Читать книгу Lost and Found - Jane Sigaloff - Страница 16

Kicking the front door closed behind her, laden with shopping bags, Sam rustled her way along the corridor to the kitchen before her arms gave out. Her quads were smarting slightly after the intensity of her gym session, but thank God for endorphins. It was almost impossible to feel morose with your heart-rate at one hundred and sixty. Determined to keep her activity levels high, she switched the radio on for instant company and automatically re-boxed the CDs lying on the work-top while she searched for a station with a little less bass line and a few ‘classic’ tunes. Classic meaning old. Old enough for her to remember.

Having explored every possible plan of action on the running machine, she had come to the somewhat unsatisfactory, if definite conclusion that there was nothing she could do. According to calendar convention it was a new day, and so, for the time being, Captain Optimistic was back in town, having finally shaken off Assume-The-Worst Woman on the rowing machine.

As she restocked her cupboards Sam noticed a tell-tale slick of grease on the floor tiles. Obligingly, the Chinese take-away diva had left her foil containers out, and it appeared that the insatiable George had gone for self-service.

Roused from a warm corner of the flat by the crinkle of a supermarket carrier, he careered into the kitchen, anxious not to miss a potential feeding moment, and once in full view attempted to feign nonchalance but failed miserably thanks to the negative braking properties of claw and paw on terracotta. Having regained his composure, from the purr crescendo and surprisingly powerful shoves Sam was getting, he was claiming to be hungry. Not physiologically possible but he was one of the few who knew, contrary to popular myth, his owner had a slushy core.

Sam retched at the intense aroma burst of meat, offal and jelly as she opened a new can. Living on her own hadn’t been a problem, but living on her own with a kitten? Cliché-tastic. Now Gemma was around. That had been Sophie’s idea too. Breathing through her mouth, she put George’s dish on the floor and carefully washed up the fork. According to the clock on the oven door it was nearly eleven-thirty, and there was no evidence that the Queen of Peking had even surfaced to make herself a cup of tea.

Sam flicked the kettle switch and turned the radio up in an attempt to mask her enthusiastic, if somewhat atonal sing-a-long. No more tiptoeing around in her own flat. Today had started hours ago.

Gemma appeared in the doorway almost exactly as the kettle boiled, bleary-eyed, her unruly hair even wilder than normal. And she seemed to be wearing a strappy top and pyjama shorts. Obviously the latest in naughty-but-nice-girl-next-door sleepwear, and much more Sarah Jessica Parker in dishevelled sexiness, Sam noted, than it would have been on her. Gem was a natural. The sort of girl who’d never sat at the side of the school hall at the end-of-term disco. Who’d never had to pretend that she didn’t want to dance to ‘The Power of Love’ or the ‘Lady in Red’. Boys had always sidled up to her on the off chance. They still did.

‘Morning.’ Gemma started rubbing her eyes in an attempt to uncrust last night’s mascara and restore the individual lash look.

‘Only just… Look, do you think you could try not to leave food out? He’s a cat—he’s going to help himself. And he’s definitely not designed to eat spring onions drenched in plum sauce.’

Sam had her head in the fridge and was in the process of jettisoning most of the salad drawer, which had apparently liquidised itself in its bags since last week. This had never happened when Sophie had lived there. Mark was a lucky man. Sophie was a rare find in the twenty-first century—perfect wife material. And Sam was speaking from experience. Having a flatmate who’d enjoyed cooking, worked irregular hours and often from home might not have been great for the phone bill, but it had been fantastic for leftovers and getting her washing done.

As she replaced the old bags with new ones, freshly shopped, she knew it would be as good for her nutrition as buying them was for her conscience if she actually ate the stuff—but she never seemed to have time to eat at home at the moment.

‘Sorry. Chuck us the milk. I need tea.’ Gemma might not get up until late, but she was always incredibly perky when she did finally surface.

Sam handed her the plastic container, simultaneously liberating a shrivelled courgette from a dark corner of the second shelf, and did her best not to appear fazed by the similarly dishevelled young man now standing in her kitchen. From his slicked-back hair it looked as if he had at least managed a shower. In fact, he smelt familiarly citrusy.

‘Good shower?’ Her tone was mordacious.

The bastard reeked of her Jo Malone bodywash. And the whole point of paying a mortgage was so that you didn’t have to carry your towels and products in and out of the bathroom each morning.

‘Yes, thanks.’ His reply was hesitant. Small talk or sarcasm? His eyes darted to Gemma and back, hoping for a clue. Gemma, however, was concentrating on squeezing every last drip of caffeine into her cup.

‘Well, hi. I’m Sam.’ She faked a smile.

Now she’d sodding well have to change all the towels. She couldn’t risk drying her face in his pubes, even if Jo Malone had given them the once-over. She swapped neurotic for civil. At least for the short term. Giving her hands a quick rinse with antibacterial wash, she dried them on a teatowel, absent-mindedly polishing the fridge door with it before re-hanging it over the handle on the matching stainless steel oven.

Finally Gemma looked up. She must have sensed the tension because she was actually taking her teabag to the kitchen bin, albeit leaving a trail of drips in her wake, only to realise that she’d filled the bin to capacity before bed. Pushing the teabag down with the spoon, she did create enough space for the lid to spring back—even if it had now become slightly stained in the process.

Sam pretended not to notice.

‘Sorry—how rude of me.’ Gemma gestured with the hand holding the teaspoon and Sam watched more tea hit the tiles. ‘Toby, this is my landlady…’

Sam pulled a face. ‘Landlady’ sounded so curlers and pink nylon housecoat. Friend would have been better…or flatmate…

‘Sam, this is Toby, and he’s just going.’

Toby blushed, even more awkward than he had been moments earlier. Sam had to hand it to Gem. She was bucking every so-called trend and single-handedly proving that there were plenty of single men out there if only you weren’t too dismissive at first sight. She hadn’t even offered him any breakfast.

Sure enough, five minutes later Toby had been consigned to recent history and Gemma had set up camp by the toaster while Sam vigorously attacked the soon-to-be-much-whiter sink with a ‘new and improved’ product she had invested in less than an hour ago. They did have a cleaner, but she never really seemed to do very much. A bit of ironing, cushion-plumping, plant-overwatering and ornament-shuffling. Well worth the eight pounds an hour.

‘That’s looking great.’ Gem stretched and yawned, revealing a naturally toned tummy. Sam subconsciously clenched her abs and winced as a searing hit of lactic acid reminded her that they’d been crunched enough already. ‘Guess I better hit the shower in a minute…it’s about time I started my day before you finish yours… Just out of interest, what time did today start Washington time?’

Sam ignored her. ‘So, he was about twenty-four, was he?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. At least twenty-six.’ Gemma laughed.

Sam scrubbed resolutely. ‘And you met him where?’

‘Hey, Mum, what’s up with you this morning?’

‘Nothing.’ It was too dismissive to be totally true.

‘You just seem a bit—well, a bit on edge…’ Gemma took a contemplative slurp of her tea and Sam reminded herself that, all things considered, she was just fine. What was it with everyone? Now even her moods were public property. ‘You just don’t approve…’ Now Gemma was planting opinions.

‘Hey, I’m just your landlady. It’s none of my business who you see…’

Sam rinsed the scouring pad. It wasn’t that she was unequivocally anti the one-night stand. There were certainly times when she wanted someone to snuggle up to. Someone who didn’t purr or exhale meaty fish. But she’d also definitely been at her loneliest the morning after the night before. Gemma sipped her tea, safely staring into the middle distance, whilst the timer on the state-of-the-art toaster ticked like a time bomb behind her.

‘Sorry, Gem, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. So, do you think you’ll see him again?’

‘Doubt it.’ Gemma seemed relieved at Sam’s overture to normality. ‘Not bad in the sack, though…a huge improvement on Sean. He was an anticlimax—and I mean literally. Plus it saves me going to the gym later. All these women pumping iron when all they really need is a good shag…’

Sam felt herself redden and instinctively clenched her pelvic floor muscles, managing ten repetitions whilst wrestling the stuffed liner from the bin. It was one thing letting a room to a former classmate, but quite another when she had (a lot) more sex and telephone attention than you did. Plus, Gemma was only too quick to volunteer the details.

‘Anyway, Toby’s a Capricorn. Astrologically we couldn’t be more wrong for each other…’

As far as Sam could remember, birth dates were definitely a second or third date question in her book. Unless in these days of heightened security she was asking to see a driving licence or passport for ID purposes.

‘Then again, he saved me half a taxi fare home, he paid for the take-away, and—well, my granny always used to say you never know until you try…’

Sam was sure Gemma’s grandmother had meant foodstuffs, not fellatio.

‘Now, if he’d been a Sagittarius it could all have been very different…’ Gem trailed off mid-sentence as she observed Mr Muscle’s more glamorous sidekick hard at work. ‘Stop. Please stop. I swear I was going to give the kitchen a bit of a tidy when I got up, but I should’ve known your first thing and mine are about four hours apart. Sorry.’

Her good intentions pre-empted Sam’s well-worn washing-up mini-rant. While Sam would admit, if only to herself, that her intolerance of dirty dishes was possibly teetering on the brink of obsessive behaviour, she had to hand it to Gem. Unless she was a bloody award-winning actress, most things really didn’t bother her. As for bringing a bloke back to the flat—to Gemma, having sex was like Sam having a swim. Just about making the effort. And, judging from the Pisa-esque tower of toast and Marmite that Gemma had just made herself, it had a similar effect on her appetite.

Sam wiped the crumbs off the work surface without even realising what she was doing, before grabbing an apple and following Gemma into the sitting room.

‘How’s your job going?’ Anything. Sam would rather talk about anything than leave her mind to wander today. It kept trespassing into restricted areas. And Gemma was the perfect distraction. Just chatty enough to require concentration, just day-to-day enough to allow simultaneous magazine flick-through and general multi-tasking.

‘I could do this one standing on my head, but it pays pretty well considering I spend most of my day sending personal e-mails around the world and surfing the net. In fact, I was checking out the Friends Reunited website this week…’

‘You haven’t got into all that, have you?’

‘It’s brilliant. Most of our year have registered, and it’s great to see what they’re all up to. Loads of them are married.’

‘Mmm.’ Sam didn’t mind weddings. She just didn’t view marriage in the glorious Technicolor of many of her peers. She had trouble visualising the bit at the altar. Or maybe it was visualising the person waiting for her at the end of the aisle that was her main stumbling block.

‘Can’t believe it’ll be Sophie in a month… Anyway, between you and me I’m sort of hoping Dominic Pearson will get in touch. He was so damn sexy.’

‘He was pre-pubescent.’ Puffer Pearson had been smoking twenty-a-day in ten-packs from the age of fourteen and spent his early teens loitering behind his fringe at the bus stop, wearing a denim jacket over his blazer. Needless to say he and Gemma had often had to be prised apart at the bitter end of house parties. ‘And it’s all very well getting nostalgic, but life’s all about moving forward.’

‘But your schooldays are supposed to be the happiest of your life.’

‘Don’t believe the hype. I have no interest in re-establishing contact with people who spent their lives poking fun at me.’

Probably not the best time for Gemma to mention that she’d registered Sam on the site, then.

‘They were just jealous. You were annoyingly good at everything.’

‘I was asked to give up Art.’ She’d liked to think she’d been more of an abstract artist. The Kandinsky of the Greenside High School for Girls art department. So what if she couldn’t sketch a still life of a vase or a feather? She probably could have pickled a sheep or a cow in formaldehyde quite successfully, and with the right palette she was sure she might even have been able to give Mark Rothko a run for his money.

‘Fantastic. You’re not perfect after all. I’ve found your Achilles’ heel.’

‘No need to look quite so delighted. See, this is the problem.’

Sam’s mood had definitely shifted again. Gemma decided to return to non-controversial tales from the typing pool.

‘Anyway, the agency are going to send me somewhere new. The first few days anywhere are always the most fun…that’s when I get to save the day. Once I’ve mastered the software and company protocol, and lost a few incoming calls in the system, that is…’

Sam couldn’t imagine anything worse than being a temp—except maybe having Gemma as her temp. Still, she had to hand it to her. Her positivity was apparently unassailable. Gemma was one of life’s more buoyant passengers.

‘But it’s been keeping me in beer money since Australia, and something better will turn up—I’m sure of it. Only yesterday I met this woman at the bus stop…’

Gemma collected people as eclectically as some people collected fridge magnets.

‘…she was a photographer—nothing National Geographic would be bidding for, just weddings and family portraits, but tasteful. No soft focus airbrush or fake fabric weave…’

Sam nodded, to acknowledge that she was still listening. She prodded her neck and rolled it through one hundred and eighty degrees, first in one direction and then back again. There was no mistaking the tension. She was going to have to relax. She added it to her mental ‘to do’ list for the afternoon, but even she could see that ‘relax’ wasn’t something she’d be able to fit in to the five minutes between bill-paying, shower-head descaling and toenail painting.

‘She used to be an investment banker. Just woke up one morning and realised she wasn’t living the life she wanted and so she changed everything…’

Maybe if she ditched toenail painting? It was March: still far too chilly to get her feet out.

‘…downshifted. With no regrets. It really makes you think, and it just shows you never know what’s round the corner if you keep your eyes open to possibilities…’

‘Yup…alternatively you can just set yourself a goal and work towards it.’ Sam started sorting the papers and magazines on the coffee table.

‘That’s all very well if you’re as focused as you are, but most people don’t have as many objectives, goals, strategies and backup plans as a political party in an election campaign…nor do they get up at eight a.m. on a Saturday.’

Sam was sure there was a compliment in there somewhere, just fighting to get out.

‘But for the rest of us it’s good to see that life all works out in the end. She had a really good karma…’

The only karma Sam knew anything about had something to do with Culture Club in the early eighties. She kept it to herself.

‘Anyway, things do happen for a reason. If I hadn’t come back from Australia when I did, you and I wouldn’t be living together.’

‘Exactly.’ It had been meant to be a joke. Sort of. Smiling in an attempt to soften her tone, Sam got to her feet. ‘Another cup of tea?’

‘I’d love one…’

Silently Sam thanked India for providing the British with bottomless cuppas. There appeared to be no limit to their restorative powers…and no teabags in the jar.

‘Gemma Cousins…’

‘Mmm?’ From Sam’s tone, Gemma could sense trouble. And she could take a pretty could swing at why.

‘We seem to be out of tea.’

‘Ah.’ She did her best to be contrite. ‘Not to worry. I’ll just have an instant coffee, then.’

Sam muttered to herself as she let the cupboard door slam. Gemma clearly believed in teabag fairies, loo paper elves and waste disposal pixies, and her faith was always rewarded.

‘Luckily I went shopping this morning.’

Gemma’s voice wafted into the kitchen. ‘Let me know how much I owe you…’

It was only for six months, and then once again she’d be able to wax her legs in front of the TV, pluck her bikini line while on the phone to her mother and go the loo in the middle of the night without getting dressed.

‘You didn’t get a paper, by any chance…?’

Sam delivered her still pristine copy of The Times, along with fresh tea, to the sofa, separating the main body of the paper from its weekend sections and sitting down with it in the armchair opposite.

‘Thanks, love.’

George, having optimistically followed Sam to the kitchen and back again, just on the off-chance a roast chicken or spare salmon might inadvertently have fallen from the fridge when Sam was getting the milk, decided to sit with Gemma, and when he glanced across, apparently innocently, all smug purrs and green eyes, Sam narrowed hers to express her disdain. As he turned away Sam smiled victoriously before stopping herself. Who did she think she was? The cat whisperer?

Gemma was heading straight for her star signs in the magazine. Despite herself, Sam could feel herself listening to the general murmuring noises. Today’s sounded quite affirmative.

‘Hmm. Interesting. Do you want me to read out yours?’

Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, let me guess… As the week begins, Saturn makes its way through Aries, popping in to Gemini and Scorpio on its way. Take care around the new moon on Thursday, when Pluto’s activity means business matters may not turn out the way you planned. Beware of friends who try and tell you what’s going to happen next. Shop thoroughly. Watch out for Capricorn rising and Venus wandering in and out every twenty-eight hours, when emotions may run high and someone close to you may not be who they seem… How did I do?’

‘You really shouldn’t be so dismissive. It’s a science. You’d be surprised how accurate this stuff can be. If you’d only let me draw up a personal chart for you… I just need your birth time and I can calculate your rising sign. You’d be amazed at—’

‘Then I’d know which days to stay in bed and which ones to bother with? Honestly, Gem, for someone as intelligent as you are I can’t believe you are so into this hocus-pocus, this planetary, may-the-force-be-with-you bollocks.’

‘And I’m surprised that someone as intelligent as you can be so dismissive. I think you’re scared. You don’t want to think that things might be pre-ordained.’

Sam ignored her. She was doing her best to concentrate on an article about law reforms. Gemma, sensing the stalemate of the situation, tried to return to the chit-chat.

‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘Chamomile.’

‘Yuk. It smells like wee.’

‘Thanks.’ For a holistic, feng shui kid, Gemma was surprisingly hostile to the idea of herbal teas.

‘Well, it does.’

Sam put her paper down again. She was feeling like a rather irritable husband at the moment. All she wanted was a bit of quiet and a chance to catch up with the rest of the world.

‘No one’s asking you to drink it, but I’m trying to cut out caffeine at weekends for detox reasons and this is great for stiff joints and generally calming—allegedly.’ Sam rustled the broadsheet and turned the page pointedly.

‘Well, rather you than me…’

Clearly not pointedly enough.

‘And you wouldn’t have stiff joints if you didn’t go to the gym so often. Plus there are lots of free radicals in real tea that are good for you.’

‘And it’s full of caffeine and tannin, dehydrating, cellulite-inducing and addictive.’ Sam knew she was being crotchety. Let Gemma think it was Mars clashing with Mercury, or whatever fitted the picture best.

‘And delicious.’ Gemma took a big sip and Sam had to admit, if only to herself, that it did smell good. And finally a moment of peace. Just a moment.

‘Oh, before I forget—Soph called yesterday afternoon.’

Sam could have really used a chat with the most rational person she knew last night. When she and Mark got round to having them, their children would be sorted. As opposed to Gemma’s, who’d clearly be caked in snot and felt pen at all times.

‘Any message?’

Gemma looked up from the travel section and squinted as she tried to recall the moment. ‘No. Just to call her, I think…’

‘Anyone else?’ Sam was joking.

‘Your mum. I must have been on the phone at the time, but she left a message on the BT answer-phone thingy. She said she’d try your mobile.’

‘So that’d be two messages, then?’

‘Yup.’

Sam took a deep breath, doing her best to refocus on the world headlines and ignore the proximity of the accident waiting to happen opposite. The potential stain cocktail of English Breakfast tea, Marmite, cat and weekend newsprint on bespoke sofa was making her decidedly twitchy. She was just ascertaining that the world was still as flawed as it had been the day before, that there was still nothing she could single-handedly do about it and that no one famous or notorious had married or died, when the phone rang.

Sam leapt to her feet while George opened an eye, got up, performed a perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn and sat down again. Without even really taking her eye off the page she was reading, Gemma retrieved the portable phone from between two sofa cushions just at the point that Sam reached its empty charging base in the kitchen.

‘Hello? Hi. How are you? Great. Just having breakfast. Yeah, she’s here. How did last night go? Great. No? Some people are unbelievable. Definitely. Yup, I’d be up for that. Tomorrow? Not sure. Send me a text if you decide to. Fab.’

Gemma passed the phone over, ignoring Sam’s muttering about keeping the phone charged between calls. ‘It’s Sophie.’

‘Hi, Soph. Lovely to speak to you. It’s been far too long.’ Sam folded up the section of the paper she’d been reading and retreated to her room, determined to retain at least a semblance of a private life.

‘You’re the one who’s been gallivanting across the Atlantic. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I left you a couple of messages, but then I had a job on and I only got home just before midnight—at which point I guessed you were asleep and Mark was determined to seduce me.’

‘No problem. Did your meeting go well?’

‘Yup. Really well. But to be honest anything will be an improvement on what she’s inherited. It was her husband’s father’s house. A gorgeous Edwardian from the outside, but the interior is a tribute to the seventies. There’s even a hanging basket chair.’

‘You’re kidding. Was he related to Alan Partridge?’

Sophie laughed. ‘The before and afters are going to be incredible.’

‘Well, congratulations. You really deserve a big project.’

‘Thanks. I have to say I’m really excited. Mark’s bored already. He’s more interested in whether the husband is after me.’

‘Is he?’

‘Of course not. Haven’t even met him.’

‘But it’s not like you’ve never met anyone through work before…’

‘It only happened the once. And I’m marrying him now.’

Sophie ignored Sam’s attempt to be playful. She’d asked far too many questions already. Definitely avoiding something. Textbook behaviour.

‘So, my little jet-setter, is everything hunky-dory with you?’

‘Yup. It’s fine.’

‘Really?’

‘Yup.’

‘So why did you call?’

‘Well…fine-ish.’

‘Sam…?’

This total understanding was why, at the tender age of seven, Sam had handpicked Sophie to be the sister she’d never had. It was one of the best choices she’d ever made.

‘Well, Gemma’s driving me mad, Richard made a pass at me in New York and I’ve lost my diary.’ There, she’d said it out loud now.

‘No way?’

‘Way.’

‘Oh, my God. Where do you want to start?’

‘I thought I’d left it at the hotel, but they’ve checked my room and nothing. Unless…’

Sam felt her pulse-rate double. Had she seen it since?

‘What was in it?’

‘Shit.’

‘What?’

‘I think Richard might have it.’ Sam’s stomach plummeted to her ankles. Her life was over.

‘Are you sure?’

She took a deep breath. But she’d only been in the bathroom for a couple of minutes…

‘What was in it?’

‘The last three months of my life. Plenty of unprofessional whingeing. Potentially libellous statements. Quite a few personal titbits I’d rather not think about. And worst of all…’ Sam’s thoughts interrupted her flow. ‘Yes, I definitely wrote in it after he left my room.’ The relief was quite overwhelming.

‘He was in your room?’

‘Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Even to you.’

‘Sam, for God’s sake.’ Sam knew she could trust Sophie implicitly. Yet telling her meant that it was no longer a possible figment of her imagination. ‘And worst of all…?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You said “And worst of all…”’

‘I did?’ It wasn’t her secret to tell. ‘I have no idea what I was going to say.’

‘So, did the entries include the night of that Valentine’s dinner party?’

Silence.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong…’

‘Being caught snogging the younger brother of the host in the coat pile wasn’t my greatest moment. Maybe if my skirt hadn’t been round my waist when Tim turned the light on…’

‘And the wine-tasting?’

Perfect example of alcohol-impaired judgement. It had taken her nearly three weeks to shake Steve off completely. He hadn’t outwardly displayed any signs of being a telephone stalker. Sometimes she wished Sophie’s memory could be a little less effective.

‘All the stuff about Richard?’

Sam felt her stomach tighten. ‘Yup, and I was in a bit of state. One minute he was collecting documents—the next thing I knew he was under my duvet.’

Sophie squealed. ‘And where were you?’

‘In the bathroom.’

‘Your life is so much more exciting than mine.’

‘I’m not sure “exciting” is the word I’d use.’

‘Anything else incriminating?’

‘You could at least try and sound a bit less gleeful.’

‘Sorry. And I’m not even remotely…it’s just, well, there’s a lot to take in.’ Sophie racked her brains. ‘Not…?’

‘What?’

‘The thing I’m not really supposed to know about.’

‘Did I tell you?’ Sam was almost relieved.

‘About EJ? Don’t worry. I haven’t told a soul—nor will I.’

‘It’s in there.’ Sam’s tones were hushed. ‘Well, most of it.’

‘His name?’

‘Initials only, I think. But there are probably enough clues. Of course now I can’t really remember, and it’s not like I can check.’

Sophie paused. ‘And your name?’

‘Just an address.’

‘Well, that’s something. Have you told her?’

‘What’s the point?’

‘Well…’

‘It’s like I’d be confessing to her and asking for her forgiveness. And if I was her I’m not sure I’d be doing a lot of forgiving. Meanwhile she thinks I’m all jumpy because of the Richard malarkey.’

‘Which you are. I know this probably sounds impossible, but try not to worry and think positive. Maybe someone will post it back when they find it. Anyway, who on earth would want to read a total stranger’s diary?’ The pause that ensued should have come with a ‘mind the gap’ warning. ‘Well, fingers crossed it’ll turn up in safe non-contentious hands.’

‘Maybe.’ Sam wasn’t convinced.

‘At least you lost it abroad.’

‘And of course no one reads English in New York.’

‘Hey, maybe it’s just been thrown away. Maybe it’s being pulped or dumped in a landfill site as we speak.’

‘I hope so.’ Sam could have kissed Sophie for her irrepressible optimism. And it certainly helped to have her rooting for her.

‘And, face it, the bottom line is there is nothing you can do.’

‘That’s the worst part…’ Sam sighed.

‘Just for the record, I think you need to give EJ the heads-up…’

Sam had been wrestling with her morals all morning.

‘I don’t suppose you’re free for lunch, are you? I need to sort out my shoes for the wedding once and for all.’

Sam couldn’t help but smile. ‘You’ve still got a month.’

‘A month? I thought I had ages to get everything ready.’

‘You did…’ Sam hesitated. She must be the least enthusiastic maid of honour ever to have been appointed. Fawning over empire lines and bias cuts didn’t come naturally to her, and she’d only accepted the role on condition that shot silk and baby pink did not feature in her outfit. But shoes she could do. And general sounding board duties. And lunch. Eating on her own at weekends was something that she did her best to avoid.

‘I need something that doesn’t scream Essex girl or dental nurse. I can’t possibly do barefoot, and Adidas Bride of Hip-Hop isn’t quite what my mother is expecting.’

‘I was going to sort some stuff out here…’

‘If Gemma’s winding you up it’d do you good to get out.’

‘I refuse to be driven out of my own flat.’

‘Stop being so bloody melodramatic. That girl’s got a heart of gold, and you know it’s just that things simply don’t occur to her. Come on. Just a couple of hours. Self-flagellation is so last season.’

Sam looked at her watch. ‘Give me an hour and a half.’

‘Brilliant. See you at Selfridges at two. I’ll be the one in the shoe department in a strop.’

‘And I’ll be the one with an ulcer.’

Sitting on the edge of the Bethesda Fountain, waiting for Ali, Ben felt very cloak and dagger—or very jacket and diary. As he revelled in the surprisingly warm spring sunshine, he knew morally she was right. The only problem being that, NG or not, he wasn’t quite sure he could go back to his life as it had been on Thursday.

Turning his back on the Angel of the Waters, he peered south through the dark arches of the arcade framing the vibrant colours of the park beyond. He spotted her long before she saw him. Shares in Kenneth Cole were going to be right up on Monday.

They’d scoured the collections like pros, and while the perfect white shoe was still eluding them Sophie had approved several other shopping diversions, and a cluster of high-quality paper carrier bags were physical evidence that Sam was feeling a bit better. Sam was incredibly grateful to Sophie. Which was good. Because this maid of honour was tiring slightly. Until they hit the new summer collection in Jigsaw, that was.

Sophie sighed. ‘Are you nearly done?’

‘Just one more suit to try.’

Poking her head round the door, Sophie observed the near identical suits neatly hanging all around Sam. She hadn’t known there were so many variations on a theme.

‘Any good ones?’

‘A couple.’

‘Not trying any bar-hopping gear?’

Sam raised an eyebrow at her best friend. ‘What for?’

‘Weekends?’

‘I’ve got drawers stuffed full of jeans and jumpers, Soph, and I hardly ever get to wear them.’

‘I was thinking more—you know—party.’

‘You mean tarty. When on earth am I ever going to need a backless, frontless, strappy handkerchief top?’

‘Every single girl should have a pulling top.’

‘My days of nightclubs are over.’

‘Bars?’

‘I’m not doing the semi-naked look.’

‘Fine. Well, I’ve had enough shopping for now. I refuse to stand in front of another in-store full-length mirror until after April the twenty-first. And I can’t be a size sixteen bride.’ Sophie paused as a wave of fear flashed across her face. ‘Maybe that’s why brides have their dresses made to measure?’

‘Soph…’

‘Well, just remind me never to shop in here again. Those jeans were allegedly a fourteen and I couldn’t get them past my knees.’

Sophie’s head disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. And just as Sam’s mobile started ringing. Having scattered the pile of her own clothes in order to locate her bag, she hesitated for a split second when she saw the number on the screen.

‘At last. Finally.’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Honestly, I think it would be easier to get an audience with the Pope.’

‘Sorry. I’ve been in New York all week, working on a deal.’ Sam still liked the way that sounded. Travelling was exhausting, and far less glamorous than anyone based in one place would believe, but it certainly sounded good when relating to family and friends.

‘Last thing I heard they did have phones in the States, and according to Michelle you were due in yesterday.’

‘It’s Melanie and, yes, I was back—but we were manic.’ Overly defensive as she now remembered that she’d forgotten to return her call, Sam glanced down at her state of semi-undress. ‘Mum, can I call you back in a minute? This isn’t a great time. In five minutes…yes, I will.’ Sam was beginning to wonder what on earth had possessed her to press ‘answer’. ‘Look, I’m barely dressed… In a shop… In town, yes—Bond Street. With Soph. Not that expensive. Again this morning? No, I didn’t get it. Please, just give me five, ten minutes… I realise… I’m sorry, but yesterday was one of my worst days in a while. I’ve lost my diary.’

And I’ve just discovered that my boss wants to sleep with me. She stopped at the diary tidbit. Sam didn’t think her mother would appreciate the latter detail.

There, she’d admitted all was not well in the World of Sam Washington. Immediately she felt better.

‘Oh, dear, darling. Don’t you have it all on your computer these days, though? Can’t you just beam it into a new one of those hand pilots?’

‘Not my appointments diary. My real one—my journal. And it’s Palm, not hand.’

‘How sweet! I didn’t know you were still writing one…’

‘Usually only on bad days.’

‘Where did you leave it?’

‘If I knew it wouldn’t be lost, would it?’ Sam reined herself in. Hostility was not a fair trade for sympathy. ‘I thought I’d left it in a drawer in my hotel room, but apparently it’s not there now.’

‘Did it have your address in it?’

‘Yup.’ Sophie and her mother’s minds clearly worked in the same way.

‘Then I’m sure it’ll turn up. Listen, darling, the reason I’m calling—’

‘I can’t believe I’ve lost it. Everything was in there…and if it gets into the wrong hands…’

‘Darling…’ Helen was becoming increasingly exasperated. Sam had always been capable of incredible focus and self-centredness. Only-child syndrome. ‘I know it’s important to you, but it’s not like you’re Geri Halliwell or Prince William.’

Sam smiled despite herself. Only a devout Daily Mail reader could put those two in the same sentence.

‘No one knows who you are and no one really cares—except us, of course.’

‘It’s not just me I’m worrying about—’

‘Excuse me, madam, but are you going to be much longer? There’s a queue out here.’

‘Sorry—just give me one more minute. Mum, I promise I’ll call you back.’

‘Listen, your father’s in hospital.’

Sam was silent as her emotions jostled for supremacy.

‘I’m afraid it’s serious. He’s got a tumour in his liver and apparently it’s a secondary one. They’re going to operate on Monday, and then hopefully start chemotherapy, but apparently it’s large enough to suggest it has probably already spread further. It seems to be a case of damage limitation rather than cure.’

Her mother must have spoken to a doctor. Either that or she had been to med school since their elderly neighbour had gone through breast cancer when she had explained everything in terms of zapping and lumps.

‘They’re running all sorts of tests, and he says he’s been scanned to within an inch of his life. They’re still trying to ascertain the primary site.’

‘Right.’

‘He’s at the Royal Marsden. It’s one of the best places he could possibly—’

‘I’m incredibly busy at the moment.’ Clearly denial had beaten the others hands down in the battle of her emotions.

‘I know it’s been a long time, but you just don’t know… I mean at the moment they don’t even know…’

‘So now I’m supposed to sit at his bedside?’

‘Don’t be so stubborn. You remind me of him when you’re like this.’ Her mother pretty much had a doctorate in emotional blackmail. ‘I went to visit yesterday. He’s in there all by himself.’

‘What about his teenage girlfriend? Isn’t this her remit?’

Sophie glared at the fitting room assistant as she approached Sam’s cubicle, where she was now standing guard, protecting what little privacy Sam still had.

‘Honestly, darling, Susie must be in her forties now. It’s been a long time. You can’t have seen him in at least five years…’

‘More like ten.’

‘I know it’s a shock…’ Sam could hear her mother’s voice faltering as she battled with tears.

It didn’t take much to set her off at the best of times: an Andrex puppy, a wedding on television, Sam getting into Oxford, Sam leaving Oxford, Sam finishing law school. So, by rights, an ex-husband with cancer should have had her in floods. She was obviously focused on being strong for Sam’s sake. And Sam was quite happy not to have to support her mother on this one.

‘Simon is more of a father to me than Dad ever was.’

‘Simon’s not going anywhere. You know how much he loves you. But the fact is Robert is still your dad. I’m sure it would mean a lot to him if you just popped in.’

‘I don’t know how you can be so nice about it. We were there for him. And then he left us.’

‘He left me. Twenty-three years ago…’

Sam could still feel the weight of the silence after the front door slammed. Still remember the sun coming through the sitting room window. The dust particles swirling around her. The smell of the warm musty air. The pattern on her white knee-length socks. The sound of his car starting and driving off. For a fraction of a second she was a six-year-old trapped in a twenty-nine-year-old body.

‘It wasn’t meant to be. I married again. I learned to let go. And you need to. Because of you we’ve always kept in touch. And he does love you.’

‘Well, he’s got a funny way of showing it.’ Sam knew she didn’t have the monopoly on divorced parents. Almost everyone she knew had gone through the parents-living-at-separate-addresses thing. But, selfishly, all she’d wanted was a nuclear family. And maybe a brother or sister. And maybe a dad at home for a little bit longer than six years. It wasn’t that she hadn’t got on with her life. She couldn’t have been working any harder…

‘You’re the one who won’t see him.’

‘He can’t just expect to have a daughter at his beck and call when it suits him.’

He’d never taken her to the zoo. She didn’t even really agree with zoos any more. But she didn’t have any of those memories. No trips to theme parks or burger bars, no camping holidays—not that these were necessarily indices of good parenting, but it would have at least showed willing. Everyone knew children were the worst sort of investment plan. At least eighteen years to mature and no sign of the capital invested. Not much appreciation either. No good for impatient people. Simon, though, had unquestioningly done it all. Sam wondered if she had thanked him enough.

‘We managed perfectly well without him.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you know if we’d stayed together none of us would have been happy.’

Deep down she did. And maybe if they hadn’t had her they’d still be together. He hadn’t exactly made a secret of the fact that he’d never really wanted children in the first place.

‘Sam, sweetheart, you don’t have to be all brave about this. I’ll come with you, if you like.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Next you’ll be suggesting I bake him some biscuits.’

‘There’s no point taking it out on me. I didn’t want him to leave either.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry, but I’m not going.’

‘Please? Think about it… He’s in Room 136. Maybe just call him…’

‘I’ve really got to go now, or it’ll be death by coat hanger for me.’

‘You’re bound to need a bit of time to let all this sink in. Love you, darling. I’ll call again later.’

‘Bye.’

Sam sat down and stared at the floor, seeing nothing. There was a tentative knock at the changing room door.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Give me a minute.’

Sophie gave her twenty seconds.

‘Come on, you, let’s get out of here. I need a coffee. A diet coffee, obviously.’

Sam regrouped and pulled on her pale blue v-neck, shopping forgotten. ‘I’m ready.’

‘It’s Okay, love.’ Sophie shifted her weight from foot to foot apologetically. ‘To be honest—’ she gestured at the saloon-style swing doors ‘—these changing rooms aren’t exactly soundproof.’

Sure enough, several sympathetic glances from the fitting room queue followed them to the front of the shop.

‘She still doesn’t get it. Just because I have a phone with me doesn’t mean I can chat for ages.’

‘It’s your dad, isn’t it?’

Sam nodded, momentarily speechless.

Sophie shrugged. ‘You’ve never exactly had a whispery voice, and there were only a couple of inches of plywood between us.’

‘Cancer, apparently. Liver secondaries.’

‘Oh, God.’ Sophie paled visibly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not like we’re close. I haven’t seen him in years.’

Sam couldn’t have been any more matter of fact. This had to be it. First Richard, then her diary, now her father. Everyone knows these things come in threes. Come in threes? Now she was sounding like Gemma.

‘Sam, come on—give yourself a break. Don’t be so bloody stubborn.’

‘Gemma didn’t even tell me she’d called again this morning.’

‘Do you want me to go with you?’

‘I mean, how hard is it to write down a phone message?’

‘Sam?’

‘She must have to take messages at work all the time. If she’s not going to bother, I’d rather she didn’t answer the phone in the first place. Anyway—right—shoes. Where next? What do you think? King’s Road? It’s still only three-thirty. We’ve got plenty of time. Let’s just get a cab. My shout.’

Sophie dragged her into the nearest Starbucks. ‘It’s totally acceptable to be upset. In fact, it’s recommended. And you only have one father.’

‘Actually, I have two. Look, I’ll have a think and take a view. But today you, my friend, need white shoes, and it’s my job not to leave your side until we complete our mission.’

‘So I’ll wear flip-flops. You’re not going to get away with using my wedding or your work as an excuse to hide from the rest of your life—partnership race or no partnership race. What about going tonight?’

Silence. Sam’s face was expressionless, and for a moment Sophie wondered whether she had crossed the invisible unconditional-support-versus-advice friendship divide.

‘I’m seeing EJ.’

‘She’ll understand.’

‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks and I really want to—’

‘You’re right. You should tell her.’

Sam didn’t want to correct Sophie. But she’d only been going to say ‘see a film’. One step at a time.

Sophie had her diary out. ‘Well, Mark and I have a lunch tomorrow, but I could go with you first thing.’

‘Thanks, Soph, but honestly there’s no need. You’ve got quite enough on your plate as it is. And I will go. Soon. I just need a bit of time.’

‘Don’t leave it too long.’

‘He’d better be on his best behaviour.’

‘He’s got cancer.’

‘Which is why I’m going…’

Sophie reached over and gave her a half-hug. Not that it was really reciprocated, but it made her feel better for a start.

A doyenne of denial, Sam gathered her bags and got to her feet. ‘Now, come on. King’s Road or Knightsbridge? Your call.’