‘Of course, you didn’t know. I never told anyone.’ She stares up at the windows. ‘I didn’t want them to think that I wasn’t serious about the job. That I would simply skip off one day to be married…’ Her shoulders droop.

‘You’re still marrying him, then? Christie?’ He looks at her hand. She is not wearing the diamond ring.

‘It’s in my pocket,’ she says, flexing her fingers. ‘The diamond the size of an egg. I don’t know whether I’m marrying him or not. But at least I have my job here.’

‘Well, with any luck, Pickford’ll give you something more than the women’s page to work on.’

‘I doubt that. He doesn’t think much of my work.’

Jimmy does not contradict her but grapples with the typewriter again. ‘I should go. I have a new office to find my way around. And this thing is bloody heavy.’

‘Will there be more of it, do you think? More about Ralph?’

‘I don’t know. I think the Express is done with it, but others will likely follow.’ He gives her a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, really. Not about Christie. Just sorry that you’re caught up in it. You’re a nice girl – and not a bad reporter. I hope everything works out well for you.’

‘Thank you. You, too. It’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? A job at a national newspaper? I hope that it really is all you’ve worked for.’

He nods. ‘So do I.’

‘Mr Pickford was asking for you.’ One of the younger reporters – Harriet has yet to learn his name – passes her on the stairs to the main hall.

‘Thank you.’ It is as Jimmy told her. Pickford will offer her more work, better work. This is what she wanted. She knows it now. Her stomach tenses as she climbs. Hang Ralph and the wedding.

She crosses the floor of the reporters’ hall, oblivious to the noise and the fog of smoke. Mr Pickford’s door is open. He sits at his desk, reading and smoking, and waves her in. The Daily Express lies, tossed in front of him, on top of all the nationals. Ralph’s name jumps out at her. She stands, clutching her handbag, trying to ignore it.

He rests the half-smoked cigarette on the edge of his ashtray and gestures to a chair opposite him. ‘Why don’t you sit down? You look as though you need to.’

‘Thank you.’

He sits watching her for a moment, before reaching again for the cigarette. ‘I’ve decided,’ he says, ‘that your place is at home with your family.’

‘At home?’

‘You have matters to attend to. This’ – he waves a hand over the Express – ‘will need your time. Mr Christie. I understand that you are engaged to be married to the man.’

She does not know what to say.