‘The reason we give for the old kind of IVF being so expensive is the equipment cost. We could make a good comparison: old stuff – ten grand; new tubes – 50p.’

‘We don’t have that, just the total that’s in the headline; but Naomi wrote it. I’ll give her a call.’ Typing only left-handed as he tried to make effortlessly comprehensible a sentence that began, ‘Lenders participating in the new scheme, though many on the old scheme have an entitlement to ascribe a percentage…’ Jeremy curled the fingers of his right under the hollow black handset and flicked it the half-inch up into his palm. As he wedged it between jaw and shoulder, the chief bounded up and demanded, his voice like an over-tightened string, ‘Who are you calling, darling?’

Jeremy: ‘Naomi, she wrote this health piece. We’re trying to get a breakdown of costs for this new IVF.’

Max: ‘But we won’t hold the page for it.’

Jeremy was already scrolling down the spreadsheet of reporters’ numbers. The chief said, ‘Naomi loves getting called. That’s why her copy’s always so shit. She’s sitting at home just waiting for you to call her. But don’t expect any answers we can actually use.’

Max wished the chief would fuck off and let his pod work. But the chief was already saying, ‘These bombers are going to get two clear spreads.’

Jez: ‘Two? How’re we going to fill them?’

Max did not let show whether or not he thought that might be difficult.

The chief said: ‘Two, Jez, and if you’d rather have some peace, you should have closed your eyes and let us get exploded.’

Naomi picked up and Jez, about to say that that was not the point, said, ‘Hi Naomi, it’s Jeremy from the subs’ desk.’

The chief turned from him and said, ‘Max, since you know the story and are sitting next to Jez, you can sub the splash.’

‘Am I going to personally sub both spreads or is anyone else in the mood to contribute?’

‘Just the news story. We’ll portion out the other bits. Do you need help with your pages?’

Max, of course, said no.

‘Good, because it’s all change. Where’s your flatplan?’

The sheet was on the desk under Max’s elbow, the pairs of rectangles that denoted his pages already annotated. The chief bent over it. Jeremy was saying, ‘But where do these figures come from? Is this just promotion from the people who invented it?’ The chief said, ‘The prognosticating parrot is moving to thirteen, in bold. The Bulgarian who robbed the blind woman is going on – is that not done yet? Who’s got it?’

Rosie piped up before she could be named, rushing out her defence. ‘I’ve called the reporter a few times but she just isn’t picking up. I gave the query to Newsdesk and they’re trying to find out.’