There's only one person who could have sent them.
'Wait,' I say, without taking the pen. 'I want to check who they're from.'
I grab the card, rip it open, and scan down the long message, not reading any of it until I come to the name at the bottom.
Jack.
I feel a huge dart of emotion. After all he did, Jack thinks he can fob me off with some manky bunch of flowers?
All right, huge, deluxe bunch of flowers.
But that's not the point.
'I don't want them, thank you,' I say, lifting my chin.
'You don't want them?' The delivery man stares at me.
'No. Tell the person who sent them that thanks, but no thanks.'
'What's going on?' comes a breathless voice beside me, and I look up to see Lissy gawping at the bouquet. 'Oh my God. Are they from Jack?'
'Yes. But I don't want them,' I say. 'Please take them away.'
'Wait!' exclaims Lissy, grabbing the cellophane. 'Let me just smell them.' She buries her face in the blooms and inhales deeply. 'Wow! That's absolutely incredible! Emma, have you smelt them?'
'No!' I say, crossly. 'I don't want to smell them.'
'I've never seen flowers as amazing as this.' She looks at the man. 'So what will happen to them?'
'Dunno.' He shrugs. 'They'll get chucked away, I suppose.'
'Gosh.' She glances at me. 'That seems like an awful waste …'
Hang on. She's not—
'Lissy, I can't accept them!' I exclaim. 'I can't! He'll think I'm saying everything's OK between us.'
'No, you're quite right,' says Lissy reluctantly. 'You have to send them back.' She touches a pink velvety rose petal. 'It is a shame, though …'
'Send what back?' comes a sharp voice behind me. 'You are joking, aren't you?'
Oh, for God's sake. Now Jemima has arrived in the street, still in her white dressing gown. 'You're not sending those back!' she cries. 'I'm giving a dinner party tomorrow night. They'll be perfect.' She' grabs the label. 'Smythe and Foxe! Do you know how much these must have cost?'
'I don't care how much they cost!' I exclaim. 'They're from Jack! I can't possibly keep them.'
'Why not?'
She is unbelievable.
'Because … because it's a matter of principle. If I keep them, I'm basically saying, "I forgive you." '
'Not necessarily,' retorts Jemima. 'You could be saying "I don't forgive you." Or you could be saying "I can't be bothered to return your stupid flowers, that's how little you mean to me."'
There's silence as we all consider this.
The thing is, they are pretty amazing flowers.
'So do you want them or not?' says the delivery guy.
'I …' Oh God, now I'm all confused.
'Emma, if you send them back you look weak,' says Jemima firmly. 'You look like you can't bear to have any reminder of him in the house. But if you keep them, then you're saying, "I don't care about you!" You're standing firm! You're being strong. You're being—'
'Oh, God, OK!' I say, and grab the pen from the delivery guy. 'I'll sign for them. But could you please tell him that this does not mean I forgive him, nor that he isn't a cynical, heartless, despicable user and furthermore, if Jemima wasn't having a dinner party, these would be straight in the bin.' As I finish signing I'm red-faced and breathing hard, and I stamp a full stop so hard it tears the page. 'Can you remember all that?'
The delivery guy looks at me blankly.
'Love, I just work at the depot.'
'I know!' says Lissy suddenly. She grabs the clipboard back and prints WITHOUT PREJUDICE clearly under my name.
'What does that mean?' I say.
'It means "I'll never forgive you, you complete bastard … but I'll keep the flowers anyway."'
'And you're still going to get even,' adds Jemima determinedly.
It's one of those amazingly bright, crisp mornings that make you feel that London really is the best city in the world. As I'm walking from the tube station to work, my spirits can't help rising a little.
Maybe Lissy's right. Maybe everyone at work will already have forgotten about the whole thing. I mean, let's get a bit of proportion here. It wasn't that big a deal. It wasn't that interesting. Surely some other piece of gossip will have come along in the meantime. Surely everyone will be talking about … the football. Or politics or something. Exactly.
I push open the glass door to the foyer with a small spurt of optimism, and walk in, my head held high.
'… a Barbie bedspread!' I immediately hear from across the marble. A guy from Accounts is talking to a woman with a 'Visitor' badge, who is listening avidly.
'… shagging Jack Harper all along?' comes a voice from above me, and I look up to see a group of girls walking up the stairs.
'It's Connor I feel sorry for,' one replies. 'That poor guy …'
'… pretended she loved jazz,' someone else is saying as they get out of the lift. 'I mean, why on earth would you do that?'
OK. So … they haven't forgotten.
All my crisp optimism dies away, and for an instant I consider running away and spending the rest of my life under the duvet.
But I can't do that.
For a start, I'd probably get bored after about a week.
And secondly … I have to face them. I have to do this.
Clenching my fists at my sides, I slowly make my way up the stairs and along the corridor. Everyone I pass either blatantly stares at me, or pretends they're not looking when they are, and at least five conversations are hastily broken off as I approach.
As I reach the door to the marketing department, I take a deep breath, then walk in, trying to look as unconcerned as possible.
'Hi everyone,' I say, taking off my jacket and hanging it on my chair.
'Emma!' exclaims Artemis in tones of sarcastic delight.'Well I never!'
'Good morning, Emma,' says Paul, coming out of his office and giving me an appraising look. 'You OK?'