As his eyes settled on the headline displayed on the screen, he felt that grip tighten.

SIX

Sarah Truman spat a lug of mouthwash into the sink and wiped its residue from her lips. The taste was harsh – antiseptic – but much preferable to what it had replaced.

‘Shit,’ she said aloud, placing the mouthwash bottle down and reviewing her reflection in the ladies’ room mirror.

The face that looked back at her gave no indication of the nausea she felt. Her stomach was still turning, threatening to send her rushing back to the vacant toilet cubicle. But thankfully her discomfort was invisible. Her hair was still in place; her make-up the very definition of professional.

She could not explain how, but it was a win. She would take it.

Maybe we can pull this off. If I can just keep the rest of my damn dinner down . . .

One more breath – deep and long. The nausea was going nowhere. That much was clear. But she would not let it affect her work. Not here. And especially not now.

She took one last look in the mirror as she steeled herself to leave, physically shaking her head, shoulders and arms in an exaggerated, prolonged shudder.

She spotted a few last drops of mouthwash at the bottom of its plastic bottle.

Can’t hurt, she thought.

Sarah took a slug, swirled it around her mouth and spat it into the last of the row of sinks as she strode towards the restroom door.

‘Are you OK?’ Nathan Benson sounded concerned as Sarah rejoined him. ‘You ran off a bit quick.’

‘I’m fine.’

The impatience in Sarah’s tone was unmissable, even to her. Harsh enough that Benson instinctively straightened his back in response. Like a military brat brought to attention.

He doesn’t deserve that, Sarah thought, noticing his reaction. Cut him some slack.

‘Look, just, er, just ignore that. Ignore me. I felt a little queasy, that’s all.’

Benson visibly relaxed, the tense moment over.

He had been Sarah’s regular cameraman for almost a year and she knew that he counted himself lucky. Because Sarah’s was a career in a million. Just twenty-nine years of age, she was the Senior Home News correspondent for the UK’s Independent Television News – second to only the BBC in size and coverage – and already far ahead of any other reporter of their generation. Benson’s career could only benefit from their connection but, like anyone, he deserved respect. And that was exactly what Sarah gave him.

She looked around the large, plain room. Row after row of makeshift seating was occupied, each and every chair taken by reporters she recognised. But Benson had ignored the seating, as every other camera operator had done. Instead they had all positioned their recording equipment in front of it, for a clear, unobstructed view of the long table now set up at the front of the room.

‘Sorry I couldn’t save you a chair,’ he whispered as he made final adjustments to his camera. He looked behind them. ‘I think there are still a few at the back.’