There. You see? A brilliant, positive reaction. Teamwork! Presentations! This is fantastic!
Dear Sam,
Sorry to bother you again.
If we don’t want to work in a team after all, will we be penalized? I have fallen out with my team, but now they know all my ideas, which is totally unfair.
Just so you know, I had the idea about restructuring the marketing department first. Not Carol.
Best,
Mandy
OK. Well, obviously you have to expect a few glitches. It doesn’t matter. It’s still a positive result….
Dear Sam,
I’m sorry to do this, but I wish to make a formal complaint about the behavior of Carol Hanratty.
She has behaved totally unprofessionally in the new-ideas exercise, and I am forced to take the rest of the day off, due to my great distress. Judy is also too distressed to work for the rest of the day, and we are thinking of contacting our union.
Best,
Mandy
What? What?
Dear Sam,
Forgive the long email. You ask for ideas.
Where to start?
I have worked at this company for fifteen years, during which time a long process of disillusionment has silted up my very veins, until my mental processes …
This guy’s email is about fifteen pages long. I drop my phone into my lap, my jaw slack.
I can’t believe all these replies. I never ever meant to cause all this kerfuffle. Why are people so stupid? Why do they have to fight? What on earth have I stirred up?
I’ve read only the first few emails. There are about thirty more to go. If I forward all these to Sam, and he steps off the plane in Germany and gets them in one fell swoop … I suddenly hear his voice again: Round-robin emails are the work of the devil.
And I sent one out in his name. To the whole company. Without consulting him.
Oh God. I’m really wishing I could go back in time. It seemed like such a great idea. What was I thinking? All I know is, I can’t land this on him out of the blue. I need to explain it all to him first. Tell him what I was trying to achieve.
My mind is ticking over now. I mean, he’s in a plane. He’s off-radar. And it’s Friday night, after all. There’s no point forwarding anything to him. Maybe everyone will have calmed down by Monday. Yes.
The phone suddenly bleeps with a text and I jump, startled.
Taking off. Anything I need to know about? Sam
I stare at the phone, my heart beating with slight paranoia. Does he need to know about this right at this very moment? Does he need to?
No. He does not.
Not right now. Have a good trip! Poppy
61 In fact, probably pressing a glass up to it.
62 His waistcoat cost nearly the same amount as my dress.
63 I think cymbals in the work of Coldplay would make more sense, but what do I know?
64 Wanda made beef stroganoff for us the first time I met her. How could I tell her the truth, which is that it makes me gag?
65 He was on Newsnight and everything. According to Magnus, Antony loved all the attention, although he pretended he didn’t. He’s been saying even more controversial things ever since, but none has ever taken off like the Philistines thing.
I don’t know what to do about Antony and Wanda and Antechapelgate, as I’ve named it in my head. So I’ve done nothing. I’ve said nothing.
I know I’m avoiding it. I know it’s weak. I know I should face the situation. But I can barely even take it in, let alone talk about it. Especially to Magnus.
I didn’t realize how good at acting I was. All weekend, I’ve given nothing away. I’ve had dinner with the Tavish family. I’ve been out for a drink with Ruby and Annalise. I’ve laughed and talked and exclaimed and joked and had sex. And all the time there’s been this little gnawing pain in my chest. I’m almost getting used to it.
If they’d say something to me, I’d almost feel better. We could have a stand-up row, and I could convince them that I love Magnus and I’m going to support his career and I do have a brain really. But they’ve said nothing. They’ve been outwardly charming and pleasant, politely inquiring about our house-hunting plans and offering me glasses of wine.
Which only makes it worse. It confirms that I’m an outsider. I’m not even allowed into the family powwow about how unsuitable this new girlfriend of Magnus’s is.
It would even be OK if Magnus hated his parents and didn’t respect their views and we could just write them off as loonies. But he does respect them. He likes them. They get on really well. They agree on most things, and when they don’t agree it’s with good nature and banter. On every subject.
Every subject except me.
I can’t think about it for too long, because I get all upset and panicky, so I allow myself only a tiny snippet of worry at a time. I’ve had my quota for this evening. I sat in a Starbucks after work, nursing a hot chocolate, and got quite morose.
But right now, looking at me, you’d have no idea. I’m in my best LBD and high heels. My makeup is immaculate. My eyes are sparkling (two cocktails). I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror just now, and I look like a carefree girl, wearing an engagement ring, drinking cosmos at the Savoy, with nothing to worry about.
And, to be truthful, my mood is a lot better than it was. Partly because of the cocktails and partly because I’m so thrilled to be here. I’ve never been to the Savoy in my life before. It’s amazing!
The party is in a stunning room with paneling and spectacular chandeliers everywhere and waiters handing out cocktails on trays. A jazz band is playing and, all around, smartly dressed people are chatting in clusters. There are lots of back slaps and handshakes and high fives going on, and everyone seems in a great mood. I don’t know a single person, obviously, but I’m happy just to watch. Every time someone notices me standing on my own and starts to approach, I get out my phone to check my messages, and they turn away again.
This is the great thing about a phone. It’s like an escort.
Lucinda keeps texting, telling me how she’s in North London, looking at another variety of gray silk, and do I have any thoughts on texture? Magnus has texted from Warwick about some research trip he’s cooking up with a professor there. Meanwhile, I’m having quite a long conversation with Ruby about the blind date she’s on. The only thing is, it’s quite hard to text and hold a cocktail at the same time, so at last I put my cosmo down on a nearby table and fire off some replies:
Sure, the gray slub silk will be fine. Thanks so much!! Love, Poppy xxxxx
I don’t think ordering two steaks is necessarily creepy … maybe he is on Atkins diet??? Keep me posted! P xxxxx
Sounds fab, can I come too?! P xxxxx
There are scads of messages for Sam too. Loads more people have replied to the new-ideas request. Many have enclosed long attachments and CVs. There are even a couple of videos. People must have been busy over the weekend. I wince as I catch sight of one entitled 1,001 ideas for WGC—part 1 and avert my eyes.
What I was hoping was that everything would calm down over the weekend and people would forget all about it. But at about eight this morning, the avalanche of emails began, and they keep flying back and forth. There are still rumors that this is all some big audition for a job. There’s a bitter dispute about which department had the idea of expanding to the States first. Malcolm keeps sending tetchy emails asking who approved this initiative, and the whole thing is basically mayhem. Don’t these people have lives?
It makes me hyperventilate slightly whenever I think about it. So I have a new coping technique: I’m not. It can wait till tomorrow.
And so can Willow’s most recent email to Sam. I’ve now decided she must not only have supermodel good looks but be amazing in bed and a gazillionairess, to make up for her foul temper.
Today she’s sent him yet another long, tedious rant, saying that she wants Sam to find her a special brand of German exfoliator while he’s over ther
e, but he probably won’t bother and that’s just like him, after all that pate she dragged back from France for him, it made her gag but she still did it, but that’s the kind of person she is and he could really learn from that, but has he EVER wanted to learn from her? HAS HE???
Honestly. She does my head in.
I’m scrolling back up the endless stack of emails when one alerts my attention. It’s from Adrian Foster, in marketing.
Dear Sam,
Thanks for agreeing to present Lindsay’s birthday flowers to her—they’ve arrived at last! As you weren’t around today I’ve put them in your room. They’re in water, so they should keep all right.
Best,
Adrian
It wasn’t actually Sam who agreed to present the flowers. It was me, on behalf of Sam.
Now I feel less confident this was a good idea. What if he’s frantically busy tomorrow? What if he gets pissed off that he has to take time out of his schedule to go and present flowers? How could I make this easier for him?
I hesitate for a moment, then quickly type an email to Lindsay.
Hi, Lindsay,
I want to give you something in my office. Something you’ll like. Stop by tomorrow. Anytime.
Sam xxxxx
I press send without rereading it and take a swig of cosmo. For about twenty seconds I’m relaxed, savoring my drink, wondering when the canapes will start to arrive. Then, as though an alarm clock has gone off, I start.
Wait. I put kisses after Sam’s name. I shouldn’t have done that. People don’t put kisses on professional emails.
Shit. I retrieve the email and reread it, wincing. I’m so used to kisses, they popped out automatically. But Sam never puts kisses. Ever.
Should I somehow try to unsend the kisses?
Dear Lindsay, just to clarify, I did not mean to add kisses….
No. Awful. I’ll have to leave it. I’m probably overreacting, anyway. She probably won’t even notice—
Oh God. An email reply has already arrived from Lindsay. That was quick. I click it open and stare at the message.
See you then, Sam.
Lindsay xx ;)
Two kisses and a winky face. Is that normal?
I stare at it for a few moments, trying to convince myself that it is.
Yes. Yes, I think that’s normal. It could definitely be normal. Simply friendly office correspondence.
I put my phone away, drain my drink, and look around for another. There’s a waitress standing a few yards away, and I start to thread my way through the crowds.
“… policy Sam Roxton’s idea?” A man’s voice attracts my attention. “Fucking ludicrous.”
“You know Sam….”
I stop dead, pretending to fiddle with my phone. A group of men in suits has paused nearby. They’re all younger than Sam and very well dressed. They must be his colleagues.
I wonder if I can match the faces to the emails. I bet that one with the olive skin is Justin Cole, who sent the round robin telling everyone that casual dressing on Fridays was compulsory and could everyone please do it with style? He looks like the fashion police, in his black suit and skinny tie.
“Is he here?” says a blond guy.
“Haven’t seen him,” replies the olive-skinned man, draining a shot glass.66 “Stubborn fuck.”
My head jerks in surprise. Well, that’s not very nice.
My phone bleeps with a text and I click on it, grateful to have something to occupy my fingers. Ruby has sent me a photo of some brown hair, with the message:
Is this a toupee???
I can’t suppress a snort of laughter. Somehow she’s managed to snap a photo of her date’s head from behind. How did she manage that? Didn’t he notice?
I squint at the picture. It looks like normal hair to me. I’ve no idea why Ruby’s so obsessed by toupees, anyway. Just because of that one disastrous blind date she had last year, where the guy turned out to be fifty-nine, not thirty-nine.67
Don’t think so. Looks fine! xxxxxx
As I look up, the men who were talking have moved away into the crowd. Damn. I was quite intrigued by that conversation.
I take another cosmo and a few delicious pieces of sushi (already this evening would have cost me about fifty quid if I was paying for it) and am about to head over toward the jazz band when I hear the screechy sound of a microphone being turned on. I swivel round—and it’s only about five feet away on a small podium, which I hadn’t noticed. A blond girl in a black trouser suit taps the microphone and says, “Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please?” After a moment, she says more loudly, “People! It’s time for the speeches! The quicker we start, the quicker they’re over, OK?”
There’s a general laugh and the crowd starts to move toward this end of the room. I’m being pushed straight toward the podium, which is really not where I want to be—but I don’t have much choice.
“So, here we are!” The blond woman spreads her arms. “Welcome to this celebration of the merger of ourselves, Johnson Ellison, and the wonderful Greene Retail. This is a marriage of hearts and minds as much as companies, and we have many, many people to thank. Our managing director, Patrick Gowan, showed the initial vision which led to us standing here now. Patrick, get up here!”
A bearded guy in a pale suit walks onto the podium, smiling modestly and shaking his head, and everyone starts clapping, including me.
“Keith Burnley—what can I say? He’s been an inspiration to us all,” the blonde continues.
The trouble with standing right at the front of the crowd is that you feel really conspicuous. I’m trying to listen attentively and look interested, but none of these names mean anything to me. Maybe I should have done some homework. I surreptitiously get my phone out and wonder if I can discreetly find the email about the merger.
“And I know he’s here somewhere….” She’s looking around, shading her eyes. “He tried to wriggle out of coming tonight, but we had to have the man himself, Mr. White Globe Consulting, Mr. Sam Roxton!”
My head jerks up in shock. No. That can’t be right, he can’t be
Fuck.
Fresh applause breaks out as Sam strides onto the podium, wearing a dark suit and a slight frown. I’m so stunned I can’t even move. He was in Germany. He wasn’t coming tonight. What’s he doing here?
From the way his face jolts in surprise as he sees me, I guess he’s wondering the same thing.
I am so busted. Why did I think I could get away with gate-crashing a big posh party like this?
My face is flaming with embarrassment. I quickly try to back away, but the mass of people pressing behind me is too heavy, so I’m stuck, staring mutely up at him.
“When Sam’s in the room, you know things will reach resolution,” the blond woman is saying. “Whether it’s the resolution you want … eh, Charles?” There’s a roar of laughter around the room, and I hastily join in with fake gusto. Clearly this is a massive in-joke, which I would know about if I weren’t a gate-crasher.
The guy next to me turns and exclaims, “She’s a bit near the knuckle there!” and I find myself replying, “I know, I know!” and giving another huge phony laugh.
“Which brings me to another key player …”
As I lift my eyes, Sam is looking nowhere near me, thank God. This is excruciating enough as it is.
“Let’s hear it for Jessica Garnett!”
As a girl in red steps onto the podium, Sam takes his phone out of his pocket and unobtrusively taps at it. A moment later a text bleeps in my phone.
Why were you laughing?
I feel a stab of mortification. He must know I was just trying to blend in. He’s deliberately winding me up. Well, I’m not going to rise.
It was a good joke.
I watch as Sam checks his phone again. His face twitches only the tiniest bit, but I know he got it. He types again briefly—then a moment later my phone bleeps again.
I didn’t know your name was on my invitation.
Just stopped by to collect your goody bag for you. All part of the service. No need to thank me.
And my cocktails, I see.
Now he’s looking right at my cosmo. He raises his eyebrows and I suppress an urge to giggle.
I was going to put them in a hip flask for you. Obviously.
Obviously. Although mine’s a Manhattan.
Ah, well, now I know. I’ll chuck all those tequila shots I had saved up.
As he clocks this last message, Sam looks up from his phone and flashes me that sudden smile. Without meaning to, I find myself beaming back and even catch my breath a little. It really does something to me, that smile of his. It’s disconcerting. It’s …
Anyway. Concentrate on the speech.
“… and, finally, have a great night tonight! Thanks, everyone!”
As a final round of applause breaks out, I try to find an escape route, but there isn’t one. Within approximately ten seconds, Sam has stepped straight down off the podium and is standing in front of me.
“Oh.” I try to hide my discomfiture. “Er … hi. Fancy seeing you here!”
He doesn’t reply, only looks at me quizzically. There’s no point trying to brazen this out.
“OK, I’m sorry,” I say in a rush. “I know I shouldn’t be here, it’s just I’ve never been to the Savoy, and it sounded so amazing, and you didn’t want to go, and—” I break off as he lifts a hand, looking amused.
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