‘Controversial is one thing. This is entirely another. It’s not even in the same league. The claims this man is making, these wildest of allegations, he’s either insane or he’s on drugs, or both. If we represent this, we’ll be the laughing stock of the trade. It’ll be like that sports presenter fellow who claimed he was the son of Christ on live TV.’

‘And got a lot of publicity out of it, as I recall.’

‘Except this is a thousand times more extreme,’ Seaward protested. ‘Not to mention, it leaves anyone remotely involved with it open to all manner of libel litigation. And we’ve only seen a sample of the manuscript. Who knows what kind of dynamite the finished article might contain?’

‘So what? That’s his business. Anyhow, he’s got enough sense not to bring the book out under his real name. We’re the only ones who’d know his true identity.’

‘All the more reason why we could get our fingers badly burned in this thing. These are powerful people he’s threatening to expose.’

Laverack huffed. ‘The chance of a lifetime and you want to walk away.’

‘I’m sorry, Andrew. I’m just not comfortable with this.’

‘At least take some more time to decide.’

‘We’ve been talking about it for a fortnight. What more is there to say?’

‘Go home tonight and sleep on it. You can do that, can’t you?’

Seaward had finally relented and agreed that he would. ‘But I won’t change my mind.’

And now, sitting here tasting the burn of the Hennessy on his tongue, he still felt the same way. Because how could he not? It was crazy. Seaward wondered out loud, ‘What is he thinking?’

Georgie had heard enough of his one-sided conversation. She laid down her book and fixed him with that ‘firm but kind’ look that she did so well. ‘Roland, you’ve been acting preoccupied all evening. Hardly said a word at dinner. Come to think of it, you haven’t been yourself lately.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘I’ve held my tongue about it until now, but enough is enough. You have to tell me what’s eating you. Out with it.’

‘I had an argument with Andrew,’ he admitted. ‘Over a prospective client.’

‘That’s not like you two. So what is Andrew thinking?’

He blinked. ‘What? … I … no, I don’t mean what’s Andrew thinking. Well, that too. But mainly I meant, what’s the client thinking.’

Georgie asked patiently, ‘So who is the client?’

‘Anthony Abbott. You remember he sent us a submission three weeks ago?’

Georgie nodded. ‘Yes, of course. His political memoir.’ Her job was to take in the submissions, but she seldom read any of them. She had no idea what Abbott’s manuscript actually contained.