I thought that, at last, I had got my life into some semblance of order. I had a job I loved and I was pushing forwards after the break-up with Miles.

Outside, the gulls were cackling and hovering and the waters of Silver Ness shimmered, oblivious to the turmoil taking place just yards away.

I felt as though I had taken several positive steps towards the future, only to be turned around and ordered back to the starting line.

Goodness knows how I was going to struggle through the rest of the day.

There was an odd, resentful heaviness in the air for the remainder of the afternoon.

Frances slung on her suit jacket and went out to cover a council planning meeting, while I bashed out an advertising feature for a local bathroom company.

Frances was wearing her guilt like a chain around her neck. She persisted in giving me charged looks whilst still in the office and then couldn’t escape to that council meeting fast enough.

Doug, meanwhile, was like a pale, sour imitation of his former self. No dry wit about the day’s news headlines or crisp observations about our politicians. He just stalked about like a preoccupied Scottish Jack Nicholson, lost in his own world.

My emotions were skittering from one extreme, fired-up sensation to the next. Fury and anger zoomed towards cold, hard reality. Doug had taken on the arduous task of trying to save the paper, failed, and the weight of not succeeding was pressing down on him.

It wasn’t his fault. He had tried his best to salvage the paper’s future – and ours. I just wish he had told Frances and me from the start. Perhaps we could have helped. But from what Doug had said, the decisions over our futures had been made months ago, while the three of us continued to provide a much-needed service to our local community in ignorant, innocent bliss.

I stopped typing, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

My stomach rushed to the floor with the finality of it all. I looked from my PC to Doug’s paper-stacked desk. Oh God. I was going to be unemployed.

I couldn’t wait to finish work for the day.

Five o’clock hauled itself around.

Doug had told Frances not to bother returning to the office after the council meeting.

I slid into my quilted coat and scooped up my bag. Doug was staring into the middle-distance, struggling to come back from wherever he was. “You coming?”

He fired out his legs. “Not yet. I want to get the editing finished on that pottery man piece Frances wrote for next week’s edition.”

He looked shattered; defeated even. His shoulders slumped under his shirt.