I've Got Your Number

“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.”