Sylvia looked down at her notes. ‘Yes, a woman named Evelyne Buchs. She’s part of a campaign group out in Lausanne, in the French-speaking part. They’re very active. She’s already agreed to talk to me.’ She’d come across the woman’s name when she was scouring the paper’s cuttings library for a spark of an idea, something to finally make Roger give her a damn break. Tucked away in the World News section of an edition from the previous summer had been a small article about an event in Geneva for International Women’s Year 1975, and Sylvia’s attention had been caught by the passionate words of one of the attendees, a young radical Swiss feminist called Evelyne Buchs.

Roger blew a long plume of smoke up to the ceiling where it joined the cloud that was a permanent fixture in this room. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Tallis. There could be a decent story in it, but I’m not sure the budget will stretch to sending you out there.’

She swallowed down a knee-jerk reaction. Was he joking? It was common knowledge that the paper wasn’t short of a bob or two. Max had only recently come back from the Winter Olympics in Innsbruck. Marnie had spent a week in Italy last October following around Elio Fiorucci for a profile piece in the fashion pages, coming back with a new calf’s skin handbag and a tan. And she knew the rumours about how much they’d offered veteran war reporter Ellis to poach him from Reuters last year. They could damn well afford a return flight to Switzerland and some meagre expenses.

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Max said. Her head flicked in his direction and he gave her an encouraging smile, though she caught a hint of mischief in his eyes as he continued. ‘You know, comparing the situation of Swiss women with what’s happened over here in recent years. Are British women really better off with this whole liberation thing?’

‘That wasn’t exactly the angle I was going for,’ she said, careful to keep her voice even. ‘I want to explore why Swiss women still haven’t achieved the same legal rights as us on abortion, on maternity leave, on discrimination and equal pay, why their society is holding back and what they’re doing to change it.’ If she could only stop the waves of sickness washing over her, she’d be arguing this a lot better.

‘But isn’t this all a bit… political for the women’s pages?’ Clive waved his hand in the air as if brushing it all away. Sylvia saw, with some satisfaction, that his jowls wobbled as he did so. ‘I mean, sex tips and clothes and… menstruation,’ he almost whispered the word, ‘that’s what our female readers want to hear about, not all this vulgar bra-waving. We’re not the bloody Guardian.’