I feel a rush of tears behind my eyes and blink furiously. I’m being stupid. Ridiculous. Number one, this is my new family and I’m trying to integrate with them. Number two, Toby and Tom are both away at college now. They have deep voices and Tom has a beard. We never play Scrabble. I don’t even know where the set is. Number three—

“Poppy?”

“Right. Yes! I’m just … working it out.”

We’re into the second round. Antony has extended OUTSTEP into OUTSTEPPED. Wanda has simultaneously made both OD41 and OVARY. Felix put down ELICIT, and Magnus went for YUK, which Felix challenged, but it was in the dictionary and scored him lots of points on a double-word score. Now Felix had gone to make some coffee, and I’ve been shuffling my tiles hopelessly for about five minutes,

I almost can’t bring myself to go, I’m so humiliated. I should never have agreed to play. I’ve stared and stared at the stupid letters, and this is honestly the best possible word I can make.

“P-I-G,” enunciates Antony carefully as I put my tiles down. “Pig. As in … the mammal, I take it?”

“Well done!” says Magnus heartily. “Six points!”

I can’t look at him. I’m fumbling miserably for another two tiles. A and L. Like that’s going to help me.

“Hey, Poppy,” says Felix, coming back into the room with a tray. “Your phone’s ringing in the kitchen. What did you put down? Oh, Pig.” As he looks at the board his mouth twitches, and I see Wanda give him a warning frown.

I can’t bear this any longer.

“I’ll just go and check who called, if that’s OK,” I say. “Might be something important.”

I escape to the kitchen, haul my phone out of the bag, and lean against the comforting warmth of the Aga. There are three texts from Sam, starting with Good luck, which he sent two hours ago. Then twenty minutes ago he texted, Favor to ask, followed up by, Are you there?

That call was from him too. I guess I’d better see what’s up. I dial his number, picking morosely at the remains of the birthday cake on the counter.

“Great. Poppy. Can you do me a big favor?” he says as soon as we’re connected. “I’m away from my desk and something’s up with my phone. It won’t connect to the server. Nothing’s going out, and I need to get an email to Viv Amberley. Would you mind?”

“Oh yes, Vivien Amberley,” I begin knowledgeably—then draw myself up short.

Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal that I’ve read all the correspondence about Vivien Amberley. She works in strategy and has applied for a job at another consultancy. Sam is desperately trying to keep her, but nothing’s worked and now she’s said she’s resigning tomorrow.

OK. I know I’ve been nosy. But once you start reading other people’s emails, you can’t stop. You have to know what’s happened. It’s been quite addictive, scrolling down the endless strings of back-and-forth emails and working out the stories. Always backward. Like rewinding little spools of life.

“If you could send her a quick email, I’d be hugely grateful,” Sam’s saying. “From one of my email addresses. To vivienamberley@skyhinet.com, have you got that? I’d do it myself, but I have to be at this media seminar.”

Honestly. What am I, his PA?

“Well … all right,” I say grudgingly, clicking on her address. “What shall I say?”

“Hi, Viv. I would love to talk this through with you again. Please call to arrange a meeting whenever’s convenient tomorrow. I’m sure we can work something out. Sam.”

I type it out carefully, using my non-bandaged hand—then hesitate.

“Have you sent it?” Sam says.

My thumb is on the key, poised to press send. But I can’t do it.

“Hello?”

“Don’t call her Viv,” I blurt out. “She hates it. She likes being called Vivien.”

“What?” Sam sounds gobsmacked. “How the hell—”

“It was in an old email that got forwarded. She asked Peter Snell not to call her Viv, but he didn’t notice. Nor did Jeremy Atheling. And now you’re calling her Viv too!”

There’s a short silence.

“Poppy,” says Sam at last, and I picture those dark eyebrows of his knitted in a frown. “Have you been reading my emails?”

“No!” I say defensively. “I’ve just glanced at a couple.”

“You’re sure about this Viv thing.”

“Yes! Of course!”

“I’m looking up the email now… .” I stuff a chunk of icing in my mouth while I’m waiting—then Sam is back on the line. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right!”

“OK. Can you change the email to Vivien?”

“Hold on a minute … ” I amend the email and send it. “Done.”

“Thanks. Good save. That was sharp of you. Are you always this sharp?”

Yeah, right. I’m so sharp, the only Scrabble word I can come up with is PIG.

“Yes, all the time,” I say sarcastically, but I don’t think he notices my tone.

“Well, I owe you one. And I’m sorry for disturbing your evening, but it’s a fairly urgent situation.”

“Don’t worry. I get it,” I say understandingly. “You know, I’m sure Vivien wants to stay at White Globe Consulting, really.”

Oops. That just slipped out.

“Oh, really? I thought you hadn’t read my emails.”

“I didn’t!” I say hastily. “I mean … you know. Maybe one or two. Enough to get an impression.”

“An impression!” He gives a short laugh. “OK, then, Poppy Wyatt, what’s your impression? I’ve asked everyone else’s opinion, why not throw your tuppenceworth in? Why is our top strategist taking a sideways step into an inferior company when I’ve offered her everything she could want, from promotion, to money, to a higher profile—”

“Well, that’s the problem,” I cut him off, puzzled. Surely he realizes that? “She doesn’t want any of those things. She gets really stressed out by the pressure, especially by media things. Like that time she had to go on Radio 4 with no notice.”

There’s a long silence down the line.

“OK, what the hell is going on?” says Sam at last. “How would you know something like that?”

There’s no way I can get out of this one.

“It was in her appraisal,” I confess at last. “I was bored on the tube once, and it was on an attachment—”

“That was not in her appraisal.” He sounds quite shirty. “Believe me, I’ve read that document back to front, and there’s nothing about media appearances—”

“Not the most recent one.” I screw up my face with embarrassment. “Her appraisal three years ago.” I can’t believe I’m admitting I read that too. “Plus she said in that original email to you, I’ve told you my issues, not that anyone’s taken any notice. I think that’s what she means.”

The fact is, I feel a total affinity for Vivien. I’d be freaked out by being on Radio 4 too. All the presenters sound like Antony and Wanda.

There’s another silence, so long that I wonder if Sam’s still there.

“You might have something,” Sam says at last. “You might just have something.”

“It’s only an idea.” I backtrack instantly. “I mean, I’m probably wrong.”

“But why wouldn’t she say this to me?”

“Maybe she’s embarrassed.” I shrug. “Maybe she thinks she’s already made the point and you’re not going to do anything about it. Maybe she thinks it’s just easier to move jobs.”

“OK.” Sam exhales. “Thank you. I’m going to pursue this. I’m very glad I rang you, and I’m sorry I disturbed your evening.”

“No problem.” I hunch my shoulders gloomily and scoop up some more cake crumbs. “To be honest, I’m glad to escape.”

“That good, huh?” He sounds amused. “How did the bandage go down?”

“Believe me, the bandage is the least of my problems.”

“What’s up?”

I lower my voice, glancing at the door. “We’re playing Scrabble. It’s a nightmare.”

“Scrabble?” He sounds surprised. “Scrabble’s great.”

“Not when you’re playing with a family of geniuses, it’s not. They all put words like iridiums. And I put pig.”

Sam bursts into laughter.

“Glad it’s so funny,” I say morosely.

“OK, come on.” He stops laughing. “I owe you one. Tell me your letters. I’ll give you a good word.”

“I can’t remember them!” I roll my eyes. “I’m in the kitchen.”

“You must remember some. Try.”

“All right. I have a W. And a Z.” This conversation is so bizarre that I can’t help giving a little giggle.

“Go and look at the rest. Text them over. I’ll give you a word.”

“I thought you were at a seminar.”

“I can be at a seminar and play Scrabble at the same time.”

Is he serious? This is the most ridiculous, far-fetched idea I’ve ever heard.

Plus, it would be cheating.

Plus, who says he’s any good at Scrabble?

“OK,” I say after a few moments. “You’re on.”

I ring off and head back into the drawing room, where the board has spawned another load of impossible words. Someone has put down UG. Is that English? It sounds like Eskimo.

“All right, Poppy?” says Wanda, in such bright, artificial tones that I instantly know they’ve been talking about me. They’ve probably told Magnus that if he marries me they’ll cut him off without a penny or something.

“Fine!” I try to sound cheerful. “That was a patient on the phone,” I add, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Sometimes I do online consultation, so I might have to send a text, if you don’t mind?”

No one even replies. They’re all hunched over their tiles again.

I line my phone up so the screen takes in the board and my rack of tiles. Then I press the photo button.

“Just taking a family snap!” I say quickly as the faces rise in response to the flash. I’m already sending the photo over to Sam.