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headline over and over, till he dies. Sir Nicholas Murray, suspected of corruption. He doesn’t
deserve that. He especially doesn’t deserve to be stitched up by his own board.”
There’s a somber moment, then Sam visibly pulls himself together. “Anyway. Come on.
They’re waiting for us. Vicks is nearly here.”
We head back, past a group of girls clustered round a table, past an ornamental garden,
toward the huge double doors leading into the hotel. My phone has been buzzing and I quietly
take it out to check my in-box, just to see if Magnus has replied—
I blink at the screen. I don’t believe it. I give a tiny involuntary whimper, and Sam shoots
me an odd look.
There’s a brand-new email right at the top of my in-box and I click on it, desperately
hoping it won’t say what I’m dreading—
Shit. Shit.
I stare at it in dismay. What am I going to do? We’re nearly at the hotel. I have to speak. I
have to tell him.
“Um, Sam.” My voice is a bit strangled. “Um, stop a minute.”
“What?” He halts with a preoccupied frown, and my stomach lurches with nerves.
OK. Here’s the thing. In my defense, if I’d known Sam was going to be mired in a
massive, urgent crisis involving leaked memos and senior government advisers and ITN News, I
wouldn’t have sent that email to his father. Of course I wouldn’t.
But I didn’t know. And I did send the email. And now …
“What’s up?” Sam looks impatient.
Where on earth do I start? How do I soften him up?
“Please don’t get angry,” I throw out as a preemptive sally, even though it feels a bit like
chucking an ice cube into the path of a forest fire.
“About what?” There’s an ominous tone to Sam’s voice.
“The thing is … ” I clear my throat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I can see
that you may not view it exactly that way… .”
“What on earth are you—” He breaks off, his face suddenly clearing with appalled
understanding. “Oh, Jesus. No. Please don’t say you’ve been telling your friends about this—”
“No!” I say in horror. “Of course not!”
“Then what?”
I feel slightly emboldened by his wrong suspicions. At least I haven’t been blabbing
everything to my friends. At least I haven’t been selling my story to The Sun.
“It’s a family thing. It’s about your dad.”
Sam’s eyes widen sharply, but he says nothing.
“I just felt bad that you and he weren’t in contact. So I emailed him back. He’s desperate
to see you, Sam. He wants to reach out! You never go down to Hampshire, you never see him—”
“For God’s sake,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I really don’t have time for this.”
“You don’t have time for your own father?” His words sting me. “You know what, Mr.
Big Shot, maybe your priorities are a little screwed. I know you’re busy, I know this crisis is
important, but—”
“Poppy, stop right there. You’re making a big mistake.”
He looks so impassive, I feel a surge of outrage. How dare he be so sure of himself all the
time?
“Maybe you’re the one who’s making a big mistake!” The words burst out before I can
stop them. “Maybe you’re the one who’s letting your life pass by without engaging in it! Maybe
Willow’s right!”
“Excuse me?” Sam looks thunderous at the mention of Willow.
“You’re going to miss out! You’re going to miss out on relationships which could give
you so much, because you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to listen… .”
Sam glances around, looking embarrassed. “Poppy, cool it,” he mutters. “You’re getting
too emotional.”
“Well, you’re staying too calm!” I feel like exploding. “You’re too stoic!” An image
suddenly comes to me of those Roman senators, all waiting in the arena to be massacred. “You
know something, Sam? You’re turning into stone.”
“Stone?” He gives a burst of laughter.
“Yes, stone. You’ll wake up one day and you’ll be a statue, but you won’t know it.
You’ll be trapped inside yourself.” My voice is wobbling; I’m not sure why. It’s nothing to me
whether he turns into a statue or not.
Sam is eyeing me warily.
“Poppy, I“ve no idea what you’re talking about. But we have to put this on pause. I have
stuff I need to do.” His phone buzzes and he lifts it to his ear. “Hey, Vicks. You made it. OK, on
my way.”
“I know you’re dealing with a crisis.” I grab his arm fiercely. “But there’s an old man
waiting to hear from you, Sam. Longing to hear from you. For only five minutes. And you know
what? I envy you.”
Sam exhales sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Poppy, you’ve got this all wrong.”
“Have I?” I stare up at him, feeling all my buried emotions starting to bubble. “I just wish
I had your chance. To see my dad. You don’t know how lucky you are. That’s all.”
A tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away brusquely.
Sam is silent. He puts his phone away and faces me square-on. When he speaks, his voice
is gentle.
“Listen, Poppy. I can understand how you feel. I don’t mean to trivialize family
relationships. I have a very good relationship with my father, and I see him whenever I can. But
it’s not that easy, bearing in mind that he lives in Hong Kong.”
I gasp with horror. Are they so out of touch? Did he not even know his father had moved
back to this country?
“Sam!” My words tumble out. “You don’t understand! He’s moved back. He lives in
Hampshire! He sent you an email. He wanted to see you. Don’t you read anything?”
Sam throws back his head and roars with laughter, and I stare at him, affronted.
“OK,” he says at last, wiping his eyes. “Let’s start from the begi
straight. You’re talking about the email from David Robinson, right?”
“No, I’m not! I’m talking about the one from—”
I break off midstream, suddenly uncertain. Robinson? Robinson? I grab my phone and
check the email address: [email protected] /* */
I just assumed he was David Roxton. It seemed obvious he was David Roxton.
“Contrary to your assumptions, I did read that email,” Sam is saying. “And I chose to
ignore it. Believe me, David Robinson is not my father.”
“But he called himself Dad.” I’m totally bewildered. “That’s what he wrote. Dad. Is he
… your stepdad? Your halfdad?”
“He’s not my dad in any shape or form,” says Sam patiently. “If you must know, when I
was at college I hung out with a group of guys. He was one of them. David Andrew Daniel
Robinson. D.A.D. Robinson. We called him Dad. OK? Got it, finally?”
He starts walking toward the hotel as though the subject is closed, but I’m rooted to the
spot, my mind flitting around in shock. I can’t get over this. Dad isn’t Sam’s dad? Dad is a
friend? How was I supposed to know that? People shouldn’t be allowed to sign themselves as
Dad unless they are your dad. It should be the law.
I’ve never felt so stupid in all my life.
Except … Except. As I’m standing there, I can’t help replaying all David Robinson’s
emails in my head.
It’s been a long time. I think of you often… . Did you ever get any of my phone
messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow… . As I said, there is something I’d love to