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knows it and he’s behind it.”
“What?” Vicks sounds at the end of her tether. “Sam Roxton, you do not go around
saying things like that! You’ll sound like a conspiracy nutter.”
“It was a Different. Fucking. Memo.” Sam sounds like he’s beyond exasperation with the
whole world. “I saw the original version. Malcolm saw it. There was no talk of bribes. Now it’s
disappeared from the whole computer system. No trace. Explain that and then call me a
conspiracy nutter.”
“I can’t explain it,” says Vicks after a pause. “And I’m not even going to try. I’m going
to do my job.”
“Someone did this. You know it. You’re playing right into their hands, Vicks. They’re
smearing Nick and you’re letting them.”
“No. No. Stop.” Vicks is shaking her head. “I’m not playing this game. I don’t get
involved.” She walks over to the wastepaper basket, retrieves the crumpled statement, and
spreads it out.
“I can change a detail or two,” she says. “But I’ve spoken to Bruce and we have to go
with this.” She holds out a pen. “You want to make any small amendments? Because Julian is on
his way right now to approve it.”
Sam ignores the pen.
“What if we find the original memo? What if we can prove this one is a fake?”
“Great!” There’s a sudden edge to her voice. “Then we release it, Nick’s integrity is
saved, and we throw a party. Believe me, Sam, I would like nothing more than that. But we have
to work with what we have. Which, right now, is a damaging memo we can’t explain away.”
Vicks rubs her face, then screws her fists in her eyes. “This morning I was trying to cover up that
embarrassment with the drunken post-guy,” she mutters, almost to herself. “I was worried about
that.”
She really shouldn’t do that. She’s giving herself bags under her eyes.
“When does the statement go out?” says Sam at length. All his tempestuous energy seems
to have dissipated. His shoulders have slumped and he sounds so low I almost want to go and
give him a hug.
“That’s the one bright ray.” Vicks’s voice is softer now, as though she wants to treat him
gently in his defeat. “They’re keeping it for the ten o’clock, so we have a good six hours or so to
play with.”
“A lot can happen in six hours,” I volunteer timidly, and both of them jump as though
scalded.
“She’s still here?”
“Poppy.” Even Sam looks taken aback. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d still be here—”
“She heard all that?” Vicks looks like she wants to hit someone. “Sam, are you out of
your mind?”
“I won’t say anything!” I say hurriedly. “Promise.”
“OK.” Sam breathes out. “My mistake. Poppy, this isn’t your fault; I was the one who
invited you. I’ll find someone to escort you out.” He leans his head out of his office door.
“Stephanie? Borrow you a sec?”
A few moments later a pleasant-looking girl with long blond hair arrives at the office.
“Can you take our visitor down, sign her out, sort out the pass, all that?” says Sam.
“Sorry, Poppy, I’d do it myself, but—”
“No, no!” I say at once. “Of course. You’re tied up, I understand—”
“The meeting!” says Sam, as though suddenly remembering. “Of course. Poppy, I’m
sorry. It was canceled. But it’ll be rearranged. I’ll be in touch.”
“Great!” I muster a smile. “Thanks.”
He won’t. But I don’t blame him.
“I hope it all works out well for you,” I add. “And Sir Nicholas.”
Vicks’s eyes are swiveling madly in her head. She’s obviously paranoid that I’m about to
spill the beans.
I don’t know what to do about Sam’s dad. I can’t possibly tell Sam now—he’ll explode
from stress. I’ll just have to get a message to the hotel or something. And then bow out.
Like maybe I should have done in the first place.
“Well … thanks again.” I meet Sam’s eyes and feel a strange pang. This really is the last
goodbye. “Here you are.” I proffer the phone.
“No problem.” He takes it from me and puts it down on his desk. “Sorry about all this—”
“No! I hope it all … ” I nod several times, not daring to say any more in front of
Stephanie.
It’s going to be odd, not being in Sam’s life anymore. I’ll never know how any of it turns
out. Maybe I’ll read about this memo in the papers. Maybe I’ll read an a
and Willow in a wedding column.
“Bye, then.” I turn and follow Stephanie down the corridor. A couple of people are
walking along with overnight bags, and as we get into the lift they’re in mid-conversation about
the hotel and how crap the minibar is.
“So it’s your conference today,” I say politely as we arrive at the ground floor. “How
come you’re not down there?”
“Oh, we stagger it.” She ushers me out into the lobby. “A whole bunch of people are
already there, and the second coach is leaving in a few minutes. I’ll be on that. Although actually
tomorrow’s the main event. That’s when we have the gala di
usually quite fun.”
“Santa Claus?” I can’t help laughing.
“It’s what we call Sir Nicholas. You know, a silly in-house nickname. Sir Nick, St. Nick,
Santa Claus—it’s a bit lame, I know.” She smiles. “If you can give me your security pass?”
I hand over the laminated card and she gives it to one of the security perso
something about “nice photo,” but I’m not listening. An odd feeling is creeping over me.
Santa Claus. Wasn’t that bloke who called Violet’s phone going on about Santa Claus? Is
that a coincidence?
As Stephanie leads me across the marble floor to the main doors, I’m trying to remember
what he said. It was all about surgery. Incisions. Something about no trace—
I stop dead, my heart thumping. That’s the same phrase Sam used just now. No trace.
“OK?” Stephanie notices I’ve stopped.
“Fine! Sorry.” I shoot her a smile and resume walking along, but my mind is wheeling.
What else did that guy say? What exactly was it about Santa Claus? Come on, Poppy, think.
“Well, bye! Thanks for visiting!” Stephanie smiles once more.
“Thank you! ’ And as I step outside onto the pavement, I feel a jolt inside. I have it:
Adiós, Santa Claus.
More people are coming out of the building, and I step aside to where a window cleaner
is swooshing suds all over the glass. I reach into my bag and start scrabbling around for the Lion
King program. Please don’t say I’ve lost it, please—
I haul it out, and stare at my scribbled words.
April 18: Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.
April 20: Scottie rang. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa
Claus.
It’s as though the voices are playing back in my mind. It’s as though I’m listening to
them again. I’m hearing the older drawl and the young, reedy voice.
And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt who left the first message. It was
Justin Cole.
Oh. My God.
I’m quivering all over. I have to get back in and show these messages to Sam. They mean
something, I don’t know what, but something. I push the big glass doors open, and the concierge
girl immediately appears in front of me. When I was with Sam she waved us through, but now