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  Slowly, tranquilly, the evening works into us like a sensual massage. We talk more and more gently with each other about nothing of any importance except shared experience. As we pass seasonings and wine across the table our fingers touch without design at first, later more deliberately, lingering. Afterwards, the last of the wine is drunk on the sofa, Sam relaxing against my chest, letting me caress and play lightly with her hair.

  At last she turns to face me, studies me with softened eyes, then stretches to brush my lips with hers. I settle lower into the bed of the sofa, bringing her to me, breathing in her scent, kissing her under her chin, then back to her lips, which she parts to allow our first French kiss since...

  I don’t mean our sex to become so urgent, but it does. It’s the hardness of her nipple that excites me when I find it with my hand stealing up beneath her top and under her satin cup. It presses against my palm as our tongues wrestle. My maleness gathers and hunts. Both hands move to her waist and upward, taking top and bra in one smooth movement over her head and arms. Sam giggles at the pinging of her fasteners as they fly apart, a reassurance that this is all OK, and as I tear off my own tee shirt she drops back to the sofa, her back arching slightly, her pink breasts firming and her chest muscles stretched across her ribs.

  My hand goes back to fondling one breast while I take her untouched left nipple into my mouth, lapping and sucking as if I might find milk there. Her liquid, though, is further down, and soon I’m peeling off her jeans and knickers in search of it. I’m too thirsty for patient foreplay, but Sam is excited, ready. I bathe my face in her wetness and dig with my tongue for more. It finds a rhythm at her clitoris, and Sam, engorged, starts to pant with pleasure, stiffening me near to bursting point as I free myself from my pants, pushing and kicking them away from my ankles.

  “Yes, now,” she gasps, legs wide, and I raise myself taut to enter her. Smoothly in, oh, counting in my mind to keep the rhythm and divert me from coming too soon. My fingers stroke her wet clitoris till Sam’s hand reaches down to entangle with mine, then take over so I can lever myself onto both arms and ride her fully, matching rhythms as her fingers flutter under me. I lick sweat from her breasts and suck at her nipples then up to the lobe of an ear just as her mouth stretches wider, her chin jerks back as if for air and she wails, “Yes, oh, yes, yes, yes.” Her pelvis lifts as I fuck and I erupt into her, flowing thickly through her shudders. Yes, oh, yes.

  The waves subside and still. My boat at anchor in her safe harbour, my body sunk into hers. I’m spent. My right hand glides down over her breast, her flat stomach, her hip bone, to hold her bum cheek gently, and feel our dampness at my finger ends.

  “Wham bam, thank you, Sam,” I whisper at her ear.

  Sam says something I can’t quite catch. I lift myself up to look at her face, her closed eyes. “Sorry, darl?”

  She opens her eyes, looks away from me. “I said, was Anji better than this?”

  “No, don’t...” I sink down onto her shoulder. “Please don’t.” I nuzzle into her hair, and we lie for many minutes without speaking, though I can feel the slow trickle of Sam’s tears on my cheek.

  XIII

  As we walk together into Reception I spot the significant glance that passes between Carol and Julie at the desk, and I don’t imagine it’s an unspoken comment on my new hairstyle. To remove any doubt from their minds I let my hand linger just for a second on Sam’s tidy bum as she steps over to the visitors’ chairs while I wait to tell them who we’ve come to see, and immediately regret the gesture, remembering how I’ve been badmouthed for lechery by certain of the station staff.

  “Hi Julie, Meg Reece is expecting me,” I say, trying to shrug off self-consciousness.

  “Yeah, she said to tell you go straight up. I like your hair, Marc.”

  “Nice,” Carol agrees from behind the switchboard. Perhaps my stock has risen in my absence.

  “Thanks. We’re to go straight up, Sam,” catching her before she gets seated.

  “Are you sure you want me to go in with you? It’s you she’s asked to see, not both of us.”

  “I want you to, please.”

  On this occasion Meg Reece is in her own office, so she can’t play the queen bee quite as grandly as she did in Neville’s big chair, waited on by his PA. No HR police with her either. The coffee she offers us is from a filter jug by her desk, where it’s been standing all morning judging by its acrid taste. Meg, by contrast, is mild with the essence of smoothness.

  “I must say, Marc, your little holiday seems to have done you good. Never seen you looking so fit. New hairstyle as well – we’re going to have to update your mug shots.”

  “I’m still on the books, then?”

  “Naturally. The whole idea was you should lie low while that Hassan nonsense was sorted out. It’s all blown over now, so, welcome back, basically.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Sam, sitting quietly in the background, then turn my attention back to Meg. “It’s not as simple as that, though, is it? For one thing you’ve handed my show to Simon Barnes. I’m not prepared to start back on some graveyard slot.”

  “Of course not. Obviously we want you to return to Nightwatch.”

  “It’s not called Nightwatch.”

  “Whatever. The Marc Niven Show. That’s exactly what it is. To be perfectly honest, the feedback we’ve had on Simon has not been one hundred percent. Not really his forte as it turns out, so he’ll be reverting. Useful experiment, though. Thanks for being understanding about it.”

  It’s typical of Meg to rewrite the music to suit the beat of her own drum, but I’m not prepared to fall in line so easily. “Fact is, Meg, I wasn’t understanding about it. You kicked me in the nuts, threw me out effectively, not to mention questioning my professionalism and practically accusing me of sexual assault...” I catch Meg’s glance at Sam and say, “Sorry, Sam, but I’m not going to be pissed on and then helped to my feet. I want an official apology.”

  Meg is staying uncharacteristically calm. “Marc, this is water under the bridge...”

  “It might be water under your bridge, but it isn’t under mine. I want an apology.”

  “OK. I’m sorry.”

  “In writing.”

  “I’ll... write you a letter if that’s what you want.”

  “Not to me. I want you to write a letter to the staff, making it clear that any imputations that have been circulating against me are entirely unfounded and that you take full responsibility for any misunderstanding. In other words, hold your hands up to it, your fault.” I’ve had two days to think about my terms for coming back, so I’ve got them off pat, and to be truthful it’s been my plan to have Sam witness my wiping the floor with Meg Reece.

  Meg sits back in her chair. Her outer calm is cracking under the strain of keeping her fury suppressed, but she manages to say with an effort, “Fine, fine. I’ll have that done for you.” Desperate to reassert her authority, she adds, “ In return I need you to be ready to hit the ground running immediately after this weekend. Agreed?”

  “No.”

  Meg’s exasperation is boiling over. She flexes her fingers across her desk as if she’s considering strangulation. She dips her head, either counting to ten or preparing to hurl herself at me, and I take the opportunity for a surreptitious wink at Sam before I say, “There’s one more thing.”

  “Is there?” Meg is curt now.

  “I don’t believe that, in the circumstances, I can continue to work alongside Marni. Seems to me you could shift her to another slot and...” here’s where I’m to play my trump card, “Ask Sam very nicely if she’d like her old job back.” I sit back, and grin cheerfully at Sam. “That’s why I asked you to come in with me,” I say, quite the dog’s bollocks.

  We have a few moments of silence. Meg reflecting on my ultimatum. Sam hasn’t reacted, but I guess she’s playing it poker face, waiting on Meg to show. Eventually she does, addressing Sam. “I take it you haven’t discussed this?”

  “No.”


  “Should you tell him or me?”

  Sam shrugs her shoulders. “Carry on.” I’m baffled by this exchange. What’s going on here?

  Meg swivels in her chair to confront me. “First, I can tell you that Marni has already left. By mutual consent. She was on a three month probation, but quite frankly I think her shortcomings were obvious to all concerned, including herself. Nice enough girl, but... Let’s say she was a bit lacking in organisational skills. As far as a replacement...” Her eyes shift past me.

  I’m beginning to get the picture. I cut through Meg’s speech and say directly to Sam, “So, you didn’t just drop in here last week. Did they make you an offer you couldn’t refuse? Is that the real reason you were back in town?”

  “Not at all,” Sam says, shaking her head.

  Meg comes in. “It was a complete coincidence, actually. On Friday I heard Sam was downstairs with Debbie, so I asked her if she’d come up and have a chat.”

  “And you gave her her old job back?”

  “Broached the subject, yes, but she wouldn’t confirm. Not right then.” Meg swivels her chair towards Sam. “The offer’s still open, as discussed.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you,” says Sam, looking at me. For a moment I’m confused, thinking she’s talking to me direct, then I realise she’s responding to Meg. It’s Sam that has her by the short and curlies, not me. She’s the one that’s calling the shots.

  “So why didn’t you mention it to me?” I’m moaning as we drink a more palatable coffee in the Eldon Arms.

  “I was going to, but things got in the way. Anyway, you said you wouldn’t accept working for them anymore.”

  “Not without certain conditions. And one of those conditions, no, the condition, was that they had to beg you to come and make the old team up.”

  “Which, by the way, you neglected to mention to me.”

  “I didn’t neglect to mention it, I just wanted to surprise you. Well, impress you. Please you.” I reach out my hand and I’m thrilled that she accepts it, if a shade reluctantly, holding it lightly as we continue talking. “I realise I’m still on trial with you.”

  “You’re not on trial. There’s no three month probation.”

  Her remark lightens the mood, recalling the meeting with Meg, which we’d come to from such different perspectives. Sam starts tracing the lines of my veins on the back of my hand as I say, “Fact is, you were the one giving Meg the ultimatum. That’s why she had me in.”

  “No, don’t be daft, she knew they’d made a balls-up over your suspension. Julie on Reception told me there’s been a lot of listeners making a fuss, asking where you’ve got to. As far as my job is concerned, the only thing I did say to Meg was that I wouldn’t consider coming back unless you were definitely committed to hosting the show.”

  “You said that last Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why didn’t you accept it today? Have you changed your mind in the meantime?”

  “No.” She pulls at my hand. “Stop beating yourself up. Just, I wanted to talk it over with you first. We need to be sure this is what we both want to do.”

  “Start again, you mean?”

  “Yep.”

  “In every respect?”

  She hesitates. “Yes.” Then, “I haven’t stopped loving you, even while I’ve hated you – that’s what’s made it so much worse. I’m still not sure I like you very much at the moment. I’m working on it.”

  “So am I. I mean, working on me. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to keep saying that. Just show by the things you do. Including telling me if I disappoint you, or piss you off sometimes, like I do with you. It’s about being honest with each other.”

  “’Course.”

  She lets go of my hand to finish her coffee. I sit back and look around, hoping there are people in who know us, who can see we’re together again.

  “What time are you expected at Amina’s house?”

  “Oh, two o’ clock.” Looking at my watch. “I’ll have to go in a minute, actually.” (I’m early but I have to factor in meeting up with Ollie.) “Should I drop you off at the flat?”

  “Well, I thought I might go with you if that’s all right.”

  This I hadn’t allowed for. “Oh, well, I don’t know...”

  “I was thinking, if the idea of meeting this woman is to find out more about her, maybe that’s something another woman would find it easier to do.”

  “I suppose...”

  “I could be your partner, couldn’t I, come up from Liverpool to look at this place we’re thinking of buying?”

  “Yeah... that makes sense. Only...”

  “What? Are you frightened I blow it?”

  “’Course not.”

  “What’s the problem, then?” She screws up her face. “There’s something you’re not telling me about this. What have I just said about being honest with each other?”

  “Straight up guv, you’ve got me bang to rights.” The mockney impression is my poor attempt to deflect her, but Sam’s not to be budged. She watches me seriously, waiting for an explanation. “The thing is, the truth is, I think there’s a slight risk involved. That’s why I’m not so keen for you to come along.”

  “What do you mean, what sort of risk?”

  I present Sam with a version of my suspicions of the link between Hassan and Emmanuel, hiding the truth about my run-ins with Emmanuel before the escape attempt, pretending instead that I’d met Norman Tait while I was casing the hospital layout and he’d told me about the comings and goings on the night of Hassan’s accident. (At least that last bit was true.) I go over with Sam the clues that have led me to believe that 110 Prince Albert Road might have been another base for the sex traffickers, maybe right up to the time that my gaffe and Simon’s stupidity had brought unwanted attention to the address.

  “So you’re intending to go round to this place, knowing full well that the man who’s been chasing you could be waiting?”

  “I think the chances of him being there are so remote that it’s worth the risk. Besides, there’s no reason for Emmanuel to make the connection between the guy who ran away with Edona and the guy who’s interested in buying Amina’s house. Plus, I’ll have somebody watching the place, just as a bit of extra insurance.”

  “Who?”

  “Oliver Dunn.”

  Sam looks at me incredulously. “Oliver Dunn? The Oliver Dunn? He’s going to be your lookout? You’re joking, right?”

  “No, honestly, don’t judge the book by the cover. Ollie’s a lot more switched on than you’d think. He’s just there to watch my back, that’s all.”

  “In that case I’m definitely coming with you.”

  Sam’s decision to tag along creates one immediate practical problem, and some discomfort for her. I’d arranged to pick up Oliver outside his house, which was a perfectly reasonable arrangement at the time I thought there’d only be two of us in my car, but with an extra passenger the TT’s ludicrous rear seats – normally folded away – have to be pressed into service. There’s no way that Ollie’s corpulent frame can be squeezed into the tiny space available, so poor Sam has to contort her shapely legs and duck down behind us.

  Ollie is beside himself with glee, not just at the prospect of a secret spying mission, but at discovering Sam is back on the scene. All the way to Springhill Gate he plies her with inappropriate questions about why she left the show and whether she’d be coming back, all of which Sam bats back with tact and charm. By the end of the journey I’m convinced that, while Oliver may have a couple of my signed pictures in his drawer, he probably keeps photos of Sam under his pillow.

  I’ve already staked out a quiet parking place a few streets away from Prince Albert Road and there, having levered Sam out of the back seat, we regroup for a final briefing before sending Ollie ahead of us to commence his lookout duties. He proudly shows us his delivery bag, where he has meticulously stocked enough leaflets for the whole neighbourhood.r />
  “You have remembered to check my number’s in your phone?” Oliver stares at me blankly. “Your phone?” I say again. When we talked on Tuesday night he’d assured me they had a pay-as-you-go mobile phone in the house that he used occasionally. I’d left him a slip of paper with my mobile number on so he could add it into the memory. Unfortunately he’d obviously forgotten to add our conversation into his memory. At my prompting Oliver checks through all the pockets of his waterproof and his trousers. He brings out his digital camera, a relatively clean handkerchief and an opened packet of Polo mints, but no telephone. Bugger.

  “Give him yours,” Sam suggests. “He can always ring me if he needs to tell us anything.”

  I fish out my cell phone and bring up Sam’s number so that Oliver doesn’t have to search for it. “OK, touch nothing else on this and you’ll be able to get straight through to Sam’s mobile if you press that green button. Anything suspicious, anybody you see coming up to the house and you give us a call, OK?”

  “What if we hit trouble inside?” asks Sam. I hadn’t thought that one through. She’s quicker on the uptake. “Listen, Oliver,” she says. “If Marc’s phone rings don’t answer it, but check the screen. If my name comes up on the screen, still don’t answer it, but ring 999 straightaway. Ask for police and tell them there’s big trouble at 110 Prince Albert Road. Is that OK?”