyone at his company bother to decorate their phone?
Our food arrives, and for a while we’re distracted with pepper mills and mustard and some side dish of parsnip chips which they seem to think we ordered.