“You possess it? What the hell are you—Oh Jesus.” He swears a bit more, and I can hear distant footsteps. It sounds like he’s running downstairs.

 “Tell me, are they leaving?”

“The Japanese people?” I squint at the group. “Maybe. Can’t tell.”

“Is a short guy with them? Overweight? Thick hair?”

“You mean the man in the blue suit? Yes, he’s right in front of me. Looks pissed off. Now he’s putting on his mac.”

The squat Japanese man has been handed a Burberry by a colleague. He’s glowering as he puts it on, and a constant stream of angry Japanese is coming out of his mouth, as all his friends nod nervously.

“No!” The man’s exclamation down the phone takes me by surprise. “He can’t leave.”

“Well, he is. Sorry.”

“You have to stop him. Go up to him and stop him leaving the hotel. Go up to him now. Do whatever it takes.”

“What?” I stare at the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve never even met you—”

“Nor me you,” he rejoins. “Who are you, anyway? Are you a friend of Violet? Can you tell me exactly why she decided to quit her job halfway through the biggest conference of the year? Does she think I suddenly don’t need a PA anymore?”

Aha. So Violet’s his personal assistant. This makes sense. And she walked out on him! Well, I’m not surprised, he’s so bossy.

“Anyway, doesn’t matter,” he interrupts himself. “Point is, I’m on the stairs, floor nine, the lift jammed, I’ll be downstairs in less than three minutes, and you have to keep Yuichi Yamasaki there till I arrive. Whoever the hell you are.”

What a nerve.

“Or what?” I retort.

“Or else a year of careful negotiation goes down the tubes because of one ridiculous misunderstanding. The biggest deal of the year falls apart. A team of twenty people lose their jobs.” His voice is relentless. “Senior managers, secretaries, the whole gang. Just because I can’t get down there fast enough and the one person who could help won’t.”

Oh, bloody hell.

“All right!” I say furiously. “I’ll do my best. What’s his name again?”

“Yamasaki.”

“Wait!” I raise my voice, running forward across the lobby. “Please! Mr. Yamasaki? Could you wait a minute?”

Mr. Yamasaki turns questioningly, and a couple of flunkies move forward, flanking him protectively. He has a broad face, still creased in anger, and a wide, bullish neck, around which he’s draping a silk scarf. I get the sense he’s not into idle chitchat.

I have no idea what to say next. I don’t speak Japanese, I don’t know anything about Japanese business or Japanese culture. Apart from sushi. But I can’t exactly go up to him and say “Sushi!” out of the blue. It would be like going up to a top American businessman and saying “T-bone steak!”

“I’m … a huge fan,” I improvise. “Of your work. Could I have your autograph?”

He looks puzzled, and one of his colleagues whispers a translation into his ear. Immediately, his brow clears and he bows to me.

Cautiously, I bow back, and he snaps his fingers, barking an instruction. A moment later, a beautiful leather folder has been opened in front of him, and he’s writing something elaborate in Japanese.

“Is he still there?” The stranger’s voice suddenly emanates from the phone.

“Yes,” I mutter into it. “Just about. Where are you?” I shoot a bright smile at Mr. Yamasaki.

“Fifth floor. Keep him there. Whatever it takes.”

Mr. Yamasaki hands me his piece of paper, caps his pen, bows again, and makes to walk off.

“Wait!” I cry desperately. “Could I … show you something?”

“Mr. Yamasaki is very busy.” One of his colleagues, wearing steel glasses and the whitest shirt I’ve ever seen, turns back. “Kindly contact our office.”

They’re heading away again. What do I do now? I can’t ask for another autograph. I can’t rugby-tackle him. I need to attract his attention somehow.

“I have a special announcement to make!” I exclaim, hurrying after them. “I am a singing telegram! I bear a message from all Mr. Yamasaki’s many fans. It would be a great discourtesy to them if you were to refuse me.”

The word discourtesy seems to have stopped them in their tracks. They’re frowning and exchanging confused glances.

“A singing telegram?” says the man in steel glasses suspiciously.

“Like a Gorilla Gram?” I offer. “Only singing.”