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?

Вы читаете I've Got Your Number
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату
×