‘How do you know what women want, Clive, have you grown breasts?’ Valerie said, and the room descended into titters. Sylvia threw her a grateful glance, but the columnist didn’t return it. She knew better than to presume anything Valerie said came from a place of female solidarity – any support she offered was likely only a by-product of self-interest. ‘However, much as I fail to agree with my esteemed colleague,’ Valerie continued, her eyebrows firing disdain at Clive, ‘I do think Sylvia’s such a little whizz with her regulars and so marvellous at helping the whole team that I’m not sure we can spare her for a foreign trip.’

Little whizz? ‘I can handle this on top, no problem.’ She kept her eyes on Roger, willing him to listen to her. She could see him wavering. He knew it was a good idea. He knew it.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

‘But—’

Roger held up his hand. ‘I said I’ll think about it. Now, Max, did you get anything juicy out of that gay ice dancer in Innsbruck?’

The sickness dogged her all day. It made her head spin when she stood up from her desk. It sat in a dull ache in her stomach as she walked down Fleet Street, the air thick with the metallic tang of exhaust fumes. It made her legs shake as she negotiated the raised walkways of the Barbican, her heels echoing off the concrete walls. She wished she could go back to last night and refuse Jim’s suggestion that they try that new restaurant in Clapham Junction. It occurred to her now that she was likely to see that prawn cocktail again.

‘Tea, dear? You look like you need it,’ Marjorie said.

Sylvia accepted and sunk into the dusty pink velvet of the armchair. The window from the fifth-floor flat looked out over the site where the Barbican Arts Centre was due to emerge, years late and over budget, if the construction workers, so keen on striking, ever finished the job. Ellis was writing a longform piece about that right now – the sort of meaty news feature she could only dream of. Of course, she had done much of the legwork – interviewing contractors, researching background material – but she wouldn’t get a joint byline, not with the famous Ellis Barker, who wouldn’t deign to share the glory with an underling like her.

‘Marjorie makes the best cuppa.’ Victor had crepe-paper skin and oversized ears, but the eyes he fixed on her were surely as bright as they had been half a century ago.