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“Help me.” I thought he was about to cry and reached out my hand to him. He grasped it in both of his and then began to sob softly. Whilst the journalist in me was keenly aware that I had not yet switched on my tape recorder, the better part of me rejoiced. That omission felt like a victory.
    I said, “I have an idea. Would you like to hear it?”
    Dr Newell looked up. His eyes were rimmed red. He took out his pocket handkerchief and wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
    I said, “We could make the best of the situation. We could reveal now everything that you know is going to come out eventually, the things that I am sure you would prefer remained private, and I could write up my interview from your point of view. I could try to present your story so that you receive the understanding you spoke of. I can’t guarantee anything, but I can promise – and I will keep my promise – that I will write the story in that way.”
    “Give me a moment.” Dr Newell crossed to the telephone and dialled a number. He said, “Darling, it’s not good news. There’s a journalist trying to get hold of you. Try to say nothing. Yes, ofcourse. Don’t you worry now. I’ll see you later.” He replaced the receiver and dialled another number.
    “Geraldine? It’s Trevor. I’m so sorry about all this. I know. I assure you, it’s none of my doing. I’m trying as best I can to retrieve the situation. Have you reached Freddie yet? God, this is a disaster… the press are after him. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Please keep trying. We don’t want a journalist telling him…”
    He paused. I sensed that the person to whom he was speaking was giving him a hard time. He said, “You know, we made a terrible mistake. We should have told him the truth. No, I respected that. No, of course I didn’t want to hurt him. But I do think we made a mistake. I wish you’d told him all those years ago. It would have been better. Of course I’m not blaming you. I’m the one who’s to blame. Look, we’ll get nowhere arguing about it. Please believe that I’m now doing what I can to save the situation, to put things right. Very well. All right. We’ll speak again. Goodbye.” He replaced the receiver and returned to sit opposite me.
    “Very well, Joanna,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”
    I said, “Just before we start, I have to tell you that my way isn’t the way I was briefed, but I’m pretty confident that what I write will be liked and will be published.” Dr Newell nodded his assent.
    It was a strange experience to listen, like a priest in the confessional, to someone revealing the secrets of his life. When Dr Newell had begun his career, everything had seemed set so fair. A double First from Oxford was followed by a PhD in political science and then a professorship. He joined the Civil Service and rose swiftly. He was highly respected in both government and industry.
    Well, that was the outer story. Behind the outer form was the shadow of someone who had aimed high and worked hard but never entirely shaken off the traumas of his youth. Dr Newell came from humble beginnings. He was brought up on a rough council estate in Glasgow, where knife fights and drunken brawls were regular occurrences. His mother had been unwell for most of his childhood and she died of cancer when he was nine. This left him in the care of his violent, alcoholic father. Dr Newell worked hard tomake a life for himself. His diligence and natural brilliance brought him a means of escape – a place at Oxford.
    But, in order to cope with the pressures, he turned to drink – the one thing he had sworn he would never do. He drank secretly, using it as a prop to give him courage and get him through. “I never really admitted to myself how bad it was getting,” he said. “It’s amazing how you can fool yourself when you really want to.” It had taken him years to control his alcoholism and he had been dry for the past ten years.
    In his thirties, soon after joining