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