Sam,
Nice try. I know EXACTLY what you’re up to and you’re PATHETIC. Where did you get her from, an agency? I would have thought you could do better than that.
Willow
As I’m staring at the screen in disbelief, a second email pops in.
I mean, Jesus, Sam. She isn’t even DRESSED for the occasion. Or are cutesy denim skirts suddenly appropriate conference wear??
My skirt is not cutesy! And I wasn’t exactly planning to come to a conference when I got dressed this morning, was I?
In outrage, I press reply and type an email.
Actually, I think she’s stunningly beautiful. And her denim skirt isn’t cutesy. So there, Willow the Witch.
Sam.
Then I delete it. Naturally. I’m about to put my phone away when a third email pops in from Willow. Honestly. Can’t she give it a rest?
You want me to be jealous, Sam. Fine. I respect that. I even like it. We need sparks in our relationship. But TRY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE JEALOUS OF!!!
Because believe me, no one here is impressed by your little stunt. I mean, parading around some nondescript girl who clearly has NO IDEA HOW TO BLOW-DRY HER FUCKING HAIR … Well. It’s tragic, Sam. TRAGIC.
Talk to you when you’re a grown-up.
Willow
I touch my hair defensively. I did blow-dry it this morning. It’s just hard to get to the back bits. I mean, not that I care what she thinks, but I can’t help feeling a little stung—
My thoughts are interrupted mid-flow and I stare at the screen. I don’t believe it. An email has arrived in the phone from Sam. He’s responded to Willow. He’s actually replied to her! Except he’s pressed reply all, so it’s come to me too.
I glance up in astonishment and see that he’s still talking to the gray-haired men, apparently engrossed. He must have rattled it off very quickly. I open up the email and see a single line.
Cut it out, Willow. You’re not impressing anyone.
I blink at the screen. She won’t like that.
I wait for her to launch some further scathing attack on Sam—but no more emails arrive. Maybe she’s as taken aback as I am.
“Great. We’ll talk later.” Sam’s voice rises above the hubbub. “Poppy, few more people I’d like you to meet.”
“OK.” I snap to attention, thrusting my phone away. “Let’s do it.”
We circulate around the rest of the room. Sam’s list is covered with ticks. I must have listened to nearly every male voice in the company, and I haven’t heard anybody who sounds anything like the guy on the phone. I’m even starting to wonder whether I’m remembering him right. Or whether I hallucinated the whole thing.
As we head along a carpeted corridor toward the open terrace doors, I can tell Sam is low. I feel pretty low myself.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Not your fault.” He looks up and seems to clock my mood. “Poppy, seriously. I know you’re doing your best.” His face crinkles for a moment. “Hey, and I’m sorry about Willow.”
“Oh.” I brush it off. “Don’t worry about it.”
We walk in silence for a few moments. I want to say something like, “Thanks for sticking up for me,’ but I’m too awkward. I feel like I shouldn’t really have been inside that email exchange.
The terrace is covered in lanterns, and there are a few clusters of people but not nearly as many as there were inside. I suppose it’s too cold. But it’s shame, because there’s actually quite a nice partylike atmosphere out here. There’s a bar, and a couple of people are even dancing. On the corner of the terrace, a guy holding a TV camera seems to be interviewing a pair of giggling girls.
“So, maybe we’ll strike lucky.” I try to sound upbeat.
“Maybe.” Sam nods, but I can tell he’s given up.
“What happens if we don’t find him out here?”
“Then … we tried.” Sam’s face is taut, but for the briefest of moments his smile pops out. “We tried.”
“OK. Well, let’s do it.” I put on my best motivational you- can -get-mobility-back-into-that-hip-joint voice. “Let’s try.”
We head out and Sam launches into the same old routine.
“Hi there, gang! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is James. James, why don’t you tell Poppy what your line is? And here’s Brian, and this is Rhys.”
It’s not James or Brian or Rhys. Or Martin or Nigel.
Every name on Sam’s list is ticked off. I almost want to cry when I look at his face. At last we step away from a group of interns who weren’t even on the list and can’t possibly be Scottie.
We’re done.
“I’ll phone Vicks,” Sam says, his voice a little heavy. “Poppy, thanks for giving up your time. It was a stupid plan.”
“It wasn’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “It … could have worked.”
Sam looks up and for a moment we just stand there.
“You’re very kind,” he says at last.
“Hi, Sam! Hi, guys!” A girl’s raised voice makes me flinch. Maybe I’m sensitive because I’ve been listening more carefully to the way people speak—but this voice is setting my teeth on edge. I turn to see a bubbly-looking girl with a pink scarf tied in her hair approaching us with the TV camera guy, who has a dark crew cut and jeans.