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.
Willow
I stare at the phone in shock, almost wanting to laugh. Willow must be his fiancée. Yowzer.
Her email address is [email protected]. 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.
Sam
You 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.
Willow
My 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.