“Yasmin’s a lovely name.” I beam at Nihal. “And seven pounds! What a good size! How is she doing?”

“How’s Anita?” joins in Sam.

“They’re both very well, thanks! I’m sorry … I’m not sure we’ve met?” Nihal glances at Sam for help.

“This is Poppy,” says Sam. “She’s here to do some … consultation.”

“Right.” Nihal shakes my hand, still looking puzzled. “So, how did you know about the baby?”

“Because Sam mentioned it to me,” I lie smoothly. “He was so thrilled for you, he couldn’t help telling me. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

Ha! Sam’s face!

“That’s right,” he says finally. “Delighted.”

“Wow.” Nihal’s face suffuses with pleasure. “Thanks, Sam. I didn’t realize you’d be so—” He breaks off awkwardly.

“No problem.” Sam lifts a hand. “Congratulations again. Poppy, we should really be getting on.”

As Sam and I walk away down the office, I want to giggle at his expression.

“Can you cut it out, please?” Sam murmurs without moving his head. “First animals, now babies. What kind of reputation are you going to give me?”

“A good one!” I retort. “Everyone will love you!”

“Hey, Sam.” A voice hails us from behind, and we turn to see Matt Mitchell, glowing with delight. “I just heard the news! Sir Nicholas is joining the Guatemala trip! That’s awesome!”

“Yes.” Sam nods brusquely. “We spoke about it last night.”

“Well, I wanted to thank you,” he says earnestly. “I know this was your influence. You two guys will add so much heft to the cause. Oh, and thanks for the donation. We really appreciate it.”

I stare in astonishment. Sam gave a donation to the Guatemala trip? He gave a donation?

Now Matt is beaming at me. “Hello again. Are you interested in the Guatemala trip?”

Oh my God, I would love to go to Guatemala.

“’Well—” I begin enthusiastically, before Sam cuts me off firmly:

“No. She’s not.”

Honestly. What a spoilsport.

“Maybe next time,” I say politely. “I hope it goes well!”

As Matt Mitchell heads back down the corridor and we walk on, I’m mulling hard on what I just heard.

“You never told me Sir Nicholas was going to Guatemala,” I say at last.

“No?” Sam doesn’t sound remotely interested. “Well, he is.”

“And you gave them a donation,” I add. “So you do think it’s a good cause. You think it’s worth supporting.”

“I gave them a small donation.” He corrects me with me a forbidding look, but I’m undeterred.

“So actually … that situation turned out really well. Not a disaster at all.” I count off thoughtfully on my fingers. “And the girls in admin think you’re wonderful and the whole ideas initiative is brilliant. And you’ve got some interesting new thoughts for the company. And Nihal thinks you’re the bee’s knees, and so does Chloe and all her department, and Rachel loves you for doing the Fun Run.”

“Where exactly are you going with this?” Sam’s expression is so ominous, I quail slightly.

“Er … nowhere!” I backtrack. “Just saying.”

Maybe I’ll keep quiet now, for a while.

After the lobby I was expecting to be impressed by Sam’s office—but I’m more than impressed. I’m awestruck.

It’s a huge corner space, with windows overlooking Blackfriars Bridge, a designer light sculpture hanging from the ceiling, and a massive desk. There’s another, smaller desk outside, which I guess is where Violet used to sit. By the window is a sofa, which is where Sam ushers me.

“The meeting’s not for twenty minutes. I’ve got to catch up with some stuff. Make yourself comfortable.”

I sit on the sofa quietly for a few minutes, but it’s quite boring just sitting on a sofa. At last I get up and wander to the window, gazing down at all the little cars whizzing over the bridge. There’s a bookshelf nearby with lots of business hardbacks and a few awards. No photo of Willow, though. Nor is there one on his desk. He must have a photo of her somewhere, surely?

As I’m looking around for it, I notice another doorway and can’t help peering at it curiously. Why does he have a door? Where does it lead to?

“Bathroom,” says Sam, spotting me. “Do you want to use it? Go ahead.”

Wow. He has an executive bathroom!

I head inside, hoping to find some amazing palace of marble—but it’s quite normal really, with a small shower and glass tiles. Still. Your own bathroom inside your office. That’s pretty cool.

I take the opportunity to redo my makeup, brush my hair, and tug my denim skirt back into place. I open the door and am about to step outside when I realize there’s a soup splash on my shirt. Shit.

Maybe I can get that off.

I dampen a towel and give it a quick rub. No. Not wet enough. I’ll have to lean down and get it right under the tap.

As I’m bending down, I see a woman in a smart black trouser suit in the mirror, and I jump. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve got a reflected view of the whole office, and she’s actually approaching Sam’s glass door. She’s tall and imposing-looking, in her forties, maybe, and is holding a piece of paper.

Her expression is fairly grim. Ooh, maybe she’s the CEO with bad personal hygiene.

No. Surely not. Look at that perfectly crisp white shirt.

Oh my God, is this Willow?

I suddenly feel even more embarrassed about my soup stain. It hasn’t come off at all; I’ve just got a big wet patch on my T-shirt. In fact, I look hideous. Should I tell Sam I can’t come to the meeting after all? Or maybe he has a spare shirt I could borrow. Don’t businessmen always keep spare shirts at the office?

No, Poppy. Don’t be ridiculous. And, anyway, there’s no time. The woman in the black suit is already rapping at his door and pushing it open. I watch in the mirror, on tenterhooks.

“Sam. I need a word.”

“Sure. What is it?” He looks up and frowns at her expression. “Vicks, what’s up?”

Vicks! Of course this is Vicks, head of PR. I should have realized at once.

I feel I already know her from all her emails, and she’s just as I imagined. Sharply cut sharp brunette hair, businesslike manner, sensible shoes, expensive watch. And right now a look of massive stress on her face.

“Only a handful of people know about this,” she says as she closes the door. “An hour ago I had a call from a mate of mine at ITN. They’ve got hold of an internal memo from Nick, which they’re planning to splash across the ten o’clock bulletin.” She winces. “It’s … it’s bad, Sam.”

“Memo?” He looks perplexed. “What memo?”

“A memo he apparently sent to you and Malcolm? Several months ago now? When you were doing that advisory work with BP? Here. Have a read.”

After about ten seconds, I peep round the side of the ajar bathroom door. I can see Sam reading a printed sheet, an expression of shock on his face.

“What the fuck—”

“I know.” Vicks lifts her hands. “I know.”

“This is … ” He seems speechless.

“It’s a disaster,” Vicks says calmly. “He’s basically talking about accepting bribes. Put that together with the fact he’s on a government committee right now … ” She hesitates. “You and Malcolm could be compromised too. We’ll need to look at that.”

“But … but I’ve never seen this memo in my life!” Sam finally has found his voice. “Nick didn’t send this to me! He didn’t write these things. He would never have written these things. I mean, he sent us a memo which began the same way, but—”

“Yes, that’s what I gather from Malcolm too. The memo he received wasn’t word for word the same as this one.”

“Not ‘word for word’?” echoes Sam impatiently. “It was totally fucking different! Yes, it may have been about BP, yes, it may have raised the same issues, but it did not say these things.” He hits the page. “I don’t know where the hell this has come from. Have you spoken to Nick?

“Of course. He says the same thing. He didn’t send this memo, he’s never seen it before, he’s as baffled as we are.”

“So!” Sam exclaims impatiently. “Head this off! Find the original memo, phone your friend at ITN, tell them they’ve been sold a pup. The IT guys will be able to prove what was written when; they’re good at that stuff—” He breaks off. “What?”

“We’ve tried.” She exhales. “We’ve looked. We can’t find an original version of the memo anywhere.”

“What?’ He stares at her. “But … that’s crazy. Nick must have saved it.”

“They’re searching. Here and at his Berkshire office. So far, this is the only version they’ve managed to find on the system.” She taps the paper.

“Bullshit!” Sam gives an incredulous laugh. “Wait—I have it myself!”

He sits down and opens up a file. “I would have put it …” He clicks a few more times. “Here we are! You see … here it is—” He breaks off, breathing hard. “What the—”

There’s silence. I can hardly breathe.

“No,” expostulates Sam suddenly. “No way. This is not the version I received.” He looks up, his face baffled. “What’s going on? I had it.”

“Not there?” Vicks’s voice is tight with disappointment.

Sam is clicking frantically at his computer again.

“This makes no bloody sense,” he’s saying, almost to himself. “The memo was emailed over. It came to Malcolm and me on the system. I had it. I read it with my own eyes. It has to be here.” He glowers at his screen. “Where the fuck is that fucking email?”

“Did you print it out? Did you keep it? Do you still have that original version?” I can see the hope in Vicks’s eyes.

There’s a long silence.

“No.” Sam exhales. “I read it online. Malcolm?”

“He didn’t print it out either. And he can only find this version on his system. OK.” Vicks sags a little. “Well … we’ll keep trying.”