Sam’s text messages are randomly mixed up with mine, which feels weird too. I scroll down two messages for me, then about six for Sam, then another for me. All side by side; all touching one another. I’ve never shared an in-box with anyone in my life. I didn’t expect it to feel so … intimate. It’s as if we’re suddenly sharing an underwear drawer or something.
Anyway. No big deal. It’s not for long.
I make my tea and fill a bowl with Shreddies. Then, as I munch, I slowly pick through the messages, working out which ones are for Sam and forwarding them on.
I’m not going to spy on him or anything. Obviously not. But I have to click on each message in order to forward it, and sometimes my fingers automatically press open by mistake and I catch a glimpse of the text. Just sometimes.
Clearly it’s not only his father who’s having a hard time getting in touch with him. He must be really, really bad at answering emails and texts, there are so many plaintive requests to Violet: Is this a good way to reach Sam? … Hi! Apologies for bothering you, but I have left several messages for Sam … . Hi, Violet, could you nudge Sam about an email I sent last week? I’ll reprise the main points here … .
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.
