“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.”