My father was a fisherman. He couldn't read very well. But he had one rule about money, and he drilled it into me from the age of six.

“Write everything down, maid. Everything. Who said what. When. If it's not written down, it didn't happen.”

Fifteen years as a bookkeeper made it a habit I couldn't break.

So from the very first phone call with Martin Kerr, I wrote everything down.

After every call, I wrote a note in a hardback notebook. The date. The time. Who was on the call. Exactly what was said.

I saved every email. I printed every letter. I kept every invoice and every payment slip.

And after the third phone call where Martin said something he wouldn't put in an email, I started recording our calls. For my own records. It's perfectly legal, if it's your own conversation.

I kept it all in a big blue box file on the shelf in my office. By the end of the second year, I needed a second blue box.

My staff teased me about it.

“Ellie and her blue boxes,” they'd say. “What are you going to do, sue the King?”

I'd just smile and write the date at the top of a new page.

Grandma Polly had her recipe card. I had my blue box.