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 there, but he probably won’t bother and that’s just like him, after all that pâté 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.

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 canapés 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?