“Which was your favorite speech of the conference?”

“She didn’t go to any of the speeches,” interjects Sam.

“Oh. OK.”

No trace. Genius stuff, if I say so myself. Adiós, Santa Claus.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the drinks party?”

It’s Scottie.

This is Scottie. No question.

“Are you all right?” He leans round the camera, looking impatient. “You can talk. We’re rolling.”

I stare at his thin, intelligent face, my heart thumping, willing myself not to give anything away. I feel like a rabbit being mesmerized by a snake.

“It’s OK, Poppy.” Sam steps forward, looking sympathetic. “Don’t worry. A lot of people get stage fright.”

“No!” I manage. “It’s not—It’s—”

I stare up at him helplessly. My voice won’t work. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you can’t shout out that you’re being murdered.

“Guys, I don’t think she’s up for it,” Sam’s saying. “Could you … ” He gestures with his hand.

“Sorry!” Amanda puts a hand over her mouth. “Didn’t mean to freak you out! Have a good evening!” They head off to accost another group of people, and I stare after them, transfixed.

“Poor old Poppy.” Sam smiles ruefully. “Just what you needed. Sorry about that, it’s a new thing they’re doing at the conferences, although I can’t see what it adds—”

“Shut up.” Somehow I cut him off, although I can still barely speak. “Shut up, shut up.”

Sam looks astonished. I move closer to him and reach up on tiptoe until my mouth is touching his ear, his hair brushing against my skin. I inhale, breathing in his warmth and smell, then murmur, as quietly as a breath, “That’s him.”

We stay outside for another twenty minutes. Sam has a long telephone conversation with Sir Nicholas—none of which I can hear—then a brief, brusque call with Mark, of which I catch bits and pieces as he strides around, his hand to his head: Well, company policy can fuck itself… . the minute Vicks gets here …

It’s clear that tension levels are rising. I thought Sam would be happy that I’d helped, but he looks even more grim than before. He ends the call by snapping, “Whose side are you on, anyway? Jesus, Mark.”

“So … what are you going to do?” I say timidly as he rings off.

“Ryan’s company email is being searched. But he’s sharp. He won’t have used the company system. He’ll have set it all up by phone or with some private email account.”

“What, then?

“That’s the debate.” Sam screws up his face in frustration. “Trouble is, we don’t have time for a discussion on protocol. We don’t have time to consult our lawyers. If it were me—”

“You’d have him arrested, all his personal property confiscated, and a lie-detector test forcibly conducted,” I can’t help saying. “In a dark cellar somewhere.”

A reluctant smile passes across Sam’s face. “Something like that.”

“How’s Sir Nicholas?” I venture.

“Acting chipper. You can imagine. He keeps his chin up. But he feels it far more than he’s letting on.” Sam’s face twists briefly and he hunches his arms round his chest.

“You do too,” I say gently, and Sam looks up in a startled movement, as though I’ve caught him out.

“I suppose I do,” he says after a long pause. “Nick and I go back a long time. He’s a good guy. He’s done some remarkable things over his lifetime. But if this smear gets out unchallenged, it’ll be the only thing the wider world ever remembers about him. It’ll be the same headline over and over, till he dies. Sir Nicholas Murray, suspected of corruption. He doesn’t deserve that. He especially doesn’t deserve to be stitched up by his own board.”

There’s a somber moment, then Sam visibly pulls himself together. “Anyway. Come on. They’re waiting for us. Vicks is nearly here.”

We head back, past a group of girls clustered round a table, past an ornamental garden, toward the huge double doors leading into the hotel. My phone has been buzzing and I quietly take it out to check my in-box, just to see if Magnus has replied—

I blink at the screen. I don’t believe it. I give a tiny involuntary whimper, and Sam shoots me an odd look.

There’s a brand-new email right at the top of my in-box and I click on it, desperately hoping it won’t say what I’m dreading—

Shit. Shit.

I stare at it in dismay. What am I going to do? We’re nearly at the hotel. I have to speak. I have to tell him.

“Um, Sam.” My voice is a bit strangled. “Um, stop a minute.”

“What?” He halts with a preoccupied frown, and my stomach lurches with nerves.

OK. Here’s the thing. In my defense, if I’d known Sam was going to be mired in a massive, urgent crisis involving leaked memos and senior government advisers and ITN News, I wouldn’t have sent that email to his father. Of course I wouldn’t.

But I didn’t know. And I did send the email. And now …

“What’s up?” Sam looks impatient.

Where on earth do I start? How do I soften him up?

“Please don’t get angry,” I throw out as a preemptive sally, even though it feels a bit like chucking an ice cube into the path of a forest fire.

“About what?” There’s an ominous tone to Sam’s voice.

“The thing is … ” I clear my throat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I can see that you may not view it exactly that way… .”

“What on earth are you—” He breaks off, his face suddenly clearing with appalled understanding. “Oh, Jesus. No. Please don’t say you’ve been telling your friends about this—”

“No!” I say in horror. “Of course not!”

“Then what?”

I feel slightly emboldened by his wrong suspicions. At least I haven’t been blabbing everything to my friends. At least I haven’t been selling my story to The Sun.

“It’s a family thing. It’s about your dad.”

Sam’s eyes widen sharply, but he says nothing.

“I just felt bad that you and he weren’t in contact. So I emailed him back. He’s desperate to see you, Sam. He wants to reach out! You never go down to Hampshire, you never see him—”

“For God’s sake,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I really don’t have time for this.”

“You don’t have time for your own father?” His words sting me. “You know what, Mr. Big Shot, maybe your priorities are a little screwed. I know you’re busy, I know this crisis is important, but—”

“Poppy, stop right there. You’re making a big mistake.”

He looks so impassive, I feel a surge of outrage. How dare he be so sure of himself all the time?

“Maybe you’re the one who’s making a big mistake!” The words burst out before I can stop them. “Maybe you’re the one who’s letting your life pass by without engaging in it! Maybe Willow’s right!”

“Excuse me?” Sam looks thunderous at the mention of Willow.

“You’re going to miss out! You’re going to miss out on relationships which could give you so much, because you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to listen… .”

Sam glances around, looking embarrassed. “Poppy, cool it,” he mutters. “You’re getting too emotional.”

“Well, you’re staying too calm!” I feel like exploding. “You’re too stoic!” An image suddenly comes to me of those Roman senators, all waiting in the arena to be massacred. “You know something, Sam? You’re turning into stone.”

“Stone?” He gives a burst of laughter.

“Yes, stone. You’ll wake up one day and you’ll be a statue, but you won’t know it. You’ll be trapped inside yourself.” My voice is wobbling; I’m not sure why. It’s nothing to me whether he turns into a statue or not.

Sam is eyeing me warily.

“Poppy, I“ve no idea what you’re talking about. But we have to put this on pause. I have stuff I need to do.” His phone buzzes and he lifts it to his ear. “Hey, Vicks. You made it. OK, on my way.”

“I know you’re dealing with a crisis.” I grab his arm fiercely. “But there’s an old man waiting to hear from you, Sam. Longing to hear from you. For only five minutes. And you know what? I envy you.”

Sam exhales sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Poppy, you’ve got this all wrong.”

“Have I?” I stare up at him, feeling all my buried emotions starting to bubble. “I just wish I had your chance. To see my dad. You don’t know how lucky you are. That’s all.”

A tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away brusquely.

Sam is silent. He puts his phone away and faces me square-on. When he speaks, his voice is gentle.

“Listen, Poppy. I can understand how you feel. I don’t mean to trivialize family relationships. I have a very good relationship with my father, and I see him whenever I can. But it’s not that easy, bearing in mind that he lives in Hong Kong.”

I gasp with horror. Are they so out of touch? Did he not even know his father had moved back to this country?

“Sam!” My words tumble out. “You don’t understand! He’s moved back. He lives in Hampshire! He sent you an email. He wanted to see you. Don’t you read anything?”

Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter, and I stare at him, affronted.

“OK,” he says at last, wiping his eyes. “Let’s start from the beginning. Let’s get this straight. You’re talking about the email from David Robinson, right?”

“No, I’m not! I’m talking about the one from—”

I break off midstream, suddenly uncertain. Robinson? Robinson? I grab my phone and check the email address: Davidr452@hotmail.com.

I just assumed he was David Roxton. It seemed obvious he was David Roxton.

“Contrary to your assumptions, I did read that email,” Sam is saying. “And I chose to ignore it. Believe me, David Robinson is not my father.”