Kate sat at the base of the trunk, opened her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. A receipt. She was now the proud owner of two thousand three hundred shares of Fresh Foods plc. She leaned back and looked up; she could see glimpses of the bright-blue spring sky through the green canopy.

‘I did it, Becky,’ she said, holding up the receipt. ‘And not only that, I have an invitation to the AGM.’

Two squirrels chased each other through the branches and a flurry of flowers from the tassel-like catkins landed on her face.

‘Oi! You know how to ruin a moment, don’t you?’ she shouted, then, feeling foolish and wanting to avoid an avalanche of pollen dust, got up.

Heading back to the populated area of the park, she spotted Tim. They’d arranged to meet by the lake after his shift had finished. It was full of boaters as the sun was out and numerous men were showing off their prowess with oars.

‘Here,’ said Kate, passing Tim the paper.

He opened it up and then stopped and pulled her into a hug, pressing her face into his shoulder.

‘I can’t breathe!’ she said, but she was pleased he was so happy.

‘You did it! So . . . what are you going to say?’

‘I’ll tell them who I am . . .’

‘That’ll be a shock.’

‘And then I’ll ask them to do everything they can to make sure it never happens again. Ask them to make changes. Look at all their vehicles and see what it is they need to do. I want them to make a proper project of it.’

‘You sure you don’t want me to come with you? You know, moral support?’

She squeezed his arm. ‘I don’t think it says “plus one” on the invitation.’

‘OK, do your thing. Kick some ass,’ he said, in a terrible American accent.

She laughed. Truth was, she didn’t feel much like an arse-kicker. Kate considered herself street-smart, savvy. She’d had to be, being a single mum in a low-income job. She’d had no one to look out for her and Becky except herself. But now she was nervous. One hurdle had been crossed, another massive one lay ahead. She’d never owned a share in her life. She didn’t know what happened at AGMs. How would she get the bottle to stand up in front of all those people? People who would know instantly that she wasn’t some smart, educated businesswoman. She was a working-class girl who was completely out of her depth.

TEN

Kate gave her name to the young man in the nondescript white shirt and black trousers who stood at the doorway of the conference room in the nondescript hotel near a flyover in West London. She was handed a keypad as he ticked her off. She looked at him blankly. ‘For the voting,’ he explained and then he invited her to enter the room with a wave of his hand.