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?