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“Maybe.” Sam nods, but I can tell he’s given up.
“What happens if we don’t find him out here?”
“Then … we tried.” Sam’s face is taut, but for the briefest of moments his smile pops out.
“We tried.”
“OK. Well, let’s do it.” I put on my best motivational
you-can-get-mobility-back-into-that-hip-joint voice. “Let’s try.”
We head out and Sam launches into the same old routine.
“Hi there, gang! Having a good time? Let me introduce Poppy, who’s having a look
round. Poppy, this is James. James, why don’t you tell Poppy what your line is? And here’s
Brian, and this is Rhys.”
It’s not James or Brian or Rhys. Or Martin or Nigel.
Every name on Sam’s list is ticked off. I almost want to cry when I look at his face. At
last we step away from a group of interns who weren’t even on the list and can’t possibly be
Scottie.
We’re done.
“I’ll phone Vicks,” Sam says, his voice a little heavy. “Poppy, thanks for giving up your
time. It was a stupid plan.”
“It wasn’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “It … could have worked.”
Sam looks up and for a moment we just stand there.
“You’re very kind,” he says at last.
“Hi, Sam! Hi, guys!” A girl’s raised voice makes me flinch. Maybe I’m sensitive because
I’ve been listening more carefully to the way people speak—but this voice is setting my teeth on
edge. I turn to see a bubbly-looking girl with a pink scarf tied in her hair approaching us with the
TV camera guy, who has a dark crew cut and jeans.
Uh-oh.
“Hi, Amanda.” Sam nods. “What’s up?”
“We’re filming all the conference guests,” she says cheerfully. “Just a little shout-out, say
hi, we’ll show it at the gala di
The TV camera is pointing in my face, and I flinch. I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t
do a “little shout-out.”
“Anything you like,” Amanda prompts me. “A personal message, a joke … ” She
consults her list, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what department you’re in… .”
“Poppy’s a guest,” says Sam.
“Oh!” The girl’s brow clears. “Lovely! Tell you what, since you’re a special guest, why
don’t you do our Q and A interview? What do you think, Ryan? Do you know Ryan?” she adds
to Sam. “He’s on an internship from the LSE for six months. He’s been doing all our
promotional filming. Hey, Ryan, get a close-up. Poppy’s a special guest!”
What? I’m not a “special guest.” I want to escape, but somehow I feel pi
by the TV camera.
“Just introduce yourself and Ryan will ask the questions!” says the girl brightly. “So, tell
us your name.”
“Hi,” I say reluctantly to the camera. “I’m … Poppy.” This is so stupid. What am I going
to say to a conference of strangers?
Maybe I’ll do a shout-out to Willow.
Hey, Willow the Witch. You know how you think I’m ‘parading around’ with your
boyfriend? Well, here’s the news flash. He’s not your boyfriend anymore.
The thought makes me snort, and Amanda gives me an encouraging smile.
“That’s right! Enjoy yourself. Ryan, do you want to start the Q and A?”
“Sure. So, Poppy, what do you think of the conference so far?”
The high-pitched, reedy voice which comes from behind the camera hits my ears like a
twenty-volt shock.
It’s him.
That’s the voice I heard down the phone. This person talking to me now. This guy, with a
crew cut and a camera on his shoulder. This is him.
“Having fun?” he prompts me, and my brain explodes with recognition again. The
memory of his voice on the phone is ru
It’s Scottie. It’s done. Like I said. It was a surgical strike.
“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