This obviously doesn’t help. Nigel looks more scared than before. “Breaking the law” may not have been the best choice of words.

“Or you could give them to him anonymously?”

“Anonymously?

“Yes, you know, put them in a blank envelope and leave it on his desk. Or even send it to him.”

“I could send it to him,” agrees Nigel. “I could photocopy the pages wearing gloves so there aren’t any fingerprints on them, put them in an envelope and send it to him from the other side of London,” he continues, but his voice is definitely faltering.

“Definitely. Nigel, you’ll be doing the right thing. All you’re doing is making sure Guy has all the information before he makes a huge mistake.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. It’s my duty,” says Nigel. “And don’t worry,” he adds, “if I do get caught, I will tell them that I worked alone.”

I look at Nigel with what I hope looks like a smile of relief.

When I get back to my desk there’s an e-mail waiting for me from Mike. I’m about to open it when the phone rings.

“Hello, Georgie Beauchamp.”

“Georgie, it’s me.”

There’s a long pause. It’s David.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“Georgie, I’m so sorry about yesterday. Look, I need to explain properly. I would have called last night—I mean, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. We just didn’t stop until really late. Look, I’ve got to drop in on the Paris office today, but I’m back tomorrow. Are you around in the evening? I need to see you. I need to explain . . .”

His voice sounds so confident and trustworthy I can’t believe he’s the same person who was so dismissive in the hotel reception yesterday. I can feel myself melting. I want to forget all about the horrible brunette and have David come over and sweep me off my feet.

“You just didn’t stop?” Well, I want to forget her, but I can’t actually do it. I beg myself to play it cool, but my voice is tinged with bitterness.

“Georgie, don’t. We were working. Just working. Please don’t overreact.”

“Overreact?” I hiss. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You’re right, I really should be more understanding. I mean, it’s absolutely fine for you to tell me you came to Rome to see me when actually it was for work. It’s perfectly acceptable for you to say you love me and then to leave me on my own while you bugger off with some sneering bitch.”

Okay, so I’m not going to play it cool. I’m going to play it extremely bloody hot under the collar.

Too late I realize I’m talking rather loudly. Nigel is looking up at me with wide eyes. As soon as he sees me look at him, he hunches back over his computer.

“So Vanessa is a sneering bitch?”

I realize David is chuckling. How dare he not take this seriously.

“It’s not Vanessa I’m cross with,” I lie. “I’m sure she’s perfectly nice. But you . . . you wouldn’t even introduce me as your girlfriend. How do you think that made me feel?”

“Georgie, my darling, I’m really sorry. Vanessa is working with me on a particular case. She had to work on her own on Saturday because I was with you—we actually owe her one, okay? I was hoping she wouldn’t find out I was with you all day; I had made some excuse about being ill and told her that the maid had answered the phone. Then you turned up and started shouting at us!”

“Really?” I start to feel a bit silly.

“Yes, gorgeous.” David’s laughing now. “I am now the butt of a million jokes in the office. But that’s okay—you, and our night together, are absolutely worth it. But don’t read anything sinister into the fact that I had to work on Sunday, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree. “But you could have said you were in Rome to work. And not told me you were going to Geneva,” I say pointedly.

“I know. Georgie, I was a fool. I didn’t want to tell you I was going to Rome because I knew you’d want me to take you. In the event, it turns out that I could have done—and I’m so glad you were there—but I didn’t want our first trip to Rome together to be a business trip so I told you I was going to Switzerland instead. And then I was just so shocked to bump into you that I wasn’t thinking straight. Look, don’t be cross with me. I’ll make it up to you. How about we go out tomorrow night? I’ll take you out dancing again and if I even look at another woman you can get into a jealous rage and wallop me on the behind and—”

“Okay,” I giggle, “enough! I forgive you. But less of the touchy-feely stuff in future.”

“You don’t like me touching and feeling you?”

“Not me,her .”

“Okay, no touching. And certainly no feeling. I promise. So what do you say, shall we go out tomorrow for a night on the town?”

“We could . . .” To be honest I’m not really in the mood for going out.

“I hear hesitation. What’s the matter?”

“No, I’d love to, it’s just . . . I mean, I love dancing and everything, but it might be nice to, you know, stay in, just this once . . .”

Now David is laughing. “My darling, whatever you want. Why don’t you come round and I’ll cook?”

I agree gratefully and put the phone down. I know I thought I wanted a glamorous boyfriend who goes out all the time, but when it comes to it, I don’t actually. I want David, who I like being at home with.

Nigel looks up and gives me an odd look. I realize that I’m talking to myself out loud. I go red and turn back to my computer. Mike’s e-mail is waiting for me.

MIKE MARSHALL: Georgie Porgie. Can you come over this evening? I’m in St. John’s Wood.

22 Arcacia Road—flat 14. I need to talk to you about this favor.

Oh God. I’d managed to push Mike out of my head, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to go away. If I don’t go round, he might tell David I was in Rome with him, and I don’t think David would forgive me for that. But I can’t bear to see Mike again and find out what sordid little favor he wants me to do for him. Haven’t I done enough? I keep wondering what was in the bag I took to Rome for him. What if there were drugs in there? I could have gone to prison. I shudder at the thought. Still, one more favor and then that’s it. I will never see Mike again and everything will be fine again. I mean, how hard can one little favor be?

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It’s five o’clock, the time that I would usually be packing up my things in order to make a swift exit. But today I don’t have my usual enthusiasm for leaving the building. I feel a mixture of frustration, nausea, and excitement. Excitement about seeing David tomorrow, frustration because I’m not seeing him tonight, and nausea because I don’t want to go round to Mike’s, don’t want to spend any more time with him. If we’re absolutely honest here, what Mike is doing is no better than blackmail: me doing him a favor in return for his silence. And I didn’t even do anything! Well, nothing really bad anyway. But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk hurting David.

I feel like going for a run or something, which is odd because I never exercise. I mean, I go to a Pilates class about once a month (usually the week after I buy a copy ofVogue orCosmopolitan and read an article on some glamorous supermodel who swears by it) and got really into tennis for a week last year, but I never go to the gym and I absolutely hate jogging.

I decide to go for a walk before making my way up to Mike’s flat. But as I walk past Nigel, he calls me over.

“Georgie, before you go, there’s something I want to . . .”

Much as I don’t want to get to Mike’s any time soon, the last thing I need is more boring work.

“Nigel,” I interrupt. “Is it really important? There’s something urgent that I need to do, and I’m going to be late if I don’t go now.”

“Oh. Okay. I just thought you might be interested in seeing something.”

Seeing something? Unlikely. But before I can say no Nigel is opening up his briefcase. Inside is a large, bright pink envelope with orange flowers all over it. It’s so hideous it’s quite wonderful.

“Nigel, I’m, well, I’m lost for words actually. Is it a present or something?”

Nigel looks at me as if I am completely stupid.

“The printouts,” he hisses. “I thought this envelope would throw Guy off the track. He wouldn’t expect me to send the information in an envelope like this, would he?”

He’s got a point. Suddenly I get a huge urge to give Nigel a hug. He’s probably been sitting here all afternoon waiting to show me the envelope. He must have gone out especially after lunch to get it.

“When he gets it, he’ll assume that it’s come from a drag queen or seven-year-old girl! Nigel, you’re a genius.”

He grins sheepishly. “Always pays to be thorough.”

On my way out I wonder what Guy is going to think when all that HG information arrives on his doorstep in a bright pink envelope. I bet Nigel will be logging on to his chat rooms tonight, showing off and telling everyone about his cleverness. I wonder what his chat room pseudonym is.

As I approach Mike’s road, I wish that I had a cozy group of chat room friends I could talk to.

People who could sympathize with me and make me feel better about going round to Mike’s flat.

I want to forget I ever thought I might fancy him more than David.

Mike lives in a really smart apartment block with off-street parking. All the cars are BMWs and Mercedes, and there are bits of grass here and there with immaculate borders. He must be doing really well to afford a flat here. There is a For Sale sign outside, along with three Sold signs. I make a mental note to ring the estate agent to find out how much the flats are going for. Just out of interest.

“I’ve called out for take-out,” Mike tells me as he kisses me hello. “You like Indian, don’t you?”