He dropped his hands with a sigh. ‘Are you cross with me?’

‘No!’ She could hardly be cross with him when her lips were throbbing from his kiss. ‘I liked it. I’ve never been kissed like that before.’ She blushed, embarrassed at how naive she sounded, but the hungry look on Tim’s face reassured her. She was already anticipating the possibility of more.

He smiled softly, took a strand of her hair and carefully tucked it behind her ear, brushing her cheekbone with his fingers. ‘I care very much about you, Anastasia. But we need to keep this secret.’

‘I won’t tell anyone. I swear.’

GRACE

Monday, 23 April 2018

THE OFFICES OF FINANCIAL LOGISTICS ARE OFF Fenchurch Street. The lane is so narrow that I have to leave the Vespa on the main road, and I don’t get much of an impression of the building as I approach, just my reflection in the glass wall. I enter through revolving doors into a cavernous space and walk up to a shiny desk manned by three receptionists. It’s an old-fashioned concern dressed in sparkly new clothes. They moved to this building a year ago, but Nick preferred the familiar scruffier offices down the road.

I head over to the desk because I’ve been clocked by the security guard, his attention drawn by my shifty behaviour. I place my helmet on the polished glass surface and ask for Angus Moody. I am still fuming. I understood the message behind the standard format. Let’s draw a tidy line and move on. Well, I am not a tidy person.

The receptionist studies her monitor. ‘Do you have a meeting? I don’t have a note of it.’

I feign surprise that she could possibly doubt me. ‘Yes, I do. One thirty.’

‘I’ll call his PA,’ she says. ‘She’ll be able to help you.’

That’s the last thing I want. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I say, maintaining my professional demeanour. ‘I’ll give him a call.’ I turn on my heel, trying for an air of offended aplomb and march to the revolving doors. As I go out a group of men and women come in, so I keep going round, following them back inside and trying to camouflage myself in their midst. The security guard isn’t fooled and eyes me with hostility, moving forward as I hurry to the lifts. As luck would have it, one set of doors sweeps open and I dart in, cramming myself into the corner. The group get in with me, the doors closing before the guard can reach them, and the last thing I see is him glaring at me and lifting his walkie-talkie to his mouth.

I scrutinize the brushed-steel buttons. Someone presses five, someone else presses eleven.

‘Oh damn,’ I say. ‘She told me which floor Angus Moody is on, but it’s gone out of my head.’

‘Fourteen,’ someone says, and presses that button.