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.

“I just want to say, I’m really, really sorry,” I say in a rush. “I’m sorry about the e-card. I’m sorry about Guatemala. I got carried away. I know I’ve caused you a lot of grief, and if I can help in any way I will. I mean … shall I send some emails for you?”

“No!” Sam sounds like he’s been scalded. “Thank you,” he adds more calmly. “You’ve done enough.”

“So, how are you managing?” I venture. “I mean, processing everyone’s ideas.”

“Jane’s taken charge for now. She’s sending out my brush-off email.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Your brush-off email? What’s that?”

“You know the sort of thing. Sam is delighted to have received your email. He’ll get back to you as soon as he possibly can. Meanwhile, thanks for your interest. Translation: Don’t expect to hear from me anytime soon.” He raises his eyebrows. “You must have a brush-off email. They come in pretty useful for fending off unwanted advances too.”

“No, I don’t,” I say, a little offended. “I never want to brush people off. I answer them!”

“OK, that explains a lot.” He tears off a chunk of bread and chews it. “If I’d known that, I never would have agreed to share a phone.

“Well, you don’t have to anymore.”

“Thank God. Where is it?”

I rummage in my bag, take the phone out, and put it on the table between us.

“What the hell is that?” Sam exclaims, looking horrified.

“What?” I follow his gaze, puzzled, then realize. There were some diamanté phone stickers in the Marie Curie goody bag, and I stuck them on the phone the other day.

“Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes at his expression. “They come off.”

“They’d better.” He still seems stunned by the sight of it. Honestly. Doesn’t anyone at his company bother to decorate their phone?

Our food arrives, and for a while we’re distracted with pepper mills and mustard and some side dish of parsnip chips which they seem to think we ordered.

“You in a hurry?” inquires Sam as he’s about to bite into his steak baguette.

“No. I took a few days off to do wedding stuff, but actually it turns out there’s not a lot to do.”

The truth is, I was a bit taken aback when I spoke to Lucinda this morning. I’d told her ages ago that I was taking a few days off to help with the wedding. I’d thought we could go and sort out some of the fun stuff together. But she basically said no, thanks. She had some long story about having to go see the florist in Northwood and needing to drop in at another client first and implied I’d be in the way.75 So I’ve had the morning off. I mean, I wasn’t about to go to work for the sake of it.

As I sip my soup, I wait for Sam to volunteer some wedding talk of his own—but he doesn’t. Men just aren’t into it, are they?

“Is your soup cold?” Sam suddenly focuses on my bowl. “If it’s cold, send it back.”

It is a bit less than piping hot—but I really don’t feel like making a fuss.

“It’s fine, thanks.” I flash him a smile and take another sip.

The phone suddenly buzzes, and on reflex I pull it to me. It’s Lucinda, telling me she’s at the warehouse and could I please confirm that I want only four strands of gypsophila per bouquet?

I have no idea. Why would I specify something like that? What does four strands look like, anyway?

Yes, fine. Thanks so much, Lucinda, I really appreciate it! Not long now!!! Love, Poppy xxxxx

There’s a new email from Willow too, but I can’t bring myself to read it in front of Sam. I forward it quickly and put the phone down.

“There was a message from Willow just now.”

“Uh-uh.” He nods with an off-putting frown.

I’m dying to find out more about her. But how do I start without sounding unnatural?

I can’t even ask, “How did you meet?” because I already know, from one of her email rants. They met at her job interview for White Globe Consulting. Sam was on the panel, and he asked her some tricky question about her CV and she should have known THEN that he was going to fuck her life up. She should have stood up and WALKED AWAY. Because does he think a six-figure salary is what her life is about? Does he think everyone’s like him? Doesn’t he realize that to build a life together you have to KNOW WHAT THE BUILDING BLOCKS ARE, Sam????

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I have honestly given up reading to the end.

“Haven’t you got yourself a new phone yet?” says Sam, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m going to the shop this afternoon.” It’ll be a real hassle, starting afresh with a new phone, but there’s not much I can do about it. Except …

“In fact, I was wondering,” I add casually. “You don’t want to sell it, do you?”

“A company phone, full of business emails?” He gives an incredulous laugh. “Are you nuts? I was mad letting you have access to it in the first place. Not that I had a choice, Ms. Light-fingers. I should have set the police on you.”

“I’m not a thief!” I retort, stung. “I didn’t steal it. I found it in a bin.”

“You should have handed it in.” He shrugs. “You know it and I know it.”

“It was common property! It was fair game!”

“ ‘Fair game’? You want to tell that to the judge? If I drop my wallet and it falls momentarily into a bin, does that give Joe Bloggs the right to steal it?”

I can’t tell if he’s winding me up or not, so I take a drink of water, avoiding the issue. I’m turning the phone around and around in my hand, not wanting to relinquish it. I’ve got used to this phone now. I like the feel of it. I’ve even got used to sharing my in-box.

“So, what will happen to it?” At last I look up. “The phone, I mean.”

“Jane will forward everything of any relevance to her account. Then it’ll get wiped. Inside and out.”

“Right. Of course.”

The idea of all my messages being wiped makes me want to whimper. But there’s nothing I can do. This was the deal. It was only a loan. Like he said, it’s not my phone.