“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.”
“It’s only her manner. I don’t mind… . ” I’m trying to throw him off this path, but he’s relentless.
“Why don’t you just tell her straight, ‘You’re working for me, cut out the attitude’?”
“It’s not as simple as that, OK?” I feel on the back foot. “She’s not simply a wedding planner. She’s an old friend of the Tavishes.”
“The Tavishes?” He shakes his head as though the name means nothing to him.
“My future in-laws! The Tavishes. Professor Antony Tavish? Professor Wanda Brook-Tavish? Their parents are great friends and Lucinda’s part of that whole world, and she’s one of them and I can’t—” I break off and rub my nose. I’m not sure where I was going with that.
Sam picks up a spoon, leans over, takes a sip of my soup, and winces.
“Freezing. Thought so. Send it back.”
“No, really.” I flash him an automatic smile. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not. Send it back.”
“No! Look—it doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry anyway.”
Sam is gazing at me, shaking his head. “You are a big surprise, you know that? This is a big surprise.” He taps the phone.
“What?”’
“You’re pretty insecure for someone who’s so feisty on the outside.”
“I’m not!” I retort, rattled.
“Not insecure? Or not feisty?”
“I—” I’m too confused to answer. “I dunno. Stop it. Leave me alone.”
“You talk about the Tavishes as if they’re God.”
“Well, of course I do! They’re in a different league —”
I’m cut off midstream by a man’s voice.
“Sam! My main man!” It’s Justin, clapping Sam on the back. He’s wearing a black suit, black tie, and dark glasses. He looks like one of the Men in Black. “Steak baguette again?”
“You know me too well.” Sam gets to his feet and taps a passing waiter. “Excuse me, could we have a fresh soup for my guest? This one’s cold. Did you meet Poppy the other night? Poppy, Justin Cole.”
“Enchanté.” Justin nods at me, and I catch a waft of Fahrenheit aftershave.
“Hi.” I manage to smile politely, but I still feel stirred up inside. I need to tell Sam how wrong he is. About everything.
“How was the meeting with P&G?” Sam’s saying to Justin.
“Good! Very good! Although of course they miss you on the team, Sam.” He makes a reproving gesture with his finger.
“I’m sure they don’t.”