I put it down again, about two inches from my bowl.

“I’ll let you know my new number as soon as I get it,” I say. “If I get any texts or messages—”

“I’ll forward them.” He nods. “Or, rather, my new PA will do it.”

“When does she start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Great!” I smile a little wanly and take a sip of my soup, which really is the wrong side of tepid.

“She is great,” he says with enthusiasm. “Her name is Lizzy; she’s very bright.” He starts to attack his green salad. “Now. While we’re here, you have to tell me. What was the deal with Lindsay? What the hell did you write to her?”

“Oh. That.” I feel warm with embarrassment. “I think she misunderstood the situation because … Well. It was nothing, really. I just complimented her and then I put some kisses from you. At the end of an email.”

Sam puts his fork down. “You added kisses to an email of mine? A business email?” He looks almost more scandalized by this than by anything else.

“I didn’t mean to!” I say defensively. “They just slipped out. I always put kisses on emails. It’s friendly.”

“Oh. I see.” He raises his eyes to heaven. “You’re one of those ridiculous people.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” I retort. “It’s being nice.”

“Let me see.” He reaches for the phone.

“Stop it!” I say in horror. “What are you doing?”

I make a swipe, but it’s too late. He’s got the phone and he’s scrolling through all the messages and emails. As he reads, he lifts an eyebrow, then frowns, then gives a sudden laugh.

“What are you looking at?” I try to sound frosty. “You should respect my confidentiality.”

He totally ignores me. Does he have no idea of privacy? What’s he reading, anyway? It could be anything.

I take another sip of soup, but it’s so cold I can’t face any more. As I look up, Sam’s still reading my messages avidly. This is hideous. I feel like he’s rifling through my underwear drawer.

“Now you know what it’s like, having someone else critiquing your emails,” he says, glancing up.

“There’s nothing to critique,” I say, a little haughtily. “Unlike you, I’m charming and polite and don’t brush people off with two words.”

“You call it charming. I call it something else.”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. Of course he doesn’t want to admit I have superior communication skills.

Sam reads another email, shaking his head, then looks up and surveys me silently.

“What?” I say, nettled. “What is it?”

“Are you so scared people will hate you?”

“What?” I stare at him, not knowing how to react. “What are you talking about?”

He gestures at the phone. “Your emails are like one big cry. Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, please like me, please like me!”

“What?” I feel like he’s slapped me round the face. “That’s absolute … crap.”

“Take this one: Hi, Sue! Can I possibly change my wedding updo consultation to a later time, like five pm? It’s with Louis. Let me know. But if not, no worries. Thanks so much! I really appreciate it! Hope all is well. Love, Poppy xxxxxxxxxx Who’s Sue? Your oldest, dearest friend?”

“She’s the receptionist at my hairdresser.” I glare at him.

“So she gets thanks and appreciation and a zillion kisses, just for doing her job?”

“I’m being nice!” I snap.

“It’s not being nice,” he says firmly, “it’s being ridiculous. It’s a business transaction. Be businesslike.”

“I love my hairdresser!” I say furiously. I take a spoonful of soup, forgetting how revolting it is, and quell a shudder.

Sam’s still scrolling through my messages, as if he has every right to. I never should have let him get his hands on that phone. I should have wiped it myself.

“Who’s Lucinda?”

“My wedding planner,” I answer reluctantly.

“That’s what I thought. Isn’t she supposed to be working for you? What is all this shit she’s laying on you?”

For a moment I’m too flustered to reply. I butter myself a piece of baguette, then put it down without eating it.

“She is working for me,” I say at last, avoiding his eye. “I mean, obviously I help out a little when she needs it… . ”

“You’ve done the cars for her.” He’s counting off on his fingers incredulously. “You’ve organized the confetti, the buttonholes, the organist … ”

I can feel a flush creeping over my face. I know I’ve ended up doing more for Lucinda than I intended. But I’m not going to admit that to him.

“I wanted to! It’s fine.”

“And her tone’s pretty bossy, if you ask me.”

“It’s only her manner. I don’t mind… . ” I’m trying to throw him off this path, but he’s relentless.

“Why don’t you just tell her straight, ‘You’re working for me, cut out the attitude’?”

“It’s not as simple as that, OK?” I feel on the back foot. “She’s not simply a wedding planner. She’s an old friend of the Tavishes.”

“The Tavishes?” He shakes his head as though the name means nothing to him.

“My future in-laws! The Tavishes. Professor Antony Tavish? Professor Wanda Brook-Tavish? Their parents are great friends and Lucinda’s part of that whole world, and she’s one of them and I can’t—” I break off and rub my nose. I’m not sure where I was going with that.

Sam picks up a spoon, leans over, takes a sip of my soup, and winces.

“Freezing. Thought so. Send it back.”

“No, really.” I flash him an automatic smile. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not. Send it back.”

“No! Look—it doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry anyway.”

Sam is gazing at me, shaking his head. “You are a big surprise, you know that? This is a big surprise.” He taps the phone.

“What?”’

“You’re pretty insecure for someone who’s so feisty on the outside.”

“I’m not!” I retort, rattled.

“Not insecure? Or not feisty?”

“I—” I’m too confused to answer. “I dunno. Stop it. Leave me alone.”

“You talk about the Tavishes as if they’re God.”

“Well, of course I do! They’re in a different league—”

I’m cut off midstream by a man’s voice.

“Sam! My main man!” It’s Justin, clapping Sam on the back. He’s wearing a black suit, black tie, and dark glasses. He looks like one of the Men in Black. “Steak baguette again?”

“You know me too well.” Sam gets to his feet and taps a passing waiter. “Excuse me, could we have a fresh soup for my guest? This one’s cold. Did you meet Poppy the other night? Poppy, Justin Cole.”

“Enchanté.” Justin nods at me, and I catch a waft of Fahrenheit aftershave.

“Hi.” I manage to smile politely, but I still feel stirred up inside. I need to tell Sam how wrong he is. About everything.

“How was the meeting with P&G?” Sam’s saying to Justin.

“Good! Very good! Although of course they miss you on the team, Sam.” He makes a reproving gesture with his finger.

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“You know this man is the star of our company?” Justin says to me, gesturing at Sam. “Sir Nicholas’s heir apparent. ‘One day, dear boy, all this will be yours.’ ”

“Now, that’s just bullshit,” Sam says pleasantly.

“Of course it is.”

There’s a beat of silence. They’re smiling at each other—but it’s a bit more like animals baring teeth.

“So, I’ll see you around,” says Justin at length. “Going to the conference tonight?”

“Tomorrow, in fact,” Sam replies. “Lot of stuff to catch up on here.”

“Fair enough. Well, we’ll toast you tonight.” Justin raises his hand at me, then walks away.

“Sorry about that,” says Sam to me. “This restaurant is just impossible at lunchtime. But it’s the closest that’s any good.”

I’ve been distracted from my churning thoughts by Justin Cole. He really is a prick.

“You know, I heard Justin talking about you last night,” I say in a low voice, and lean across the table. “He called you a stubborn fuck.”

Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I expect he did.”

A fresh bowl of butternut squash soup arrives in front of me, steaming hot, and suddenly I feel ravenous.

“Thanks for doing that,” I say awkwardly to Sam.

“My pleasure.” He tilts his head. “Bon appétit.”

“So, why did he call you a stubborn fuck?” I take a spoonful of soup.

“Oh, we disagree pretty fundamentally about how to run the company,” he says carelessly. “My camp had a recent victory, so his camp is feeling sore.”

Camps? Victories? Are they all permanently at war?

“What happened?”

God, this soup is good. I’m ladling it down as though I haven’t eaten for weeks.

“You’re really interested?” He appears to be amused.

“Yes! Of course!”

“A member of personnel left the company. For the better, in my opinion. But not in Justin’s.” He takes a bite of baguette and reaches for his water.

That’s it? That’s all he’s going to tell me? A member of personnel left the company?

“You mean John Gregson?” I suddenly remember my Google search.

“What?” He looks taken aback. “How do you know about John Gregson?”

“Daily Mail online, of course.” I roll my eyes. What does he think, that he works in a secret, private bubble?

“Oh. I see.” Sam seems to digest this. “Well … no. That was something different.”

“Who was this one, then? C’mon,” I wheedle as he hesitates. “You can tell me. I’m best friends with Sir Nicholas Murray, you know. We have drinks at the Savoy together. We’re like this.” I cross my fingers, and Sam gives a reluctant snort of laughter.

“OK. I don’t suppose it’s any great secret.” He hesitates and lowers his voice. “It was a guy called Ed Exton. Finance director. The truth is, he was fired. Turned out he’d been defrauding the company for a while. Nick wouldn’t press charges, but that was a big mistake. Now Ed’s suing for wrongful dismissal.”