She risked a glance up – he was still on the bloody phone. Another glance at the clock: she had to leave in four minutes or she’d miss her train. Why didn’t he finish the call, which should have been over twenty minutes ago, and go to his appointment that she knew he had in the diary at somewhere across the other side of town? Then she could get out of here. Becky was very aware some very difficult questions would be asked of her if Terence knew she’d spent several hours over the last few weeks not in the office, not doing her designated work, but doing her own rooting around.

She suddenly realized she was being watched. Piers, the other graduate, the one who was wealthy, who’d had no need of a scholarship, who’d been to Oxford. The one who was also going for the job of reporter, currently the only job opening at the newspaper. He always came to work in an impeccably crisp white shirt, which seemed to make his black skin glow with determination and superiority. He was looking at her quizzically and she forced a nonchalant, chin-on-hand perusal of her screen.

Hurry up! Hurry up! The clock ticked over another minute, the hand literally shuddering as it landed on the next black line. And then, miraculously, Terence put down the phone. Part of her worried he was so late he’d changed his plans, but he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and came haring out with a brief ‘Got that research yet?’

‘On it,’ answered Becky immediately. ‘Be ready by end of today.’

And then he was gone. She gave him two minutes – it was all she could allow – then casually picked up her rucksack from under her desk, with her things already packed away inside.

‘Going somewhere?’

She looked up to see Piers hulking over her desk. She couldn’t afford to wait, to pretend to be going to the toilet, she just didn’t have the time.

‘Only you seem to be leaving the office early.’

‘None of your business,’ she said as she stood. ‘And I suggest you keep it zipped if you know what’s good for you.’

‘Feisty! I like that in a lady.’

‘Not got time for this, Piers.’

‘Hey, liking the dress,’ he said as Darcy, the young PA, approached in a fitted red number.

She blushed and held out a Post-it. ‘Phone number you were after.’

‘Thanks.’ Piers beamed at her and she blushed again, looking over her shoulder at him as she made her way back to her desk.

Becky ignored them both and made her escape.

Careful, careful, don’t run any lights, she thought, pulling up quickly at a junction where the traffic lights had just turned red. Cycling in London was precarious enough without taking any stupid risks. She could still make it, if the light changed this side of Friday, and then it did, and she was the first away. Cars quickly flew past her and in another five minutes she turned into Victoria station. Three minutes to buzz her travel card and jump on the train – which she just managed as the platform dispatch guy blew his whistle. She was on!