Her maudlin thoughts were interrupted by a familiar face, bleary with drink. Stewart Grant had been one of her fellow reporters on the Daily Nation in London years before. A diehard misogynist, Grant had been one of those who had exploited her grief at Frances’ death in a series of supposedly innocent remarks whose barbs twisted like fish hooks in her stomach. Even before then, she’d never liked him. But his behavior when she’d been at her most vulnerable had turned dislike to contempt in a handful of sentences.

“Hey, if it’s not Lindsay Gordon, come back to lord it over us. You’ve got some nerve, lady,” he slurred.

“As usual, Stewart, you make as much sense as a square toilet seat. Go away and bother somebody else, eh?”

He giggled, a high, edgy sound. “Cannae face the truth, eh?” He turned back to face the room. “Hey, guys, come and see this. It’s no’ often you get a chance to see one of the rats that deserted the sinking ship. They’re usually running too damn fast. Get a load of this.” He turned back to Lindsay and leered. “You always did wish they all could be California girls, didn’t you? Mind you, I cannae imagine them going for the likes of Flash Gordon. A wee bit more taste they’ve got over there, I’d say.”

“Do us all a favor, Stewart. Go and find a tall building and jump off.” She got to her feet and tried to push past him, but she was too late. A handful of his cronies had moved forward to form a tight ring around her.

“D’you know the boys, Flash?” Stewart demanded. “All real journalists. None of your equality reps here, eh, boys?” There was a chorus of “no way”s. “Naw, we get out there at the rock face and do the business. Out there, stitching up the punters, shafting the oppos, getting stuck into the real job. But you couldnae hack it, could you, Flash? Naw, it all got too much for you. You had to go running off with your tail between your legs to the soft life in the States.”

“Not that we’ve got anything against America,” one of the other drunken Scots piped up. Lindsay vaguely remembered the face. He’d been a reporter with the Glasgow Tribune when she’d worked for the Scottish Daily Clarion.

“Of course not,” another added. Lindsay recognized Chic McBain, a down-table sub-editor on the Clarion. “Some of my best pals work in America now. You know why that is, don’t you Flash? It’s because there’s no jobs here for them. And do you know why that is, Flash Gordon?”

“I’m sure you’re going to give me the version according to macho man,” Lindsay said wearily, “so why don’t I just shut up and save time?”