“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.”
“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?”