More than anything, she wanted to be able to tell her mum she’d got the job. She wanted to pay her back for all the sacrifices she’d made.

Becky made herself focus. There was work to do. She needed to get back in touch with Grace, the mother of the twin boys in Ramsbourne. Grace had, quite naturally, been chasing her on the status of the story and Becky knew she had to come clean. It was also only fair that she let Grace – and the others – know what she’d discovered as she’d researched her story. She needed to go and see her.

Becky called Grace’s number and, getting her voicemail, left a message asking if she might be free late the following Monday afternoon – it would be a good time to go to Ramsbourne as Terence was out at a budget meeting.

Turning back to her computer, she tidied up the interview she’d done with the nanny who’d accused the footballer of assaulting her and then sent it to print so she could proofread it. She saw Piers get up from his desk and head towards the printer station on the other side of the office. He gave her a wink as he passed, and she glared at him in return. She wondered how confident he was about his interview – he’d made sure she knew he was up first, ‘always means you make the best, most lasting impression,’ he’d said, which she knew was hardly a scientifically proven fact but nevertheless still rattled her already grated nerves.

‘Printer’s chewed up your docs,’ said Piers as he appeared back at her desk. He flapped around the first page of her article as if in proof.

Becky went to take it from him, but he flicked it out of her reach and glanced down at the text.

‘“She said she didn’t think she’d get the job. There were much better candidates than me”,’ he quoted, laughing, delighted with his wit.

‘Give it here.’

‘But, Ellis, it’s so interesting. So accurate.’

‘Don’t be a dick.’

He grinned, knowing he’d got to her, and dropped the paper, letting it waft slowly down where it skimmed the desk and fell on the floor.

She glared at him, not wanted to grovel around on the carpet.

‘Sorry,’ he said, unexpectedly. ‘Here, I’ll get it, you go and check the jammed doc.’ He bent down and retrieved the paper, glanced at it. Shrugged. ‘Actually, it’s really well written.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘You know why I give you a hard time. You’re the competition. And you’re good.’

Don’t be flattered, don’t be! thought Becky, annoyed. He’s playing you.

‘I know,’ she said imperiously and, head in the air, walked past him, over to the printers, looking for the one with a jam. They all seemed to be working fine. She scouted around the worktops, looking for her article, but couldn’t see it. Darcy, the PA, was standing by the post-out tray, engrossed in something she was reading, and then Becky recognized it. Her article.