“How long will that take? What will that achieve?” Vicks puts a hand to her head. “Sam, these are grave accusations. They have no substance. Unless we find some solid proof …”
“So we stand back. We wash our hands. They win.” Sam’s voice is calm, but I can tell he’s simmering with rage.
“The techies are still investigating in London.” Vicks sounds weary. “But unless they find proof …” She glances at her watch. “It’s coming up to nine. Jesus. We have no time, Sam.”
“Let me speak to them.”
“OK.” She sighs. “Not here. We’ve moved to a bigger room with a Skype screen.”
“Right. Let’s go.”
They both start walking briskly along, and I follow, not sure if I should or not. Sam looks so preoccupied, I don’t dare utter a sound. Vicks leads us through a ballroom filled with banqueting tables, into the lobby, past the bar …
Has he forgotten about David Robinson?
“Sam,” I mutter hastily. “Wait! Don’t go near the bar; we should go a different way—”
“Sam!” A throaty voice hails us. “There you are!”
My heart freezes in horror. That must be him. That’s David Robinson. That guy with curly, receding dark hair and a pale-gray metallic suit, which he’s accessorized with a black shirt and white leather tie. He’s striding toward us with a massive beam on his fleshy face and a whiskey in his hand.
“Been far, far too long!” He envelops Sam in a bear hug. “What can I get you, my old mucker? Or is it all on the house? In which case, mine’s a double!” He gives a high-pitched laugh that makes me cringe.
I glance desperately at Sam’s tight face.
“Who’s this?” says Vicks, looking astonished.
“Long story. College friend.”
“I know all Sam’s secrets!” David Robinson bangs Sam on the back. “You want me to dish the dirt, cross my hand with a fifty. Only joking! I’ll take a twenty!” He roars with laughter again.
This is officially unbearable.
“Sam.” Vicks can barely conceal her impatience. “We have to go.”
“Go?” David Robinson makes a mock stagger backward. “Go? When I’ve only just arrived?”
“David.” Sam’s politeness is so chill I want to shiver. “Sorry about this. Change of schedule. I’ll try to catch up with you later.”
“After I’ve driven for forty minutes?” David shakes his head in a pantomime of disappointment. “Can’t even spare ten minutes for your old mate. What am I supposed to do, drink here on my own?”
I’m feeling worse and worse. I’ve totally landed Sam in this. I have to do something about it.
“I’ll have a drink with you!” I chime in hurriedly. “Sam, you go. I’ll entertain David. I’m Poppy Wyatt, hi!” I thrust my hand out and try not to wince at his clammy touch. “Go.” I meet eyes with Sam. “Go on.”
“OK.” Sam hesitates a moment, then nods. “Thanks. Use the company tab.” Already he and Vicks are hurrying away.
“Well!” David seems a bit unsure how to react. “That’s a fine thing! Some people get a bit too big for their boots, if you ask me.”
“He’s very busy at the moment,” I say apologetically. “I mean really busy.”
“So where do you fit in? Sam’s PA?”
“Not exactly. I’ve kind of been helping Sam out. Unofficially.”
“Unofficially.” David gives a great big wink. “Say no more. All on expenses. Got to look kosher.”
OK, now I get it: This man is a nightmare. No wonder Sam spends his life avoiding him.
“Would you like another drink?” I say as charmingly as I can. “And then maybe you could tell me what you do. Sam said you were an investor? In … fitness equipment?”
David scowls and drains his glass. “I was in that line for a while. Too much health and safety, that’s the problem with that game. Too many inspectors. Too many namby-pamby rules. Another double whiskey, if you’re buying.”
I order the whiskey and a large glass of wine for myself, rigid with mortification. I still can’t believe how wrong I called this. I am never interfering in anyone’s emails ever, ever again.
“And after fitness equipment?” I prompt him. “What did you do then?”
“Well.” David Robinson leans back and cracks his knuckles. “Then I went down the self-tanning route….”
Half an hour later, my mind is numbed. Is there any business this man hasn’t been in? Each story seems to follow the same pattern. The same phrases have been rolled out every time. Unique opportunity, I mean, unique, Poppy … serious investment … on the brink … megabucks, I mean, megabucks, Poppy … events outside my control … damn stupid banks … shortsighted investors … bloody regulation …
There’s been no sign of Sam. No sign of Vicks. Nothing in my phone. I’m almost beside myself with tension, wondering what’s going on. Meanwhile, David has sunk two whiskeys, torn into three packets of crisps, and is now scooping up a dish of hummus with taco chips.
“Interested in children’s entertainment, are you, Poppy?” he suddenly says.
Why would I be interested in children’s entertainment?
“Not really,” I say politely, but he ignores me. He’s produced a brown furry animal glove puppet from his briefcase and is dancing it round the table.
“Mr. Wombat. Goes down a storm with the kids. Want to have a go?”
No, I do not want to have a go. But, in the interests of keeping the conversation going, I shrug. “OK.”
I have no idea what to do with a glove puppet, but David seems galvanized as soon as I have it on my hand.
“You’re a natural! You take these along to a kids’ party, playground, whatever, they fly. And the beauty is the profit margin. Poppy, you would not believe it.” He smacks the table. “Plus, it’s flexible. You can sell them around your daytime job. I’ll show you the whole kit….” He reaches into his briefcase again and produces a plastic folder.
I stare at him in bewilderment. What does he mean, sell them? He surely doesn’t mean …
“Have I spelled your name right?” He looks up from writing on the folder, and I gape at it. Why is he writing my name on the front of a folder entitled Mr. Wombat Official Franchise Agreement?
“What you’d do is take a small consignment at first. Say … a hundred units.” He waves a hand airily. “You’ll sell that in a day, easy. Especially with our new free gift, Mr. Magical.” He places a plastic wizard on the table and twinkles at me. “The next step is the exciting one. Recruitment!”
“Stop!” I rip the glove puppet off. “I don’t want to sell glove puppets! I’m not doing this!”
David doesn’t even seem to hear me. “Like I say, it’s totally flexible. It’s all profit, direct to you, into your pocket—”
“I don’t want any profit in my pocket!” I lean across the bar table. “I don’t want to join! Thanks anyway!” For good measure I take his pen and cross through Poppy Wyatt on the folder, and David flinches as though I’ve wounded him.