She stands, helps Cecily into the shop and then gazes out at the street for a moment. She watches the greengrocer opposite, who has returned to hauling crates of vegetables into his shop, closing up for the afternoon.

It was the same woman that the shop girl at Hartleys had described to her, she is sure of it. Not that she was wearing mink today. A beautiful coat of mid-blue wool – a copy of a Poiret by the look of it, probably stolen – and a matching cloche hat. She was holding a cream-coloured glove in one hand. Dark hair, black, cut short, and red lips. Young. It had to be the same person.

Again, she sees the girl’s face, staring at her from the car, daring her to stare back.

She had looked exhilarated by it all.

When had she, Harriet, last felt exhilarated by life? When Mr Pickford agreed to take her on at the Gazette? When Ralph proposed to her? When the war ended? She cannot now recall a single moment that would cause her face to look like that.

It would be wonderful to feel something. To feel alive.

She reaches inside her handbag for her notebook and enters Mr Enderby’s shop.

6

6

Wednesday afternoon

Harriet does not wait for the porter to open the doors to the newspaper office. She pushes her shoulder against the door herself and hurries into the foyer. The doorman apologises, but she waves away his concern as she hurries up the wide marble stairs to the reporters’ hall.

She nearly crashes into Jimmy Cartwright, one of Mr Pickford’s favoured news gatherers.

‘What’s the hurry?’ He pretends to dust himself down.

Jimmy is one of the few reporters who will pass the time of day with her – unless he has his head bent to the typewriter or is running out to pick up a story. Like most of the younger men, he has lately returned from France. He bears no obvious physical injury that she can see, but she has learned that this means very little. For some, the scars are hidden or embedded deep inside their heads.

‘I have a story, Jimmy. A good one. I’ve just witnessed a theft, no, a robbery, at a jewellery store. Quite violent. I need to tell Mr Pickford.’

‘Hey, slow down,’ he laughs. ‘Good for you. The old man’s in his office.’ He checks the clock on the wall. ‘He’s just returned from lunch. Meeting with the subeditor in half an hour.’

‘Come with me?’ she asks. ‘Please? He likes you. If he thinks you’re involved, he’ll listen. Otherwise, he’ll just ignore me.’

Harriet is already halfway across the room to the editor’s office. It is as noisy as usual in the hall as the men smoke and talk loudly, even as they type. None of them takes any notice of her.