I flash him a smile, but I’ve never felt so pressured in my life. No one else can do this. No one else heard that voice. It’s down to me. Now I know how sniffer dogs must feel at airports.
We head to a group of women, who are standing together with two middle-aged men.
“Hi there!” Sam greets them all pleasantly. “Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Jeremy … and Peter…. Jeremy, how many years have you been with us now? And Peter? Is it three years?”
OK. Now that I’m listening properly, close up, this is easier. One man has a low growly voice and the other is Scandinavian. After about ten seconds I shake my head at Sam, and he moves us swiftly off to another group, discreetly ticking his list as we go.
“Hi there! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, you’ve already met Nihal. Now, Colin, what are you up to these days?”
It’s amazing how different voices are, once you start to pay attention. Not only the pitch but the accents, the timbres, the little speech impediments and slurs and quirks.
“What about you?” I join in, smiling at a bearded guy who hasn’t uttered a syllable.
“Well, it’s been a tricky year …,” he begins ponderously.
No. Uh-uh. Nothing like. I glance at Sam, shaking my head, and he abruptly takes hold of my arm.
“Sorry, Dudley, we must dash.” He heads to the next group along and charges straight in, interrupting an anecdote. “Poppy, this is Simon…. Stephanie you’ve met, I think … Simon, Poppy was just admiring your jacket. Where’s it from?”
I can’t believe how blatant Sam’s being. He’s practically ignoring all the women and being totally unsubtle about getting the men to talk. But I guess it’s the only way.
The more voices I listen to, the more confident I feel. This is easier than I thought it would be, because they’re all so different from the one on the phone. Except that we’ve already been to four groups and eliminated them. I scan the room anxiously. What if I get all the way round the room and I still haven’t heard the guy from the phone?
“Hi there, gang! Having a good time?” Sam is still in full flow as we approach the next group. “Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look round. Poppy, this is Tony. Tony, why don’t you tell Poppy about your department? And here’s Daniel, and this is … ah. Willow.”
She was turned away as we approached, so her face was averted, but now she faces us full on.
Yowzer.
“Sam!” she says, after such a long pause I start to feel embarrassed for everybody. “Who’s … this?”
OK. If my text to Magnus was laden with meaning, that little two-word sentence of Willow’s was collapsing under its weight. You don’t have to be an expert in the Language of Willow to know that what she actually meant was, “Who the FUCK is this girl and WHAT is she doing here with YOU? Jesus, Sam, are you DELIBERATELY SCREWING AROUND WITH ME? Because, believe me, you are going to regret that BADLY.”
You know. Paraphrasing.
I’ve never felt such overt hostility from anyone in my life. It’s like an electric current between us. Willow’s nostrils are flared and whitening. Her eyes are all stary. Her hand has gripped her glass so tightly, her tendons are showing through her pale skin. But her smile is still soft and pleasant, and her voice is still mellifluous. Which is almost most creepy of all.
“Poppy’s thinking of joining the company,” says Sam.
“Oh.” Willow carries on smiling. “Lovely. Welcome, Poppy.”
She’s unnerving me. She’s like some alien. Behind the soft smile and the dulcet voice is a lizard.
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, we must press on…. See you later, Willow.” Sam takes my arm to guide me away.
Uh-oh. Bad idea. I can feel her laser eyes in my back. Does Sam not feel them too?
We head to a new group and Sam launches into his spiel, and I dutifully crane my neck to listen, but nobody sounds a bit like the phone guy. As we work our way farther round, I can tell Sam’s getting dispirited, though he’s trying to hide it. After we leave a group of youngish IT guys drinking beers, he says, “Really? None of those guys?”
“No.” I shrug apologetically. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry!” He gives a short, strained laugh. “You heard what you heard. You can’t … If it’s not any of them—” He breaks off a moment. “Definitely not the blond guy? The one talking about his car? He didn’t sound at all familiar?”
And now the disappointment in his voice is evident.
“Is that who you thought it was?”
“I … don’t know.” He spreads his hands, exhaling. “Maybe. Yes. He’d have the IT contacts, he’s new to the company, Justin and Ed could easily have talked him round….”
I don’t know what to reply. Like he says, I heard what I heard.
“I think some people have gone out to the terrace,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“We’ll try there.” He nods. “Let’s finish up here first.”
Even I can tell that none of the four gray-haired men standing by the bar will be the guy from the phone—and I’m right. As Sam is inveigled into a conversation about Malcolm’s speech, I take the opportunity to edge away and see if Magnus has replied. Of course he hasn’t. But flashing at the top of my in-box is an email sent to samro xton@ white globe consulting. com, cc’ed to pasam roxto npa@ white globe consu lting. com, which makes me splutter.
Sam,
Nice try. I know EXACTLY what you’re up to and you’re PATHETIC. Where did you get her from, an agency? I would have thought you could do better than that.
Willow
As I’m staring at the screen in disbelief, a second email pops in.
I mean, Jesus, Sam. She isn’t even DRESSED for the occasion. Or are cutesy denim skirts suddenly appropriate conference wear??
My skirt is not cutesy! And I wasn’t exactly planning to come to a conference when I got dressed this morning, was I?
In outrage, I press reply and type an email.
Actually, I think she’s stunningly beautiful. And her denim skirt isn’t cutesy. So there, Willow the Witch.
Sam
Then I delete it. Naturally. I’m about to put my phone away when a third email pops in from Willow. Honestly. Can’t she give it a rest?
You want me to be jealous, Sam. Fine. I respect that. I even like it. We need sparks in our relationship. But TRY GIVING ME SOMETHING TO BE JEALOUS OF!!!
Because believe me, no one here is impressed by your little stunt. I mean, parading around some nondescript girl who clearly has NO IDEA HOW TO BLOW-DRY HER FUCKING HAIR … Well. It’s tragic, Sam. TRAGIC.
Talk to you when you’re a grown-up.
Willow
I touch my hair defensively. I did blow-dry it this morning. It’s just hard to get to the back bits. I mean, not that I care what she thinks, but I can’t help feeling a little stung—