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4th Estate An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc in 2015 This eBook edition published by 4th Estate in 2017 Copyright © Elizabeth Day, 2015 Elizabeth Day asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Source ISBN: 9780008221751 Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008221768 Version: 2018-09-26 To Emma – here’s one for the rogue Contents He loved hotels. The warm swish of the automatic doors. The careful neutrality of the carpets, swept with the indentations of that morning’s vacuuming. The bright smile of the receptionist, the way her make-up acted both as deterrent and encouragement. He loved the apples in glass bowls, although he had eaten one once and been disappointed by its mustiness, the slight furry staleness that he can taste – even now – on the back of his tongue. He loved the furtive glances across lobby armchairs, the reassurance of anonymity, the cocoon of safety offered by the standardised semi-luxury of faux leather and freshly spritzed white orchids in pots. He loved the illicit meetings: the flirtations between adulterous couples, the City insider imparting information, the journalist who is talking to a grey man of indistinct appearance, jotting down notes. He loved the hushed business, the suggestive smiles, the fountain pens proffered when he has to tick a box for a morning newspaper or sign for ‘any additional expenses, if you wouldn’t mind, sir’. He loved it all. And today, now, on this particular morning, he can feel a benign calm wash over him with the first step he takes inside the Mayfair Rotunda; with the first slight pressure of the tip of his leather-soled bespoke Church’s shoes on the marbled floor, he senses it. He breathes in an air-conditioned lungful, allows his Italian leather overnight bag to be taken from him by gloved hands, and strides across the floor. ‘Nice
