He laughed, faintly sheepish. ‘Well, I’m always open to offers.’ Oh, God, he thought, does that sound desperate? The truth was he had never allied himself with a political party, not because of any determination to remain independent but because politics didn’t interest him. They were talking about an actual job, though, and since he didn’t have one, he had nothing to lose.

‘We thought you must be rather in demand.’

‘I was up at Oxford for an interview. They’ve not got back to me yet.’

This wasn’t a lie, more a creative interpretation of the truth.

She smiled again. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Their loss, I’m sure. I’d be lying if I said we weren’t pleased. Young Muslims willing to work for the Party are a bit thin on the ground right now.’

‘Well, I’m not exactly practising.’

She laughed. ‘Well, I call myself C of E but I can’t remember the last time I went to church. You fit the bill, all right.’

Her enthusiasm put him at ease. ‘Well, you haven’t interviewed me yet. You may think differently afterwards.’

They both laughed politely. She flipped open a file and studied it. ‘So, just to be absolutely clear, you were born in the former Yugoslavia, is that right?’

‘Bosnia. Yes. But I’ve been here since I was five.’

She frowned. ‘You came as a refugee? Gosh, that must have been horrid for you.’

‘Actually, no. I count myself very lucky to be here.’

She sighed. ‘If only more people felt that way.’

The door flew open and a middle-aged man with a florid face and wispy blond hair burst in, a BlackBerry pressed to one ear. Under his arm was a sheaf of papers that looked as if they were about to cascade from their precarious perch.

‘Tell him to do it or he’s fucking out of here today. I don’t care. Well, fuck you too.’

The papers slid to the floor.

‘Fucking arseholes.’

Only then did he become aware of the two of them, watching. ‘Sorry, all.’ He grinned at Sam and thrust out a meaty hand. ‘Derek Farmer. So glad you could come. Boy, do we need someone like you round here.’ His brow furrowed briefly as he peered at Sam. ‘So you are Muslim, right? Or, er . . .’

He frowned at Sam’s linen suit from H&M. Pippa studied her nails.

‘I am, but I’m under cover.’

They all laughed – a little too long. But for the first time in a while Sam felt as if he was capable of making an impact. ‘But to answer you properly, yes, I am a Muslim. Born and bred.’

‘But not about to . . .’ Farmer made a gesture as if something was about to explode from his chest.

Sam was mystified. He glanced at Pippa who was looking the other way.

‘Oh, y’know. Kaboom!’