I release my breath. After the excitement, reality hits. The security guard will by now have asked the receptionist who I’d wanted to see and will have relayed that message upstairs. Someone will be waiting for me. My stomach rumbles loudly, demanding lunch, and everyone pretends not to have noticed. I watch the numbers rise, then on impulse get out at the eleventh floor.

‘You wanted fourteen,’ the helpful man says. ‘This is eleven.’

‘I need the exercise,’ I say with a smile, as the doors close again.

I find the door to the stairwell and walk up three flights to the top floor, inch open the door and peer out. There are two people conferring outside the lifts. The security guard and Phillipa. I wait until they step forward, the lift door opening, and then I dart out and walk down the carpeted corridor, spot the ladies’ room and go in. I count to ten then open the door a crack. There’s no one there. I hurry down the corridor, noting the portraits hanging on the walls, the dark-grey carpeting, the masculine feel of the place. I knock twice at Angus Moody’s door, a loud, confident rap and turn the handle before anyone inside has a chance to respond.

Moody is on his phone. He watches me walk in and carries on with his conversation. He shows no surprise, so he must have been warned. I stand in front of his desk, feeling like an idiot, revved up and deprived of my moment.

He finishes his call. There’s a knock and Phillipa comes in, looking flustered, but Angus waves her away. He waits until the door is closed, then smiles at me.

‘What can I do for you, Grace?’ His voice is suave, unflustered, reminding me of Douglas.

I have no preamble, no way of working up to what I need to say, so I dive right in.

‘Nick has worked for you for years. What were you thinking?’ To my horror, tears well in my eyes. I swipe them away. ‘Do you have no feelings? He’s missing; he could be hurt, or sick or worse. I’m going out of my mind with worry, and you send this. It’s a standard letter, for God’s sake.’ I fumble clumsily in my bag, pull out my phone, make sure the letter is on the screen and place it on the desk in front of him, push it closer with the tips of my fingers.

He runs his eye over its contents. ‘Take a seat.’

‘I don’t want to sit down. I want an apology and a retraction.’

‘Sit, Grace.’ His voice is kind, but firm. ‘Please,’ he adds.

I feel like a surly schoolgirl, but I do sit, perched on the edge of a leather chair. His manner is soothing, avuncular.