Kate reached over to take the top CV off the pile.

‘Wrong bit of paper,’ said Greg, wagging his finger, and he handed her the gin-tasting menu instead. ‘If we’re going to get through these, we need sustenance.’

She smiled. They were in a quiet bar just around the corner from the Vietnamese he’d taken her to and their visit had coincided with gin-tasting night.

‘Leather and raspberry?’ Kate marvelled. ‘Are they having a laugh?’

As Greg ordered two leather gins from a young waistcoat-clad bartender, Kate took in her surroundings. The bar had the feel of an atrium, with floor-to-ceiling windows and skylights. Moroccan-patterned tiles in shades of chocolate and orange covered the floor and the room was awash with green palms in copper pots. It was unlike anywhere she’d ever been before. The cocktails arrived in elegant martini glasses carried on a silver tray by the waistcoated bartender.

She took a sip. It was sublime. Kate got a sense of her world opening up. Who knew leather could taste so awesome? Who knew people made drinks like this? For that matter, who knew bars like this existed?

‘Wow.’

‘I’ll second that,’ said Greg, placing his glass down. ‘Before we start, I just wanted to apologize. If I offended Tim the other week, I certainly didn’t mean to.’

Embarrassed, Kate brushed it off. ‘It’s fine. He’s fine.’ She could sense him checking her, making sure he hadn’t caused any harm.

‘Nice guy,’ he said.

‘He is. You married?’

‘Divorced.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Don’t be. She found someone who works less. I now get to work more without worrying about leaving her. Win-win.’ He handed her half the papers. ‘Let’s go through a pile each and highlight the ones we think shine. Just to recap, what are we looking for?’

‘A passion for journalism,’ said Kate. ‘Dedication and genuine need.’

‘OK.’

She looked down at the first sheet. ‘Blimey . . .’

‘What?’

‘This person . . . Andrew . . . has written, “I am bilingual in three languages.”’

‘No . . .’ Greg said, laughing.

‘“Current salary: thirty-four thousand. Salary desired: two hundred and fifty thousand.” It’s not a job! Have they not read the ad properly?’

‘It appears not.’ Greg cleared a space on the table. ‘Reject pile?’

She nodded and picked up another CV. ‘“I think I will make a good journalist as I am quick with typing. Thirty wpm or fifty wpm with an espresso.”’ She flicked further down the page. ‘“I am drawn to investigative journalism by my love of finding out what the latest fashion trends are worn by celebrities.” No. No, no, no!’

‘My turn,’ said Greg. ‘“My dream is to be an astronaut but as I have absolutely no chance of this happening, I’m seeking a career as a journalist instead.”’

Kate groaned. ‘Who are all these people?’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll improve. Go on. Turn the next one over.’

She picked up the next application. ‘Gillian Harris, aged twenty-one. Graduating from Sheffield University this year. On target for a first-class honours degree in Journalism.’