‘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