I lick my dry lips nervously. “There was something I meant to tell you about.” I give a high-pitched laugh. “It’s quite funny, actually, if you see it that way—”
“Sam!” A large woman with a booming voice interrupts me. “So delighted we’ve got you signed up for the Fun Run!” Oh my God. This must be Rachel.
“Fun Run?” Sam echoes the words as though they’re complete anathema to him. “No. Sorry, Rachel. I don’t do Fun Runs. I’m happy to donate, let other people do the running, good for them—”
“But your email!” She stares at him. “We were so thrilled you wanted to take part! No one could believe it! This year we’re all running in superhero costumes,” she adds enthusiastically. “I’ve earmarked a Superman one for you.”
“Email?” Sam looks bewildered. “What email?”
“That lovely email you sent! Friday, was it? Oh, and bless you for the e-card you sent young Chloe.” Rachel lowers her voice and pats Sam on the hand. “She was so touched. Most directors wouldn’t even care if an assistant’s dog had died, so for you to send such a lovely e-card of condolence, with a poem and everything …” She opens her eyes wide. “Well. We were all amazed, to be honest!”
My face is getting hotter. I’d forgotten about the e-card.
“An e-card of condolence for a dog,” says Sam at last, in a strange voice. “Yes, I’m pretty amazed at myself.”
He’s staring straight at me. It’s not the most friendly of expressions. In fact, I feel like backing away, only there’s nowhere to go.
“Oh, Loulou!” Rachel suddenly waves a hand across the room. “Do excuse me, Sam.” She heads off, pushing her way through the throng, leaving us alone.
There’s silence. Sam regards me evenly, without a flicker. He’s waiting for me to start, I realize.
“I thought …” I swallow hard.
“Yes?” His voice is curt and unforgiving.
“I thought you might like to do a Fun Run.”
“You did.”
“Yes. I did.” My voice is a little husky with nerves. “I mean … they’re fun! So I thought I’d reply. Just to save you time.”
“You wrote an email and signed it as me?” He sounds thunderous.
“I was trying to help!” I say hurriedly. “I knew you didn’t have time, and they kept asking you, and I thought—”
“The e-card was you, too, I take it?” He shuts his eyes briefly. “Jesus. Is there anything else you’ve been meddling in?”
I want to bury my head like an ostrich. But I can’t. I have to tell him, quickly, before anyone else accosts him.
“OK, I had this … this other idea,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Only everyone got a bit carried away, and now everyone’s emailing about it, and they think there’s a job involved—”
“A job?” He stares at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Sam.” A guy claps him on the back as he passes. “Glad you’re interested in coming to Iceland. I’ll be in touch.”
“Iceland?” Sam’s face jerks in shock.
I’d forgotten about accepting the Iceland trip too.68 But I only have time to make another apologetic smile before someone else is accosting Sam.
“Sam, OK, I don’t know what’s going on.” It’s a girl with glasses and a very intense way of speaking. “I don’t know if you’re playing us for fools or what….” She seems a bit stressed out and keeps pushing her hair back off her brow. “Anyway. Here’s my CV. You know how many ideas I’ve had for this company, but if we all have to keep jumping through even more bloody hoops, then … whatever, Sam. Your call.”
“Elena—” Sam breaks off in bafflement.
“Just read my personal statement. It’s all in there.” She stalks off.
There’s a silent beat, then Sam wheels round, his face so ominous I feel a quailing inside.
“Start from the beginning. What did you do?”
“I sent an email.” I scuff my foot, feeling like a naughty child. “From you.”
“To whom?”
“Everyone in the company.” I cringe as I say the words. “I just wanted everyone to feel … encouraged and positive. So I said everyone should send their ideas in. To you.”
“You wrote that? Under my name?”
He looks so livid I actually back away, feeling a bit petrified.
“I’m sorry,” I say breathlessly. “I thought it was a good idea. But some people thought you were trying to sack them, and other people think you’re secretly interviewing for a job, and everyone’s got into a tizz about it…. I’m sorry,” I end lamely.
“Sam, I got your email!” A girl with a ponytail interrupts us eagerly. “So, I’ll see you at dance classes.”
“Wh—” Sam’s eyes swivel in his head.
“Thanks so much for the support. Actually, you’re my only pupil so far! Bring comfortable clothes and soft shoes, OK?”
I glance at Sam and gulp at his expression. He seems literally unable to speak. What’s wrong with dance classes? He’s going to need to dance at his wedding, isn’t he? He should be grateful I signed him up.
“Sounds great!” I say encouragingly.
“See you next Tuesday evening, Sam!”
As she disappears into the hubbub, I fold my arms defensively, all ready to tell him that I’ve done him a huge favor. But as he turns back, his face is so stony, I lose my nerve.
“Exactly how many emails have you sent in my name?” He sounds calm, but not in a good way.
“I—not many,” I flounder. “I mean … just a few. I only wanted to help—”
“If you were my PA, I’d have you fired on the spot and quite possibly prosecuted.” He fires the words out as though he’s a machine gun. “As it is, I can only ask for my phone back and request that you—”
“Sam! Thank God for a friendly face!”
“Nick.” Sam’s demeanor instantly changes. His eyes light up and his icy expression seems to melt. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming.”
A man in his sixties, wearing a pin-striped suit over a groovy floral shirt, is raising a glass to us. I raise mine back, feeling awestruck. Sir Nicholas Murray! When I was Googling the company, I saw pictures of him with the prime minister, and Prince Charles, and everybody.
“Never turn down a bash if I can help it,” Sir Nicholas says cheerfully. “Missed the speeches, have I?”
“Spot-on timing.” Sam grins. “Don’t tell me you sent your driver in to see if they were over.”
“I couldn’t possibly comment.” Sir Nicholas winks at him. “Did you get my email?”
“Did you get mine?” counters Sam, and lowers his voice. “You’ve nominated Richard Doherty for this year’s Dealmaker Award?”
“He’s a bright young talent, Sam,” says Sir Nicholas, looking a little caught out. “Remember his work with Hardwicks last year? He deserves recognition.”