‘I’ve had a hunch I can identify the lover, but I need to see the pictures to be sure. Can I come over?’

‘I’m heading over to Burma Road now. I’ll be late for the Lobby if I wait. So will you,’ he reminds me.

‘Not going today. Could you fax the pictures over?’ He hesitates. ‘I promise, I’m not going to nick the story. A deal’s a deal. If you send them now, we may even get the scoop tonight.’

‘What’s your number?’

I triple check the fax number as I read it off my business card. It is the very last thing I want going to Lorimer’s machine by mistake. As soon as I reach the FC’s offices, I tear upstairs to my desk. The phone is winking at me, telling me there are messages. I ignore them. I stand by the fax machine, like a dog protecting a bone. I check the paper and make sure the line is working. I have to stop myself from ringing Wilkinson to double-check he has the right number. I haven’t eaten all day and I’m feeling light-headed, not completely present. I think about nipping to the loo for a calming snort, but I don’t dare leave the machine unattended. Let it be him, let it be him, let it be him. Prayer said, the machine talks in its alien squeak with the one half a mile away and the roller begins to crank. Three pieces of shiny grisaille spew from the machine. They are blurrier than the originals, but clear enough for my purpose.

I am too anxious and excited. I take them back to my desk and lay them out on the desk. There’s Clare. There’s the door opening. And finally, the one I had dismissed: the young man emerging from the front door. North Face jacket, hood pulled up over the head, and Adrian Mole-style spectacles. I would have registered him earlier if I hadn’t been looking for someone else. He looks as he did when I met him in Regent’s Park, when he was jumpy about photographers behind every tree and I thought he was being ridiculous.

Jeremy.

*

Even though I’d guessed, it is still a shock. I sit still, brain frozen, for a few moments.

When I asked him, he flat out denied Kendall was having an affair. I’ve totally misread him, his motives and ambitions. What else has he been holding back?

I dig through my notebook and find his number. I’m about to dial it when my desk phone rings. I want to ignore it, but some habits are ingrained: as a journalist, I have to pick up, just in case it’s a story.