feel so … intimate. It’s as if we’re suddenly sharing an underwear drawer or something.

         Anyway. No big deal. It’s not for long.

         I make my tea and fill a bowl with Shreddies. Then, as I munch, I slowly pick through the

messages, working out which ones are for Sam and forwarding them on.

         I’m not going to spy on him or anything. Obviously not. But I have to click on each

message in order to forward it, and sometimes my fingers automatically press open by mistake

and I catch a glimpse of the text. Just sometimes.

         Clearly it’s not only his father who’s having a hard time getting in touch with him. He

must be really, really bad at answering emails and texts, there are so many plaintive requests to

Violet: Is this a good way to reach Sam? … Hi! Apologies for bothering you, but I have left

several messages for Sam… . Hi, Violet, could you nudge Sam about an email I sent last week?

I’ll reprise the main points here… .

         It’s not like I’m reading through every single email fully or anything. Or scrolling down

to read all the previous correspondence. Or critiquing all his answers and rewriting them in my

head. After all, it’s none of my business what he writes or doesn’t write. He can do what he likes.

It’s a free country. My opinion is neither here nor there—

         God, his replies are abrupt! It’s driving me nuts! Does everything have to be so short?

Does he have to be so curt and unfriendly? As I clock yet another brief email, I can’t help

exclaiming out loud, “Are you allergic to typing or something?”

         It’s ridiculous. It’s like he’s determined to use the least possible words.

         Yes, fine. Sam

         Done. Sam

         OK, Sam

         Would it kill him to add Best wishes? Or a smiley face? Or say thank you?

         And while I’m on the subject, why can’t he just reply to people? Poor Rachel Elwood is

trying to organize an office Fun Run and has asked him twice now if he could lead a team. Why

wouldn’t he want to do that? It’s fun, it’s healthy, it raises money for charity—what’s not to

love?

         Nor has he replied about accommodation for the company conference in Hampshire next

week. It’s at the Chiddingford Hotel, which sounds amazing, and he’s booked into a suite, but he

has to specify to someone called Lindy whether he’s still planning to come down late. And he

hasn’t.

         Worst of all, his dentist’s office has emailed him about scheduling a checkup four times.

Four times.

         I can’t help glancing back at the previous correspondence, and Violet’s obviously given

up trying. Each time she’s made an appointment for him, he’s emailed her: Cancel it. S, and once

even, You have to be joking.

         Does he want his teeth to rot?

         By the time I’m leaving for work at eight-forty, a whole new series of emails has arrived.

Obviously these people all start work at the crack of dawn. The top one, from Jon Mailer, is

entitled What’s the story? That sounds quite intriguing, so as I’m walking along the street, I open

it.

Sam,Ran into Ed at the Groucho Club last night, looking worse for wear. All I’ll say is, don’t let

him in the same room as Sir Nicholas anytime soon, will you?Regards,

 Jon Ooh, now I want to know the story too. Who’s Ed, and why was he worse for wear at the

Groucho Club?23

         The second email is from someone called Willow, and as I click on it, my eyes are

assaulted by capitals everywhere.

Violet,Let’s be grown-ups about this. You’ve HEARD Sam and me fighting. There’s no point

hiding anything from you.So, since Sam REFUSES to answer the email I sent half an hour ago,

maybe you could be so kind to print this attachment out and PUT IT ON HIS DESK SO HE

READS IT?Thanks so much.

 WillowI stare at the phone in shock, almost wanting to laugh. Willow must be his

fiancée. Yowzer.

         Her email address is willowharte@whiteglobeconsulting.com. So she obviously works at

White Globe Consulting, but she’s still emailing Sam? Isn’t that odd? Unless maybe they work

on different floors. Fair enough. I once emailed Magnus from upstairs to ask him to make me a

cup of tea.

         I wonder what’s in the attachment.

         My fingers hesitate as I pause at a pedestrian crossing. It would be wrong to read it. Very,

very wrong. I mean, this isn’t some open email cc’ed to loads of people. This is a private

document between two people in a relationship. I shouldn’t look at it. It was bad enough reading

that email from his father.

         But on the other hand … she wants it printed out, doesn’t she? And put on Sam’s desk,

where anyone could read it if they walked by. And it’s not like I’m indiscreet. I won’t mention

this to anyone; no one will ever even know I’ve seen it… .

         My fingers seem to have a life of their own. Already I’m clicking on the attachment. It

takes me a moment to focus on the text, it’s so heavy with capital letters.

SamYou still haven’t answered me.Are you intending to? Do you think this is NOT

IMPORTANT?????Jesus.It’s only the most important thing IN OUR LIFE. And how you can go

about your day so calmly … I don’t know. It makes me want to weep.We need to talk, so, so

badly. And I know some of this is my fault, but until we start untying the knots TOGETHER,

how will we know who’s pulling which string? How?The thing is, Sam, sometimes I don’t even

know if you have a string. It’s that bad. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU HAVE A STRING.I can see

you shaking your head, Mr. Denial. But it is. It’s THAT BAD, OK???If you were a human being

with a shred of emotion, you’d be crying by now. I know I am. And that’s another thing—I have

a ten o’clock with Carter, which you have now FUCKED UP as I left my FUCKING

MASCARA at home.So, be proud of yourself.

 WillowMy eyes are like saucers. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

         I read it over again—and suddenly find myself giggling. I know I shouldn’t. It’s not

funny. She’s obviously really upset. And I know I’ve said some pretty screwy things to Magnus

when I’ve been pissed and hormonal. But I would never, ever put them in an email and get his

assistant to print it out

        My head bobs up in realization. Shit! There’s no Violet anymore. No one’s going to print

it out and put it on Sam’s desk. He won’t know about it and he won’t reply and Willow will get

even more livid. The awful thing is, this thought makes me want to giggle more.

        I wonder if this is a bad day or if she’s always this intense. I can’t resist typing Willow in

the search engine, and a whole series of emails pop up. There’s one from yesterday, with the title

Are you trying to fuck me or fuck WITH me, Sam? Or CAN’T YOU DECIDE???, and I get

another fit of the giggles. Yikes. They must have one of those up and down relationships. Maybe

they throw things at each other and shriek and bellow, then have mad passionate sex in the

kitchen—

        Beyoncé blasts out from the phone, and I nearly drop it as I see Sam Mobile appear on

the screen. I have a mad thought that he’s psychic and knows I’ve been spying on his love life.

        No more snooping, I hastily promise myself. No more Willow searches. I count to

three—then press answer.

        “Oh, hi there!” I try to sound relaxed and guiltless, like I was just thinking about

something else altogether and not at all imagining him screwing his fiancée amongs a pile of