Page 91 of The One That I Want

‘Sort of… Oh, Poppy,somuch has happened since I spoke to you last. And the date with Harrison is the least of it.’

‘What’s going on?’ she asks, her tone serious.

I explain about the suspected mole atNouveauand the possible implications.

‘I might be able to help with that,’ she says when I finish.

‘How?’

‘Our agency has this primo investigator – total gun. If anyone can track down the leak, she can. And as this issue is case-adjacent, I can probably secure her services through the agency. I’d have to run it past my bosses, of course, but do you want me to try?’

‘Er… maybe? I’m not sure Anjali will agree – this is really aNouveaumatter.’

‘Leave it with me,’ she says cryptically.

‘Okay,’ I say, feeling unable refuse Poppy’s offer. Fingers crossed it all works out.

I turn and lean against the back of the sofa, catching my breath.

This is the strangest Sunday morning I’ve ever had – well, second strangest. There was that Sunday that Tiggy and I missed the 5a.m. ferry off Phangan Island in Thailand after the Full Moon Party and ended up onboard a Greek billionaire’s yacht.

The memory brings a smile to my face, a reminder that I used to be a lot more fun than I am now.

24

POPPY

Several calls later – madeandreceived – Marie is officially on the case, and I have permission to accompany her to theNouveaumeeting. I’m having to abandon my Sunday-picnic-in-the-park plans with Tristan (boo), but he sends me off with a kiss and a wave of Saffron’s (indifferent) paw.

Outside our building, I only wait a minute or two before the town car pulls up and I slide into the backseat.

‘Hi, Carl,’ I say to the driver as I buckle my seatbelt.

‘Hello, Ms Dean.’

‘Are we picking up Ms Maillot or is she meeting us there?’ I ask.

‘Paul’s collecting her, and we’ll meet them there.’

‘Great, thanks.’ It was sheer luck that Marie is in London today –andavailable this afternoon. No wonder the agency pays her the big bucks – she’s ostensibly at our beck and call.

When we pull up atNouveauon the Strand a short while later, Marie is waiting outside dressed, as always, in head-to-toe black leather despite the warm weather, and drawing deeply from a cigarette – lit this time. As I approach, she takes a final drag then puts it out with the heel of her boot and reaches downfor the butt so she can toss it in the nearest bin. She may be a chain smoker, but at least she doesn’t litter.

She gives me her typical perfunctory greeting and we head towards the main doors, having been told a security guard is expecting us and will let us in.

‘Poppy!’ I turn around and Greta is running towards us.

‘Hi, Greta,’ I say as she joins us, a little out of breath. ‘This is Marie Maillot, the agency’s investigator. Marie, our client, Greta Davies.’

‘Allô.’

‘Hello.’

‘I’ve already briefed Marie,’ I tell Greta, ‘and if you like, I’m happy to make the introductions when we get inside.’

‘Right, yes,’ she says, but even though her breathing has steadied, she’s clearly still flustered.

Greta, who’s known to the security guard, leads us into the building and in the lift, I hear her muttering to herself, some kind of affirmation. By the time we reach the correct floor, she’s added bouncing on her toes to her repertoire of nerves.

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