Kitabı oku: «Lost and Found», sayfa 5

‘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.’

Chapter Five

108,102,96,94,88…Ben squeezed the brake and focused on the house numbers. Last week, safely on the other side of the Atlantic, this had seemed like a great idea: one knight, minus shining armour—well, more of a boy scout—doing a good deed for a damsel likely to be in distress. But at this precise moment he couldn’t help thinking that a stamp would’ve been far simpler. Added to the fact that he wasn’t sure whether he was there out of guilt, gratitude or just sheer curiosity.

Gemma flopped onto the sofa, cold bottle of lager in hand. The relief of pyjama bottom on sofa cushion was blissful. It had been a mundanely hard day in PAsville, most of the afternoon had been spent in Excel hell, and her eyes ached from sustained concentration. Fortunately Sam and EJ were checking out the latest influx of actors trying to make the transition from the big screen to the small stage, so the flat was hers for the evening.

Stretching out, she wondered how early she could go to bed without losing every self-respecting girl-about-town point. Almost all her friends with new babies were in bed by ten…and up at one, three and five. Surely she wasn’t getting broody? Well, maybe a little. And it wasn’t that she was short of male attention, but she’d always wanted to believe in The One, a sole soul mate, yet judging by the forest of wedding invitations on Sam’s mantelpiece, it did seem to be more about timing. In which case she should probably be out strategically sipping cocktails or salsa dancing. She knew she wasn’t going to meet anybody lying in front of the TV.

Ben took a look around as he slowed down. Aside from the roar of his Vespa—well, more angry wasp buzz—it was an eerily quiet road. And tidy. Window boxes added carefully thought-out finishing touches to newly painted windowsills and lovingly glossed front doors in muted blues, reds and greens. A smattering of estate agent boards signalled the transience of Battersea’s young residents as they moved onwards and outwards in search of more affordable space and room to park the inevitable people carriers. Shiny scooters broke up the Audi TT, MG, VW and Peugeot party, and Ben added his to the nearest bay. Strolling towards his final destination, he peered into the front rooms. Ikea envy. His foot was still nowhere near the first rung of the property ladder.

As he reached the front door of number 68, a large three-storey Victorian semi, he ruffled his hair. He knew better than to complain about an unruly mop when most of his mates were desperately trying to hold on to theirs, but it was a constant challenge to persuade it to lie flat, especially when there had been a helmet involved. Licking his finger, he held it firmly on the most independent tuft.

Houston, he had a problem. He’d carried the diary three and a half thousand miles and now there were three bells.

Johnson.

Brooks.

Washington.

And a perfectly acceptable communal letterbox. But surely that would be cheating?

Uncharacteristically tense, Ben rechecked the package in his hand. A sweat broke out in the small of his back as he remembered his broken promise to Ali, and he flapped his T-shirt to try and cool himself down. Flat 3. He checked his watch. Nearly eight-fifteen.

Taking a logical guess, Ben pushed the top bell.

A crackle of static. ‘Halloh…who is speaking, please, thank you?’

He seemed to have been connected to somewhere in central Europe. ‘Hi. Is that flat 3?’

A child shrieked in the background. Maybe two. Ben shook his head. He should have known that British electricians installed bells in whatever order they fancied. Bob the Builder should really have been Bodge the Builder. If he ever turned up at all, that was.

‘Heylow?’

His adult self compelled him to stay. ‘Sorry to bother you. Wrong apartment.’

‘No party here.’

‘Wrong bell. Wrong flat. Sorry.’ Ben wondered why he was shouting. Should have posted it. Should have posted it.

Without giving himself a nanosecond for second thoughts Ben went for the bottom buzzer and leaned in closer to the door. He couldn’t hear a bell ringing anywhere. He pushed it again, for longer this time. Second time lucky? He was sure the letterbox was winking at him.

Startled from semi-consciousness, Gemma sat bolt upright. She definitely hadn’t ordered any food yet, and a quick glance at the video clock confirmed it was far too early to be out for the count in pyjama bottoms. Leaping to her feet, she picked up the intercom handset while her heart made a supreme effort to pump enough blood to her brain to prevent her from passing out.

‘Hello?’ Gemma had tried her best not to sound dazed, confused or asleep. Listening to herself, she had failed on all three counts.

‘Is that flat 3?’

A delay. To reveal or not to reveal the information? At least she had stopped seeing stars now.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Yes…’ It was a tentative response.

‘Hi. Sorry to disturb you. My name’s Ben…’

Ben? Gemma didn’t think she’d ever had or known a Ben. She’d heard of plenty: Hur, Johnson, Affleck… In which case she could be Gemma from the block…well, maybe with a serious amount of work, a bit of Juicy Couture, longer hair and industrial hair irons.

Two floors down, all Ben could hear was breathing. ‘You don’t know me, but I have a package for you. If you’re flat 3, that is…’

Package for you. The three magic words every girl longs to hear. Open Sesame. ‘I’ll be right down.’

As she replaced the handset Gemma wondered whether she should be a bit more circumspect. It wasn’t your prime-time delivery hour. But she was sure all the e-mails she’d received about female safety involved quiet car parks and Rohypnol.

As she peered down from the sitting room window she could just about make out a bloke on his own. No TNT or FedEx van, but he didn’t look like an axe murderer. In fact from this distance he didn’t look bad at all. As for a package…disappointingly it appeared to be no more than a big envelope. She was still staring when he looked up at the house, obviously searching for a sign of life. Ducking down out of sight, she scrambled to her room, grabbed her combat trousers and, pulling them on over her pyjama bottoms, practically flew down the stairs, releasing her hair from its scrunchie en route.

‘Hello!’ She was unnervingly cheery.

Ben just stared. She was somehow…could she be too messy? He wasn’t usually messyist. Unless… Of course. This had to be Gemma. In which case, she was much more attractive than he’d imagined. He was thrown.

‘Um, hi. I’m really sorry to interrupt your evening…’ Now what was he going to do?

‘No worries.’ The honest truth. Gemma was face-to-face with a slightly nervous but definitely attractive man. Normally it took her months to meet one of this calibre, and that was after extensive searching, misspent evenings in bars and multiple cocktails. Never on her doorstep. Granted, if you were being pedantic, it wasn’t her doorstep, exactly, but for the purposes of this moment it would do nicely.

All he had to do was feign ignorance. How would he know the author even had a flatmate when, as he had reminded himself repeatedly on the way over, he hadn’t read it?

‘This is for you. I mean, it’s yours. I just thought I’d bring it over and drop it off as I was in the area.’ Ben stopped himself. Suddenly this was a ridiculous situation.

‘Thanks.’ Curious, Gemma took the padded envelope from him, still wondering if she was being overly trusting. But she was sure letter bombs and anthrax were never hand-delivered, and he wasn’t wearing enough layers to be a suicide bomber. Plus the vibe was definitely a good one. Classic Adidas, dark jeans, leather jacket, motorbike helmet under his arm and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a hint of an American accent going on. All excellent. Her prayers had been answered. The brat pack had finally come to Battersea.

‘Thanks.’ She said it again and, at a loss as to what to do next, went with convention and closed the door, watching the moment slip through her fingers in slow motion.

‘You’re an idiot, Fisher. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.’ Ben walked back to his bike slowly, muttering to himself. He’d handed over the only reason he had for ever being there, and still had no idea who the mystery author, EJ or NG were. And now he was far more interested than he had been even two minutes ago.

Gemma leant against the inside of the front door, ripped open the package and flicked through the notebook. No wonder London’s most organised woman had been so highly strung recently. And a diary was an excellent thing. More proof that, despite her attempts to hide it, Sam was human after all. Gem skimmed a couple of pages before forcing herself to close the book. A sporadic journal-keeper herself, she couldn’t do this to a mate. Not to mention the fact that guys didn’t just appear out of the ether for no reason. Fate was at large somewhere in all of this. She had to act fast.

Gemma opened the door again. He wasn’t there. She didn’t know why she was surprised. It was, after all, customary the world over to leave a premises when the door was closed in your face. Hearing the rev of a bike, tiredness forgotten, Gemma sprinted to the end of the path, wishing she hadn’t taken her bra off in a comfort moment earlier and slowing just before she hit the pavement in an attempt to at least appear laid back.

Folding one arm under her breasts to counteract the effects of gravity, she flicked her hair and waved just as he turned to look at her. Or maybe he was just looking left; it was difficult to see. Lifting his visor, he killed the engine. Gemma was beside herself. Classic Vespa. Sky-blue and chrome. And he was a cutie.

‘Everything Okay…?’

Gemma glanced down. Her breast support arm was still clutching the envelope.

‘It is yours, isn’t it?’

Gemma hesitated before rallying round. Why complicate things? ‘Really—thanks. You’re a star. It’s a real relief.’ She stopped herself. She didn’t even know when or where she was supposed to have lost it. ‘Erm, I don’t suppose you want to go for a drink or something? I mean it’s the least I can do. To say thank you.’

‘What? Now?’ Ben made a show of looking at his watch, as if to suggest he had an action-packed evening ahead of him as opposed to the flat-line of activity that was sure to herald his arrival home.

Gemma really wanted at least half an hour to get ready, but this week was a great time for Librans to embrace new opportunities. And he was here now. Why run the risk of him not coming back or giving her a wrong number?

‘Yup. I just need to go and…’ Gemma spared Ben the details. ‘Why don’t you come up for a second?’ As long as she had two minutes to get changed and at least glance in a mirror. ‘There are loads of places just round the corner.’ Gemma had to stop wittering if she was to retain an ounce of sophistication. Looking down at her sports-socked feet on the pavement, and the millimetre of tartan flannel poking out from under her combats, she strongly suspected she was too late.

‘Why not?’ Ben was surprised to hear himself agreeing. ‘I was going to meet a colleague of mine for a drink, but I can easily postpone it.’ He smiled as he plucked a credible lie from the ether. He was the man.

He paced round the kitchen. Their kitchen. Her kitchen. Tonight was shaping up to be significantly more interesting than his average Thursday. He looked through the pile of letters on the table, being careful not to alter their order. G Cousins had opened hers. S Washington, on the other hand, hadn’t.

Her disembodied voice sailed into the room. ‘Feel free to use the phone if you need to cancel your mate.’

Startled, Ben dropped the envelopes back on the table. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

‘It should be in the charger on the side—by the fruit bowl.’

‘Got it.’ In the panic of the moment Ben had totally forgotten about the fully functioning mobile in his pocket, and the fact that he didn’t actually have an arrangement to cancel. Barely thinking, he dialled the office number automatically.

‘Hello? Small Screen Productions.’

Suddenly realising he was calling to cancel a non-existent appointment with an as yet unspecified colleague, he cut himself off.

Sensing someone behind him, Ben swivelled to find himself face to face with Gemma, her grin highlighted by a fresh coat of lipgloss, a waft of newly applied perfume swirling between them.

‘Engaged. I’ll try his direct line.’ Ben dialled his home number, and as he waited for his answer-machine to kick in, pushed the handset closer to his ear to ensure that Gemma couldn’t hear that the voice at the other end was his own. Rolling his eyes, he covered the mouthpiece. ‘Voicemail.’ He couldn’t even pretend to leave a message without hamming it up. Finally the beep came and went.

‘James, it’s Ben. Sorry it’s such short notice, but I’m going to have to cancel our beer tonight. Something’s come up. See you tomorrow. Cheers. Nice one.’ Nice one? He’d never said that before in his life. Ever. Suddenly, in the midst of his role play, he’d gone all Naked Chef.

Ben turned to Gemma ‘Voicemail.’

So he’d said.

‘We can leave it if you’d rather?’

‘No, now’s cool.’

‘Great.’ Gemma beamed at him.

‘Hey, no problem… Um…’ He had never needed a drink more in his life. His palms were actually sweaty. He rubbed them on the seat of his jeans. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.’

‘It’s Sam.’ The thought-process, all completed in a split second, started and finished with pretending the diary was her own but knowing it wasn’t.

‘Sam?’ Ben was thrown. He could hardly challenge her on something as fundamental as her identity, even if he would have bet his house—if he’d had one—on this being Gemma.

‘Yup…’

Gemma shook her head imperceptibly. Now what? Oops, sorry, did I say Sam? I meant to say Gemma, and not only is the diary in question not my own, I’ve just told you that I am my flatmate. But don’t worry, little boy, I’m perfectly safe to have a drink with… Cue: throwing back of head, long cackle… Far too late now.

‘Well, obviously it’s Samantha, but that’s always felt a bit flowery, a bit girlie.’ Gemma applauded herself as she built her part. Maybe she should try a career in acting? At least she wouldn’t have to wear a skirt and tights to work every day.

As Ben followed her down the stairs he wondered what on earth he was doing. What sort of girl invites a bloke out for a drink having met him for less than a minute? And, more to the point, what sort of guy would take her up on her offer?

The real Sam was so tired she almost felt drunk, and her body longed for the swaddled insulation from the outside world that only her 12-tog duck-down duvet could provide. Burying herself in work from dawn until way past dusk had been a largely effective, if somewhat unoriginal method of keeping her mind off the obvious, but actually sleeping at night was proving a tougher challenge. Two nights running she had woken at four, body thermostat racing between hot and cold, her muscles almost twitching with tension, hands firmly clenched as fists, and by the time she’d lulled herself back to sleep it had been almost time to get up. Last night she’d listened to practically every syllable of every lyric on her Jill Scott CD, hoping to trick herself into waking up hours later.