I've Got Your Number
Page 70

Smiling is actually the only way to get through these conversations, I’ve learned.
A waiter arrives with our coffees, and for a moment the conversation’s on hold. But as soon as he’s moved away, the same mood is back. The same expression on Sam’s face.
“I’m very, very sorry.”
“No need to be!” I say in my standard upbeat voice. “It all worked out. We moved in with my uncle and aunt; he’s a dentist, she’ a dental nurse. They looked after us, my little brothers and me. So … it’s all good. All good.”
I can feel his eyes on me. I look one way and then the other, dodging them. I stir my cappuccino, a little too fast, and take a gulp.
“That explains a lot,” says Sam at last.
I can’t bear his sympathy. I can’t bear anyone’s sympathy.
“It does not,” I say tightly. “It does not. It happened years ago and it’s over and I’m a grown-up and I’ve dealt with it, OK? So you’re wrong. It doesn’t explain anything.”
Sam puts down his espresso cup, picks up his amaretto biscuit, and unwraps it unhurriedly.
“I meant it explains why you’re obsessed with teeth.”
“Oh.”
Touché.
I give him a reluctant smile. “Yes, I suppose I am fairly familiar with dental care.”
Sam crunches into his biscuit and I take another gulp of cappuccino. After a minute or two it seems as if we’ve moved on, and I’m wondering if we should get the bill, when Sam suddenly says, “My friend lost his mother when we were at college. I spent a lot of nights talking with him. Lot of nights.” He pauses. “I know what it’s like. You don’t just get over it. And it doesn’t make any difference if you’re supposedly a grown-up. It never goes away.”
He wasn’t supposed to come back to the subject. We’d moved on. Most people gallop off to something else with relief.
“Well, I did get over it,” I say brightly. “And it did go away. So.”
Sam nods as though my words don’t surprise him. “Yes, that’s what he said. To other people. I know. You have to.” He pauses. “Hard to keep up the façade, though.”
Smile. Keep smiling. Don’t meet his eyes.
But somehow I can’t help it, I do.
And my eyes are suddenly hot. Shit. Shit. This hasn’t happened for years. Years.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter fiercely, glaring at the table.
“Like what?” Sam sounds alarmed.
“Like you understand.” I swallow. “Stop it. Just stop it.”
I take a deep breath and a sip of water. Idiot, Poppy. Get a grip. I haven’t let myself be taken off guard like that since … I can’t even remember when.
“I’m sorry,” says Sam, in a low voice. “I didn’t mean—”
“No! It’s fine, but let’s move on. Shall we get the bill?”
“Sure.” He summons a waiter, and I take out my lip gloss, and after about two minutes I feel back to normal.
I try to pay for lunch, but Sam point-blank refuses, so we compromise on going Dutch. After the waiter’s taken our money and wiped away the crumbs, I look at him across the empty table.
“Well.” Slowly, I slide the phone across the table to him. “Here you are. Thanks. Nice knowing you and everything.”
Sam doesn’t even look at it. He’s gazing at me with the sort of kind, concerned expression that makes me prickle all over and want to throw things. If he says anything more about my parents, I’ll just walk. I’ll go.
“I was wondering,” he says at last. “Out of interest, have you ever learned any methods of confrontation?”
“What?” I laugh out loud with surprise. “Of course not. I don’t want to confront anybody.”
Sam spreads his hands. “There you go. There’s your problem.”
“I don’t have a problem! You’re the one with a problem. At least I’m nice, ” I can’t help saying pointedly. “You’re … miserable.”
Sam roars with laughter, and I flush. OK, maybe miserable was the wrong word.
“I’m fine.” I reach for my bag. “I don’t need any help.”
“Come on. Don’t be a coward.”
“I’m not a coward!” I retort in outrage.
“If you can give it out, you can take it,” he says cheerfully. “When you read my texts, you saw a curt, miserable git. And you told me so. Maybe you’re right.” He pauses. “But you know what I saw when I read yours?”