I've Got Your Number

I've Got Your Number Page 64

“Email?” echoes Sam. He slowly turns his head to meet my agonized gaze.

I should have run. While I had the chance. I should have run.

66 Where did he get that? Why has nobody offered me a shot?

67 He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to the left.

68 Doesn’t everyone want to go to Iceland? Why would you say no to Iceland?

69 So not that polite.

70 OK, I know it’s not brilliant. In my defense, I chose it in a hurry from some e-card site, and the picture was really good. It was a line drawing of an empty dog basket, and it nearly made me cry.

71 What is the etiquette when someone’s false eyelash is coming off a bit at the edge? Tell them or politely ignore?

9

I am the sorriest sorry person there ever was.

I really screwed up. I can see that now. I’ve caused Sam a whole load of work and aggro and I’ve abused his trust and been a complete pain in the neck.

Today was supposed to be a fun day. A weddingy day. I’ve got a whole load of days booked off work for last-minute wedding preparation—and what am I doing instead? Trying to think of all the different words for sorry that I can.

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.