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pink velvety rose petal. 'It is a shame, though…'

'Send what back?' comes a sharp voice behind me. 'You are joking, aren't you?'

Oh, for God's sake. Now Jemima has arrived in the street, still in her white dressing gown.

'You're not sending those back!' she cries. 'I'm giving a di

be perfect.' She' grabs the label. 'Smythe and Foxe! Do you know how much these must have

cost?'

'I don't care how much they cost!' I exclaim. 'They're from Jack! I can't possibly keep them.'

'Why not?'

She is unbelievable.

'Because… because it's a matter of principle. If I keep them, I'm basically saying, "I forgive

you." '

'Not necessarily,' retorts Jemima. 'You could be saying "I don't forgive you." Or you could be

saying "I can't be bothered to return your stupid flowers, that's how little you mean to me."'

There's silence as we all consider this.

The thing is, they are pretty amazing flowers.

'So do you want them or not?' says the delivery guy.

'I…' Oh God, now I'm all confused.

'Emma, if you send them back you look weak,' says Jemima firmly. 'You look like you can't

bear to have any reminder of him in the house. But if you keep them, then you're saying, "I

don't care about you!" You're standing firm! You're being strong. You're being-'

'Oh, God, OK!' I say, and grab the pen from the delivery guy. 'I'll sign for them. But could

you please tell him that this does not mean I forgive him, nor that he isn't a cynical, heartless,

despicable user and furthermore, if Jemima wasn't having a di

straight in the bin.' As I finish signing I'm red-faced and breathing hard, and I stamp a full

stop so hard it tears the page. 'Can you remember all that?'

The delivery guy looks at me blankly.

'Love, I just work at the depot.'

'I know!' says Lissy suddenly. She grabs the clipboard back and prints WITHOUT PREJUDICE

clearly under my name.

'What does that mean?' I say.

'It means "I'll never forgive you, you complete bastard… but I'll keep the flowers anyway."'

'And you're still going to get even,' adds Jemima determinedly.

It's one of those amazingly bright, crisp mornings that make you feel that London really is the

best city in the world. As I'm walking from the tube station to work, my spirits can't help

rising a little.

Maybe Lissy's right. Maybe everyone at work will already have forgotten about the whole

thing. I mean, let's get a bit of proportion here. It wasn't that big a deal. It wasn't that

interesting. Surely some other piece of gossip will have come along in the meantime. Surely

everyone will be talking about… the football. Or politics or something. Exactly.

I push open the glass door to the foyer with a small spurt of optimism, and walk in, my head

held high.

'… a Barbie bedspread!' I immediately hear from across the marble. A guy from Accounts is

talking to a woman with a 'Visitor' badge, who is listening avidly.

'… shagging Jack Harper all along?' comes a voice from above me, and I look up to see a

group of girls walking up the stairs.

'It's Co

'… pretended she loved jazz,' someone else is saying as they get out of the lift. 'I mean, why

on earth would you do that?'

OK. So… they haven't forgotten.

All my crisp optimism dies away, and for an instant I consider ru

rest of my life under the duvet.

But I can't do that.

For a start, I'd probably get bored after about a week.

And secondly… I have to face them. I have to do this.

Clenching my fists at my sides, I slowly make my way up the stairs and along the corridor.

Everyone I pass either blatantly stares at me, or pretends they're not looking when they are,

and at least five conversations are hastily broken off as I approach.

As I reach the door to the marketing department, I take a deep breath, then walk in, trying to

look as unconcerned as possible.