‘And this is Casey.’ Dash had waved a careless hand.

‘I can be invisible,’ Casey said. ‘I promise. I can do investigations. I’d be good.’

‘You can’t cross the room without starting a riot.’ Dash was smiling at the junior reporter.

‘I could serve you breakfast, and you wouldn’t notice’ – insisting, half-joking.

‘Casey,’ the news editor had bawled just then. ‘I need that bloody research for PMQs right fucking now.’

And Dash and Miranda had smiled at Casey, and her nerve.

The next morning, Dash had taken Miranda to the Wolseley. Introducing her to the newspaper’s owners, over smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Their new trophy, all polished up.

At the end of the meal, the owners swept off to another meeting. Dash and Miranda had been waiting for the receipt, because journalists always get the receipt.

‘Hope you enjoyed your breakfast, sir’ – a laugh in the voice.

They’d looked up, startled, and it was Casey, in the black and white Wolseley uniform. With the smart tie, and half the staff grinning across the restaurant.

Afterwards, Miranda had laughed aloud, walking through the early morning, down Piccadilly. And after that, she had believed in her. Put her faith, such as it was, in Casey.

And then a few months ago, Hessa had joined the team. One of the most junior reporters at the Post. Shy, at first. But that same determination they both recognised.

Miranda looked round the little room, and smiled.

They worked into the early evening, and finally Miranda looked at her watch.

‘I have to leave,’ she said, although she often worked until midnight, a modern Cinderella.

‘Go home,’ said Casey. ‘And you too, Hessa. I know you were on an early shift today.’

‘A little bit longer. I’ve just got a couple more things to do.’

‘Fine,’ Casey sighed. ‘I’ll go and get us another coffee.’

‘It’s my turn.’ Hessa made to stand.

‘I need the walk.’

‘How is the Manchester project coming along?’ asked Miranda as she packed up her bag.

‘Slowly,’ said Casey. ‘Not the most exciting to be honest.’

‘Keep plugging at it.’

‘Course.’

Waving at the room, Miranda headed out. A few minutes later, Casey stood, stretched and began to walk across the office. It was mostly empty now, the night news editor alone at his desk. The light on the coffee machine was flashing: empty.

Casey wandered through the doors, down the escalator, past the security barrier: out to the coffee shop, those familiar steps, day after day.

But this time, a surprise.

Cressida, standing in the bright lights of the foyer, hesitating in her high heels. The sleek fashion editor looked oddly unsure of herself, wavering to and fro. In one hand, she was clutching a carrier bag: black with long silk ribbons. When she saw Casey, she made as if to move towards the exit, heels clicking on the grey marble floor.

‘Cressida?’