One in a Million

  I raised a silent toast to her from my hiding place. Have that, you bastard.

  ‘We were robbed,’ he answered smoothly. ‘I’m sure we’ll make up for it next year when we enter the Uniteam campaign.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Miranda replied. ‘Aren’t you a bit old for this one-upmanship?’

  ‘He’s nearly fifty,’ I muttered to no one. ‘He lies about his age but I’ve seen his passport.’

  ‘Please give my condolences to Annie,’ he said. ‘I always thought she’d do well for herself. Maybe she still will. After Content.’

  I watched his footsteps retreat to his own table and concentrated my rage into drinking as much champagne as possible without hiccupping. The man was bulletproof. It didn’t matter what anyone said or did, it all rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. As much as I hated to admit it, perhaps that was something I could stand to learn from him.

  And then I saw it again. A tempting glimpse of a white square, peeking out of Miranda’s open bag. I crawled over on my hands and knees, keeping as far away as I could from my friend’s bare legs and tugged at the envelope, inching it out until it was free from the bag and safely in my hands.

  I crossed my legs and spread my skirt out all around me, crouching low, and carefully, carefully opening the envelope without tearing the paper.

  Annie.

  I saw his handwriting and heard his voice and the room went silent.

  While I am not sure what I’ve done to upset you so much that you will not see me or speak to me, whatever it is, please believe I am deeply sorry. Although we have only known each other for a short time, you have become very dear to me and I feel your absence greatly.

  ‘Who writes like this?’ I whispered to myself.

  It was fantastic and I loved it.

  One possible reason comes to mind and even though it seems utterly absurd, the possibility persists. Even though it causes me great discomfort to even suggest it, you have already made it quite clear that you want no more to do with me and so, I stand here with nothing left to lose.

  Might it be possible, Annie, that you have developed feelings for me?

  I gulped and took another shot of champagne.

  It seems so very unlikely that someone like you could ever feel any kind of romantic affection for someone like me, but since the thought entered my mind, I cannot stop myself from wondering whether or not it could be true. My dearest Annie. In the words of the great American poet, Britney Spears, don’t let me be the last to know. You were there for me when I didn’t even know I needed someone. When others wanted me to change, you showed me all I needed was to be myself. And, as I must at last admit, a haircut.

  I turned the empty bottle upside down and groaned. This was a fine time for the champagne to run dry.

  I am sorry for my rudeness when we first met and, more than anything, I’m sorry I did not have the courage to tell you how much I truly, truly adore you.

  Annie Higgins, I miss you.

  Always,

  Your Sam

  I read the letter over again, one more time, pinching the tender skin on the inside of my arm to make sure I was dreaming and hadn’t gone mad. He adored me. He said he adored me.

  Well, that did it.

  Clambering onto all fours, I crawled out from underneath the table, pushing over my chair in the rush to get out.

  ‘Annie?’ Miranda exclaimed, jumping up out of her seat. ‘How long have you been under there?’

  ‘And, more to the point, what were you doing under there?’ Brian asked. ‘You can’t be too careful these days. Lurking around under tables like that will get you in trouble.’

  ‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got to find him,’ I said to Miranda, waving the letter in front of her face. ‘I need to leave, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Leave?’ she grabbed my arms to calm me down as the people closest turned our way. I was vaguely aware of someone talking on stage, of the tables around us, but none of it mattered. I was in love and I was drunk. ‘Babe, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Sam!’ I said, waving the letter over my head like a white flag. ‘The letter from Sam. I’ve got to talk to him now, while my hair still looks nice.’

  ‘You can’t go,’ Miranda insisted, grabbing my empty hand and pulling me down next to her. ‘It’s our last chance.’

  On the stage, I realized the host was holding an envelope of his own. I reluctantly paid attention, this was it, the last award.

  ‘And the TechBubble best new digital agency award goes to … Content London!’

  ‘Annie!’ Miranda shrieked, pulling me up and leading me through the tables. ‘We won!’

  The lights grew brighter as we neared the stage. Brian, Nat and Zadie all swarmed around us, carrying me along on a wave as the whole room applauded. Almost the whole room. I had to assume Gordon Ossington wasn’t exactly bringing the house down. All around the room, various Content clients were displayed on the big screens in real time – Dashell’s first fashion collection, Lily’s latest YouTube video, a selection of Coast’s Snapchat shots. It was real. We’d really, really won. Somehow, I made it up the stairs as the music played and someone handed me a huge block of glass with our company name engraved into the base. Best new digital agency.

  The host, some C-list celebrity I vaguely recognized from a BBC 2 quiz show, patted me on the back. I stared at the award, our award, for a second, blinking as a blinding spotlight shone right into my eyes. Barely able to take in what was happening, I realized I was still holding Sam’s letter. Through the glass, I could see his handwriting, magnified in my hand. The letter. The most important thing. Someone put a microphone in front of Miranda and the deafening music died down, leaving the two of us in the spotlight while Brian cheered and danced behind us. Even Nat and Zadie, hovering at his side, looked genuinely excited.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I heard Miranda say as I passed the trophy to Brian who immediately started using it to do goblet squats. ‘Content London has been such an exciting journey for us and we can’t thank you enough for recognizing all our hard work. Obviously, none of this would have been possible without my amazing best friend and business partner, Annie Higgins, who I love and am grateful for every single moment of every single day. Annie, do you want to say a few words?’

  A tearful Miranda thrust the mic under my nose.

  ‘Thank you?’ I said.

  I could hear people laughing – with me, I hoped.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ I said, picking out familiar faces that weren’t washed out by spotlights. Harry, smiling, Gordon, fuming, and Martin and Charlie whooping loudly at the back of the room. ‘Everything Miranda said. We very much appreciate this but, um, I have to go and see a man about a cat.’

  ‘Wait!’ Miranda yelled, pulling me aside. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Sam,’ I said, waving the letter in front of her face. ‘I have to go and find Sam.’

  ‘Annie, no, wait! Look!’

  Scrambling off the stage as fast as my high heels would carry me, I followed her gaze towards the back of the room. Why was it so much harder to get down stairs in heels than it was to get up? Behind Martin and Charlie was another face I recognized. Dr Samuel Page. Black dinner jacket, bright white shirt, crimson cheeks.

  ‘I told him to come,’ Miranda confessed, holding me up before I could faint away with surprise. ‘While you were getting your hair done. I called him and told him to get his arse over here and talk to you. I didn’t know if he’d come, so I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘But you didn’t know what was in his letter?’ I said, my heart in my throat. Thank God this dress was sleeveless, the last thing this moment needed was sweat patches.

  ‘I took a punt.’ She stood in between me and whatever came next, smoothing my hair out of my eyes and wiping a fleck of mascara off my cheek. ‘Felt like the safest bet I’ve made in a long time.’

  ‘You’re amazing,’ I said, meeting her brown eyes and seeing nothing but love. ‘Thank you so much.
’

  ‘Go get him, tiger,’ she whispered, kissing me on the cheek.

  I walked around the edge of the room, so aware that everyone was watching but only caring about one pair of eyes. Sam came towards me, Charlie and Martin hanging back by our table, Charlie resting his chin on Martin’s shoulder and throwing me a thumbs up.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, brushing his curls out of his eyes. He was clean-shaven and his dimple was very much in evidence.

  ‘I got your letter,’ I showed him the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. He took it and began to smooth it out.

  ‘This is why you can’t have nice things,’ he muttered, folding it back into three perfect pieces. ‘You don’t look after them.’

  ‘I don’t really want to ask,’ I said, biting my lip. ‘But what about Elaine?’

  ‘There is no Elaine,’ Sam replied. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ I gasped, looking around to see who might have heard him. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘She’s not dead,’ he said, sighing at my reaction. ‘We ended things. Properly this time. You were right, we aren’t suited any more and I was just too afraid to face the facts. Besides, she isn’t the person I want to be with. Annie.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, stepping closer to him, pulling him out of the spotlights and into the shadows. ‘And at the risk of being a bit forward, who do you think that might be?’

  ‘And you say I’m the one who’s obtuse,’ he replied, leaning down as I pushed up onto my tiptoes, my arms circling his neck as his hands circled my waist and—

  ‘What is that?’ Sam said, jerking his head away from me.

  ‘What’s what?’ I asked with an expectant pout.

  I turned around to see every screen in the room, covered in photographs of Sam. Or rather, the Hot Historian. I looked back at Sam to see an expression I’d hoped had been retired.

  ‘Annie,’ he demanded, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ‘What’s that?’ Sam asked. ‘Why is there a picture of me on the screen?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, trying to get in between him and the monitors. But it wasn’t possible, they were everywhere. ‘Ignore it.’

  ‘Ignore my face plastered all over this room full of strangers?’ he countered.

  ‘OK, the thing is …’ I started to talk but when Sam looked back at me, I opened my mouth and nothing came out. ‘Can we talk about this somewhere else?’

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t use any photos of me,’ he said, his voice getting louder as the photos kept on scrolling. Sam on the beach, Sam dancing, Sam sat in our office, Sam walking down the street. It was like they’d pulled up the beloved family album of an actual stalker.

  ‘I didn’t!’ I replied. He looked back at me, utterly bewildered. ‘At first. And then I did.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Sam said. ‘Was this the plan all along? To drag me out here and make me a laughing stock?’

  ‘No!’ I insisted, scrabbling for an explanation that would take that awful, hurt look off his face. ‘Not at all. The other pictures weren’t working and we had all these great photos of you, and you and I weren’t talking so I thought why not and—’

  ‘We weren’t not talking, you weren’t talking to me,’ he reminded me in a low but unmistakably angry voice. ‘I can’t believe this, Annie. The whole thing has simply been one big joke to you.’

  Everything stopped and I felt my heart seizing up in my chest.

  ‘I don’t think you’re a joke,’ I said, grabbing hold of his hands, desperately trying to make him understand. ‘Sam, I think you’re everything.’

  He paused for a moment, staring deep into my eyes and as I searched for the right words, the words that would make him laugh and smile and stay. Over his shoulder, I saw the follower number on his account: We had hit twenty thousand, we’d won the bet. And it meant nothing.

  ‘Your letter was beautiful,’ I said, holding it aloft, trying to remind him how he had felt not so long ago. If he didn’t believe my words, perhaps he could at least believe his own.

  ‘I am very, very sorry I came here tonight,’ he said. ‘For a man who supposedly knows so much about history, all I seem to do is repeat it.’

  And then he left.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Friday, 3 August: Deadline Day

  Reports show that the average person checks their phone eighty-five times a day but after Sam walked out of the Haighton Hotel ballroom, I must have checked mine eighty-five times a minute.

  Miranda, Martin, Brian and Charlie closed ranks around me as I watched Sam leave, never once slowing down or never once looking back. I called and I called and I called but it went to voicemail every time. All my text messages went unread. My Facebook friend request was dismissed and I was blocked. When we got back to my flat, we found Aggy on my doorstep, stony-faced and ready to collect Wellington. Miranda herded him into the cat carrier Aggy brought with him while I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. When we got to The Ginnel the next morning, the door to Sam’s office was closed, a padlock hanging from the door and his nameplate removed.

  ‘Annie, I’m so sorry,’ Zadie said, nervously playing with the arm of her enormous glasses as I floated over to my desk. ‘Someone from TechBubble called on Monday and asked for a list of Content’s clients. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to send Sam’s stuff.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I assured her, even though my heart was breaking at the thought of me taking that phone call instead. ‘Who knows? It might have been a factor in us winning the award.’

  ‘His account is doing spectacularly well,’ Miranda said, resting her bum on the edge of my chair and stroking my head. ‘I’m so sorry, babe.’

  ‘It’s still up?’ I asked from inside my jumper, bundled up against the beautiful day in sloppy, unseasonable layers. If I had to turn up the air conditioning, I would do it. No one should have to be this unhappy in nice weather. ‘Take it down. Delete it.’

  ‘But Annie, he’s got nearly thirty thousand followers,’ Brian said, turning his phone screen to face me, trying to obscure everything but the numbers at the top with his hands. And yet, all I saw was Sam peeking out at me from between his fingers. ‘He’s a phenomenon. Everyone’s been in touch, BBC, ITV, Channel Four, Sky. YouTube called this morning. YouTube. Called. Us. They want to talk to us about developing an online history show with him. And his book sales are through the roof. You can’t mean it?’

  I pushed my hair up off my face, fastening last night’s curls in a terrible topknot and glared across the office.

  ‘I’ll delete his account then,’ he said grimly, turning his screen back around.

  I stared out of the window, vaguely hearing all the noise around me as Martin walked through the door, weighed down by a giant white cardboard box.

  ‘Doughnut delivery,’ he said, laying them on my table and popping a quick kiss on Miranda’s cheek.

  ‘They smell so good,’ Mir replied, immediately digging into the box. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Martin said, handing her a small gift card. ‘They’re from SetPics.’

  My ears pricked up at once. SetPics. Harry. Oh god, the job.

  ‘They’re from Harry,’ Miranda read, eyes sparkling. ‘It says congratulations on the win last night, nothing about our pitch. It looks good though, doesn’t it? They must be impressed by us? They wouldn’t send doughnuts if they weren’t at least considering us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, recalling my conversation with Harry. I watched the team descend on the box of sweet treats and felt a new pang of guilt. Oh good, just when I thought I couldn’t feel any worse.

  ‘Knock, knock.’

  Wherever Martin went, Charlie was never far behind.

  ‘Congratulations, Content London.’ He raised his coffee cup towards me in a toast with an awkward smile. We hadn?
??t really spoken since the world’s worst kiss but he’d seen everything at the party and I was sure Martin and Miranda had filled him in by now. ‘Very well deserved.’

  ‘And congratulations on winning the bet,’ Martin said, nodding at the whiteboard on the wall. ‘Thirty days, twenty thousand followers. You did it.’

  ‘Twenty-eight thousand, four hundred and sixteen, as of just now,’ Miranda said through a mouthful. ‘Not that it matters, only I want to make sure you two know how badly we trounced you.’

  Charlie hid a smile behind his coffee while Martin mooned in her general direction. The man was done for.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, tightening the strings on my hoodie until I began to choke. ‘But we have to delete the account. So technically, we’re back down to zero.’

  ‘No way,’ Charlie said. He set down his coffee and wiped out the numbers on the whiteboard, replacing it with the words ‘Content Wins’. It was the first time in my life I wasn’t excited to see those words. ‘You one hundred per cent won. When I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong. You did it, Professor Higgins. Now, what pizza am I getting in?’

  ‘Don’t feel much like a don at the moment,’ I mumbled, searching for some spark of satisfaction. I’d won a bet even I thought was unwinnable. I’d been offered a huge and powerful job. But I felt nothing. Who even was I?

  ‘I might pop upstairs for a bit,’ I said, picking up Miranda’s sunglasses and digging my handbag out from underneath my desk. ‘Get a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Want me to come with?’ Mir asked. I shook my head and waved for her to sit back down.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ I said. ‘Save me a doughnut.’

  ‘I’m promising nothing,’ Brian shouted as I went.

  The rooftop was empty. It was only eleven, no one was up for lunch yet so there were only the pigeons to keep me company.

  I settled in on the comfy sofa, staring at the space where the TV screen had been thirty days earlier. A whole month ago. Really, when you thought about it, what had changed? Nothing. We didn’t have the SetPics job and I didn’t have a friend called Dr Samuel Page. The only difference was, instead of not knowing he existed, every fibre of my being missed him. I missed his voice, I missed his smell, I missed the way he pushed his glasses up his nose whenever he was nervous. You could delete an Instagram account or block someone on Facebook, but how did you turn off a feeling? I couldn’t forget him any more than I could forget the lyrics to my favourite song. For the last thirty days, he’d been on repeat in the background, even when I wasn’t paying attention and now I couldn’t get him out of my head. All I wanted was to feel like myself again.