Michael walked towards Sarah as he spoke, grabbing her hand as Sinatra kicked the song up a gear and into the chorus.

‘I’ve been a puppet . . .’ he sang as he pulled her close, his soft Belfast accent more pronounced than when he spoke ‘. . . a pauper, a pirate, a poet . . .’

‘Where do you get the energy?’ Sarah asked as Michael spun her away, until their hands were barely touching. ‘How are you not exhausted?’

‘. . . I’ve been up and down and over and out . . .’ he continued as he pulled her back in, stopping only to kiss her as she spun back into his arms.

For a moment she allowed herself to get carried away, to forget the worries that had been preoccupying her all day. But a lurch in her stomach brought her back to reality. The knowledge of what might be forced its way back to the front of her mind.

Sarah stepped back, pushing Michael off.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his expression concerned.

‘I’m just not feeling too great,’ Sarah explained. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Michael stepped back as he spoke, but stayed close enough to place the back of his hand on Sarah’s forehead. ‘What is it? You’re not hot.’

‘Not hot?’ Sarah laughed. Michael’s instinctive kindness had calmed her. ‘You didn’t think that a second ago.’

‘Very funny. And a damn sight too quick for a sick person. I’m starting to think you’re not ill at all. That you’re just not that into me.’

‘You’re safe on that front and you know it,’ Sarah replied. She looked past Michael, towards the large kitchen island and the eight-ring range cooker beyond it. ‘What are you making?’

Michael glanced behind, as if to remind himself.

‘Hungarian goulash,’ Michael replied. ‘But it won’t be ready for another half hour. Like I said, I thought you’d be later than this, what with the plane crash and Dale Victor and all that.’

‘Nothing to keep me busy now the big news is out there.’

Sarah climbed into a tall chair that sat against the kitchen island and rested her elbows on the unit’s marble top.

‘Besides, I’ll be lucky if I even get to keep the story after missing the Dale Victor element.’

‘What? Why? How were you to know about Victor?’

‘Chris Parker knew,’ Sarah replied. Parker was the Sky News journalist who had asked the key question. ‘I should have had a source, too.’

‘Oh, come on. That’s a bit much. You can’t have a source for every occasion. And it’s not like anyone else did. From what I saw on the TV, Parker was the only one there with even a hint about Victor being on that plane.’

‘Maybe.’ Sarah was not convinced. And it was not the point. She knew she was off her game. But she couldn’t tell Michael why. Not until she knew for sure. ‘But even so, I should have been ready for a follow-up question. Instead of trying not to throw up all over Heathrow.’