This is totally surreal. And thrilling. And a bit of a pain. All at the same time.

It’s not that I’m regretting my noble gesture, exactly. I still mean what I said in the office. How could I possibly walk away? How could I not at least try to help Sam out? But, on the other hand, I thought it would take about half an hour. Not a train journey down to Hampshire, just for starters.

I’m supposed to be at the hairdresser’s right now. I’m supposed to be talking about updos and trying on my tiara. Instead, I’m on Waterloo station concourse, buying a cup of tea and clutching the phone, which, needless to say, I grabbed from the desk as we left. Sam could hardly complain. I’ve texted Sue to tell her that I’m really sorry, I’ll have to miss the appointment with Louis, but of course I’ll pay the whole fee and please give Louis my love.

I looked at it after I’d finished typing it, and I deleted half the kisses. Then I put them back in again. Then I took them out again. Maybe five is enough.

Now I’m waiting for Magnus to pick up. He’s leaving for his stag trip to Bruges this afternoon, so it’s not like I was going to see him, but still. I feel like if I don’t at least ring him, it’ll be wrong.

“Oh, hi, Magnus!”

“Pops!” The line is terrible, and I can hear the public-address system in the background. “We’re about to board. You OK?”

“Yes! I just wanted to … ” I trail off, not sure where I’m going with this.

Just wanted to tell you that I’m off to Hampshire with a man you know nothing about, embroiled in a situation you know nothing about.

“I’ll … be out tonight,” I say lamely. “In case you call.”

There. That’s honest. Kind of.

“OK!” He laughs. “Well, you have fun. Sweets, I’ve got to go.”

“OK! Bye! Have a good time!” The phone goes dead and I look up to see Sam watching me. I tug my shirt self-consciously, wishing again that I’d popped to the shops. It turns out that Sam does keep a spare shirt in his office, and my T-shirt was so frightful that I borrowed it. But it makes the situation even stranger, wearing his stripy Turnbull & Asser.

“Saying goodbye to Magnus,” I explain needlessly, as he’s been standing there the whole time and must have heard every word.

“That’ll be two pounds.” The woman at the sandwich shop hands me my cup.

“Thanks! Right … shall we go?”

As Sam and I walk down the concourse and get into the carriage, I feel unreal. I’m stiff with awkwardness. We must look like a couple to anyone watching. What if Willow sees us?

No. Don’t be paranoid. Willow was on the second coach to the conference. She sent an email to Sam, telling him. And, anyway, it’s not like Sam and I are doing anything illicit. We’re just … friends.

No, friends doesn’t feel right. Not colleagues either. Not really acquaintances …

OK. Let’s face it. It’s weird.

I glance over at Sam to see if he’s thinking the same, but he’s staring blankly out the train window. The train jolts and moves off down the tracks, and he comes to. As he catches me gazing at him, I quickly look away.

I’m trying to appear relaxed, but secretly I’m feeling more and more freaked out. What have I agreed to? Everything rests on my memory. It’s up to me, Poppy Wyatt, to identify some voice I heard down a phone days ago, for about twenty seconds. What if I fail?

I take a sip of tea to calm myself, and I wince. First the soup was too cold. Now this is too hot. The train starts rushing along the tracks and a spot of tea jumps out of the lid, scalding my hand.

“OK?” Sam’s noticed me.

“Fine.” I smile.

“Can I be honest?” he says bluntly. “You don’t look fine.”

“I’m good!” I protest. “I’m just … you know. There’s a lot going on at the moment.”

Sam nods.

“I’m sorry we never got to go through those confrontation techniques I promised.”

“Oh! That.” I brush it off with a hand. “This is more important.”

“Don’t say, ‘Oh! That.’ ” Sam shakes his head, looking exasperated. “That’s what I’m talking about. You automatically put yourself second.”

“I don’t! I mean … you know.” I shrug awkwardly. “Whatever.”

The train pulls up at Clapham Junction, and a group of people files into the carriage. For a while Sam is engrossed in texting. His phone has been constantly flashing, and I can only imagine how many messages are flying around. Eventually though, he puts the phone back in his pocket and leans forward, resting his elbow on the little table between us.

“Everything OK?” I ask timidly, immediately realizing what an inane question this is. To his credit, Sam ignores it.

“I have a question for you,” he says calmly. “What is it about these Tavishes that makes you feel as though they’re superior? Is it the titles? The doctorates? The brains?”

Not this again.

“Everything! It’s obvious! They’re just … I mean, you respect Sir Nicholas, don’t you?” I throw back at him defensively. “Look at all this effort you’re making for him. It’s because you respect him.”

“Yes, I respect him. Of course I do. But I don’t feel as though I’m inherently inferior to him. He doesn’t make me feel like a second-class citizen.”

“I don’t feel like a second-class citizen! You don’t know anything about it. So … stop!”

“OK.” Sam lifts his hands up high. “If I’m wrong, I apologize. It’s only an impression I’ve got. I only wanted to help, as a … ” I can sense him reaching for the word friend, then rejecting it, like I did. “I just wanted to help,” he ends finally. “But it’s your life. I’ll butt out.”

There’s silence for a while. He’s stopped. He’s given up. I’ve won.

Why don’t I feel like I’ve won?

“Excuse me.” Sam puts his phone to his ear. “Vicks. What’s up?”

He heads out of the carriage and, without meaning to, I exhale in a massive sigh. The gnawing pain is back, nestling beneath my ribs. But right now I can’t tell if it’s because the Tavishes don’t want me to marry Magnus, or because I’m trying to deny it, or because I’m nervous about this whole escapade, or because my tea’s too strong.

For a while I sit there, gazing down at my steaming tea, wishing that I’d never heard the Tavishes arguing in the church. That I knew nothing. That I could blot that gray cloud out of my life and go back to lucky, lucky me, isn’t everything perfect?

Sam takes his seat again, and there’s silence for a few moments. The train has come to a halt in the middle of nowhere, and it’s oddly quiet without the sound of the engine.

“OK.” I stare down at the little Formica table. “OK.”

“OK what?”

“OK, you’re not wrong.”

Sam says nothing, just waits. The train jolts and lurches, like a horse deciding whether to behave, then slowly begins moving off again down the tracks.

“But I’m not making this up in my head or whatever you think.” I hunch my shoulders miserably. “I overheard the Tavishes, OK? They don’t want Magnus to marry me. I’ve done everything I can. I’ve played Scrabble and I’ve tried making conversation and I’ve even read Antony’s book.78 But I’ll never be like them. Never.”

“Why should you?” Sam looks perplexed. “Why would you want to?”

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “Why would anyone want to be a really brainy celebrity who goes on TV?”

“Antony Tavish has a big brain,” says Sam steadily. “Having a big brain is like having a big liver or a big nose. Why do you feel insecure? What if he had a huge lower intestine? Would you feel insecure then?”

I can’t help giggling.

“He’s a freak, strictly speaking.” Sam presses on. “You’re marrying into a family of freaks. To be in the outermost centile of anything is freakish. Next time you’re intimidated by them, imagine a big neon sign over their heads, reading, FREAKS!”

“That’s not what you really think.” I’m smiling but shaking my head.

“It is absolutely what I think.” He looks deadly serious now. “These academic guys have to feel important. They give papers and present TV shows to show they’re useful and valuable. But you do useful, valuable work every day. You don’t need to prove anything. How many people have you treated? Hundreds. You’ve reduced their pain. You’ve made hundreds of people happier. Has Antony Tavish made anyone happier?”

I’m sure there’s something wrong with what he’s saying, but right now I can’t work out what it is. All I can do is feel a little glow. That had never occurred to me before. I’ve made hundreds of people happier.

“What about you? Have you?” I can’t help saying, and Sam shoots me a wry smile.

“I’m working on it.”

The train slows as it passes though Woking, and we both instinctively look out the window. Then Sam turns back. “The point is, it’s not about them. It’s about you. You and him. Magnus.”

“I know,” I say at last. “I know it is.”

It sounds strange, hearing Magnus’s name on his lips. It feels all wrong.

Magnus and Sam are so very different. It’s like they’re made out of different stuff. Magnus is so shiny, so mercurial, so impressive, so sexy. But a teeny-weeny bit self-obsessed.79 Whereas Sam is so … straight and strong. And generous. And kind. You just know he’d always be there for you, whatever.

Sam looks at me now and smiles, as though he can read my thoughts, and my heart experiences that tiny fillip it always does when he smiles.

Lucky Willow.

I give an inward gasp at my own thought and take a gulp of tea to cover my embarrassment.

That popped into my head with no warning. And I didn’t mean it. Or, rather, yes, I did mean it but simply in the sense that I wish them both well, as a disinterested friend—no, not friend …