I can tell, near enough, what time it is just by the light in the room. The balcony faces east, high enough that dawn always hits the little window over the sink, so I know exactly when it’s OK to give up trying to get to sleep. I collect up the clothes I’ve laid out on the table before heading to the shower; in, quick lather, rinse and out.

Amazing they think this stuff actually smells like strawberries, I think while I dress, watching the soap settling back in the bottle resting on the shower dial. The only people who buy it have probably never eaten any. I always used to think it smelled like candyfloss.

Brush through the hair, blot of powder, bit of chapstick, done. Marie’s ready, I think.

Back at the sofa, I neaten everything up: one pillow, then another, then the blanket folded on top. I line the remote control against the corner of the table, make sure the square blanket and oblong pillow are perfectly parallel. Pa-ra-llel. There’s another new journalist word. It used to mean lines, symmetry, maths. Now it means similarities, echoes, comparisons. How can we make this story more relevant, compelling, relatable? Marie, can you find a parallel example? I’m always the one who has to find the parallel example. They’re not hard to find if you know where to look.

This early in the morning, the nine-minute train journey passes almost as soon as it’s started. A quick click-clack along the road and I’m there, through the turnstiles and up the stairs into the newsroom, hanging up my coat and slipping into a seat at the end of the news desk like I’ve been doing this every day of my life, lullaby hum of computers washing through my head.44

‘Marie? Is that you? Good God…’

Blood rushes to my cheeks as I see Olivia Guy striding towards me from the far end of the newsroom. I’m barely on my feet before she pulls up in front of my desk, hand outstretched, billowy silk blouse, massive gold hoops swinging in her ears, jewellery everywhere, all bounce and swish and fanfare. I squirm, brushing non-existent crumbs off my trousers. She looks like she might even say ‘Ta-Dah!’ next.

‘Marie … my word,’ she gabbles, breathy, eyes oversized and twinkling like her earrings. ‘What on earth are you doing here? And this early? I told Jemima and Dominic to take it easy, at least for this morning…’

‘I’d rather—’ I blush harder as she wraps her warm, soft hands around one of mine. How come Olivia, the actual managing editor, suddenly knows my name?