Page 46 of The Woman Who Said Yes

What a crazy notion that would be! Because obviously, it’s not the first time someone has shown interest in Sam since Bibi left. I mean, he hasn’t been a monk. A few years ago, he and a rather serious woman called Jane went hiking in the Lake District and it barely rippled my heart. Perhaps the difference is that with Lucy, I witnessed it happening in real time, and saw with my own startled eyes that extremely attractive and self-assured women are attracted to Sam. Which is fine! It’s fantastic, I decide, biting hard on an olive and nearly cracking my teeth on the stone.

Determinedly, I drag my attention to the table conversation which is pretty much all wedding-this, wedding-that. Hey, Dom, I yearn to cut across the chatter, I know it’s mainly Eva’s side that’s coming, but tell us who you’re inviting. How about Nigel Rider who was at your famous BBQ? But instead, I manage to appear delighted that some acquaintance of Eva’s has taken on profiterole tower responsibilities. And yes, of course I’ll do a speech! Sam is happy to make one too – at least, he agrees, although I detect a flash of abject horror – and there’s some silliness over what must definitely not be mentioned. Meanwhile Dom is haw-hawing away, being intimately familiar with all of our youthful shenanigans.

Normally, I never find laughing to be an exhausting activity. I mean, it’s not like proper exercise, is it? Not like that terrible body-pump class Eva made me go to, where my back went and I had to be dragged, screaming, off the step. Yet as the night wears on, I’m conscious of my jaw aching with the effort of it all. The food is finished and I sneak a glance at the wall clock. 10.22 p.m. I’m building up to suggesting we ask for the bill – it is a weeknight after all – when Eva delves into her bag and extracts a dented packet of cigarettes.

‘Eva!’ I say, surprised rather than judgemental.

‘I know.’ She grimaces down at the packet, which bears a horrible image of a bulging, possibly diseased eye. I wonder briefly whatever happened to Gideon’s eye, and whether it simply crumbled in situ, as Dom tuts in mock-disapproval. ‘I’ve just been a bit stressed with all the wedding stuff,’ Eva admits, looking round at us all. ‘I didn’t even want a whole packet. Wish they still sold tens!’

‘Or singles, like in the good old days,’ Sam says, feigning wistful nostalgia. ‘Like they were Fruit Salad Chews.’

Eva chuckles and gets up from the table. ‘I know it’s disgusting but I’m having one.’

‘On you go then,’ I say. ‘No judgement here.’

‘Yeah, don’t mind us,’ Sam says good-naturedly, nodding towards Dom who rolls his eyes in resignation. Out she strides, laughing as Niko jokingly wags a finger at her. Naughty!

With Eva gone, a small hush settles over our table and I try to dredge up something to say. There’s so much that I want to ask Dom. For instance, what does he do with his time when he’s not busy with his property empire – apart from honing in on a beautiful woman on a walking tour of Florence? And while we’re at it, if he’s planning to mess Eva around, can he please let me know, as I may have to kill him?

‘I know this is terrible…’ Dom breaks the silence. ‘But she’s put me in the mood for one too.’

‘Oh, d’you smoke?’ I ask in surprise.

‘Not normally,’ he says with a shrug of resignation, ‘but she’s a terrible influence.’ Then off he goes, flashing Tara a giant smile as if he had never careered into her and almost sent her tray of drinks flying. Cooler air wafts in as he steps outside.

Instantly, my shoulders soften as I look at Sam. ‘Eva smoking again,’ he remarks with a wry smile.

‘I know. I think it’s all this decision-making she’s having to do. She so wants it all to be fabulous.’

‘Yeah, I get that,’ Sam murmurs, and my heart twists.

‘I feel so bad,’ I admit, and he nods. Of course he understands. We have been friends forever: since the only wedding anyone cared about was Scott and Charlene’s on Neighbours. I glance at the door, wishing they were extra-long cigarettes they’re smoking out there. Like those Superkings Mum used to indulge in occasionally, after a couple of Cinzanos – or even longer than that. I wish Eva and Dom were smoking ciggies the length of pool cues which would keep them occupied for half an hour.

An easy silence settles, and I turn back to Sam. ‘You’ve been a bit quiet lately,’ I say.

He frowns in apparent surprise. ‘Have I? I haven’t meant to be…’

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I shrug to emphasise how absolutely nothingy it is. ‘I guess you’ve just been busy.’

‘Yeah, I have a bit.’

I pour the last of the wine into his glass. ‘So,’ I say lightly, ‘has it been work stuff, or—’ I break off as the phone sitting on the table buzzes into life. It’s an incoming call – the caller’s name showing as ‘G’.

‘Whose is that?’ Sam asks.

‘It’s not Eva’s. Must be Dom’s.’

‘Should we get him?’

The buzzing stops. ‘Never mind,’ I say with a shrug, but immediately the caller rings again. I glance towards the door. Still no sign of Eva or Dom. Again, it stops. Instinctively, I pick up the phone and frown at it.

‘What are you doing?’ Sam exclaims.

‘Nothing.’

‘Andie, for fuck’s sake, put it down⁠—’

‘Shhhh! Keep your eye on the door.’ There’s no time to explain that I know why people store contacts under just an initial. Obviously, they don’t want other people – or a specific person – to see a name flashing up if they call. And this specific letter has triggered something in me.