‘You’ve been hired primarily to write women’s interest stories, Tallis,’ Roger had said after a few months, when she enquired, as politely as possible, why he always rejected her ideas. ‘Any other junior would give their right arm to cover Ladies’ Day at Ascot or the Chelsea ruddy Flower Show, but you’re always pushing for something else. Don’t be so bloody serious.’

Sylvia thought he’d missed the point on purpose. She didn’t have a problem writing for the women’s pages, but it was archaic to assume this meant covering only fashion, flowers and celebrities. She admired Valerie for having moved the conversation on in her decade-long tenure as the so-called ‘Queen’ of the paper, writing in her witty, biting way about once-taboo subjects including infidelity, sexual satisfaction and domestic sluttery. But Sylvia didn’t want to write about any of that, either. She wanted to write about the big political and social issues that impacted women’s lives. Issues she, as a woman, was interested in. With her Switzerland idea she’d thought she had a good chance – yes it was serious, but what could be more female-focused than a feature about women’s rights? And yet still it didn’t look like Roger was going to budge. Well, neither would she – she wasn’t going to stop pitching features that actually mattered.

‘When’s your own big day, dear?’ Marjorie asked when the interview came to an end, nodding to Sylvia’s hand.

‘Oh, next year some time.’ Sylvia twisted her ring around her finger. ‘We haven’t fixed a date yet.’ She’d be happy with a registry office and a Marks & Spencer dress, but Jim wouldn’t hear of it. You only get married once; it’s got to be a big bash. At least that meant he’d help organise the silly thing.

‘Well, we wish you all the luck in the world,’ Marjorie said. She patted Victor’s knee. ‘You’re going to need it.’

‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘Can I use your bathroom before I go?’

The toilet lid had an avocado-green shagpile cover; the loo roll was hidden under the voluminous skirt of a plastic doll. Sylvia peed, wiped, stood up. The smell of air freshener was cloying. She washed her hands and steadied herself against the sink as another wave of nausea hit her, sweat beading on her forehead. Oh God, no. She lifted the toilet lid again and promptly threw up.

It had to be last night’s prawns. She hurried back to the office, stopping only in the chemist to get some paracetamol. It took her a few minutes to find the right section. Shampoos. Deodorants. Sanitary products. Her mind paused, discarding a thought as lightly as it landed in her head.