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I almost can’t bring myself to go, I’m so humiliated. I should never have agreed to play. I’ve stared and stared at the stupid letters, and this is honestly the best possible word I can make.

“ P-I-G, ” enunciates Antony carefully as I put my tiles down. “Pig. As in … the mammal, I take it?”Advertisement

“Well done!” says Magnus heartily. “Six points!”

I can’t look at him. I’m fumbling miserably for another two tiles. A and L. Like that’s going to help me.

“Hey, Poppy,” says Felix, coming back into the room with a tray. “Your phone’s ringing in the kitchen. What did you put down? Oh, Pig. ” As he looks at the board his mouth twitches, and I see Wanda give him a warning frown.

I can’t bear this any longer.

“I’ll just go and check who called, if that’s OK,” I say. “Might be something important.”

I escape to the kitchen, haul my phone out of the bag, and lean against the comforting warmth of the Aga. There are three texts from Sam, starting with Good luck, which he sent two hours ago. Then twenty minutes ago he texted, Favor to ask, followed up by, Are you there?

That call was from him too. I guess I’d better see what’s up. I dial his number, picking morosely at the remains of the birthday cake on the counter.

“Great. Poppy. Can you do me a big favor?” he says as soon as we’re connected. “I’m away from my desk and something’s up with my phone. It won’t connect to the server. Nothing’s going out, and I need to get an email to Viv Amberley. Would you mind?”

“Oh yes, Vivien Amberley,” I begin knowledgeably—then draw myself up short.

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Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal that I’ve read all the correspondence about Vivien Amberley. She works in strategy and has applied for a job at another consultancy. Sam is desperately trying to keep her, but nothing’s worked and now she’s said she’s resigning tomorrow.

OK. I know I’ve been nosy. But once you start reading other people’s emails, you can’t stop. You have to know what’s happened. It’s been quite addictive, scrolling down the endless strings of back-and-forth emails and working out the stories. Always backward. Like rewinding little spools of life.

“If you could send her a quick email, I’d be hugely grateful,” Sam’s saying. “From one of my email addresses. To

[email protected]

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, have you got that? I’d do it myself, but I have to be at this media seminar.”

Honestly. What am I, his PA?

“Well … all right,” I say grudgingly, clicking on her address. “What shall I say?”

“Hi, Viv. I would love to talk this through with you again. Please call to arrange a meeting whenever’s convenient tomorrow. I’m sure we can work something out. Sam.”

I type it out carefully, using my non-bandaged hand—then hesitate.

“Have you sent it?” Sam says.

My thumb is on the key, poised to press send. But I can’t do it.

“Hello?”

“Don’t call her Viv,” I blurt out. “She hates it. She likes being called Vivien.”

“What?” Sam sounds gobsmacked. “How the hell—”

“It was in an old email that got forwarded. She asked Peter Snell not to call her Viv, but he didn’t notice. Nor did Jeremy Atheling. And now you’re calling her Viv too!”

There’s a short silence.

“Poppy,” says Sam at last, and I picture those dark eyebrows of his knitted in a frown. “Have you been reading my emails?”

“No!” I say defensively. “I’ve just glanced at a couple.”

“You’re sure about this Viv thing.”

“Yes! Of course!”

“I’m looking up the email now… .” I stuff a chunk of icing in my mouth while I’m waiting—then Sam is back on the line. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right!”

“OK. Can you change the email to Vivien ?”

“Hold on a minute … ” I amend the email and send it. “Done.”

“Thanks. Good save. That was sharp of you. Are you always this sharp?”

Yeah, right. I’m so sharp, the only Scrabble word I can come up with is PIG.

“Yes, all the time,” I say sarcastically, but I don’t think he notices my tone.

“Well, I owe you one. And I’m sorry for disturbing your evening, but it’s a fairly urgent situation.”

“Don’t worry. I get it,” I say understandingly. “You know, I’m sure Vivien wants to stay at White Globe Consulting, really.” pqdm.com