Summer stared at Jamal for a long, painful moment before bursting into more laughter, verging on the hysterical this time. ‘I went to drama school. I know nothing about computers. Are you seriously accusing me of being some sort of hacker?’

‘No, but I am accusing you of being a good guesser.’ He looked at me. ‘WeatherGirl1? If you’d told me you had such a stupid password it would’ve made this a lot easier.’

‘I knew it was you!’ I sprang up, every nerve in my body quivering. I didn’t consider myself to be an angry person, but having to deal with this, on top of everything else, the stress and humiliation Summer had put me through… nearly sabotaging the job I loved so much. I was a frothing cauldron of I’m Not Taking Any More of This Crap and on the brink of a full-scale eruption.

Mike was already on the phone to HR. He took one glance at me and ordered Jamal to get me ‘the hell out of here and come straight back’.

I spent the next hour stubbornly getting on with my job, updating the webpages and putting together the daytime bulletins. Mike’s office was the floor below me, so I couldn’t see what was happening or who was going in or out, but neither Summer nor Jamal had returned by the time I finished the lunchtime broadcast.

I was adjusting the graphics for the early evening forecast when Jamal finally appeared, the rest of the newsroom straining their ears towards us while pretending to be engrossed in their tasks.

‘She’s caved.’

A sigh escaped me that I hadn’t realised I’d been holding in for months, and I slumped back into my desk chair, unable to prevent a tear from spilling out. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Is she coming back?’

‘I’ve been asked to take you out for a coffee. By the time we return, Summer Collins will be a bad memory.’

‘I’m not sure I can walk as far as a café.’

‘I’m not carrying you, so you’d better rustle up some of that Bea Armstrong grit.’

‘What Bea Armstrong grit?’ I let out a weak laugh, which was probably his point, and headed out to celebrate my non-resignation with caffeine and a very large piece of carrot cake.

And so, a horrendous morning and nerve-wracking afternoon evolved into a pretty great evening. As soon as the newsreader cued me in, it was impossible to hide the joy at being back, free from the burden caused by Summer’s shenanigans.

‘You should go home more often,’ Mrs Lewinski advised me when she called at six forty-five on the dot. ‘It looks like it’s done you a world of good.’