The story carries an ‘exclusive’ tag and there’s a photograph of me, Shannon and Sara when we were about nine and she was seven. My mother must have taken it, although the memories are fuzzy now, like the dust has collected in them.

Sara is wearing a pair of brightly coloured shorts and she’s laughing, her halo of hair bleached a dazzling white by the sun. I’m freckled and, for once, unselfconscious, waving a garden hose with glorious abandon, the water arcing and catching the light. Shannon is crouched in the grass, inspecting something.

We look happy.

The opening paragraph is a classic drop intro:

Our summers were filled with sunshine, but something very dark was happening at Hilltop House.

Wincing at the melodramatic scene-setting – the sub-editor must have got his hands on that – I scan the feature, seeking out a particular paragraph, heart running faster.

As soon as I confirm it hasn’t been edited out, I stop reading, unable to stomach the sight of my half-truths printed in the national press, wishing I hadn’t caved in to pressure from Lawrie and Colin, seduced by the prospect of a splash.

‘Looks great,’ says Lawrie, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, flashing me a grin. ‘Well done.’ Some of the other reporters sit at tables around us, going through the morning’s papers, sussing out the stories their rivals have filed, looking for an angle. Even though most media outlets have an online presence, nothing can replicate the feel of a real newspaper.

‘Dark horse, aren’t you?’ says Russell, the Sun reporter, pulling out a chair and sitting at our table. ‘Any more surprises tomorrow?’

Lawrie raises an eyebrow. ‘If we tell you, we’d have to kill you.’

‘Don’t be a dick,’ says Russell. ‘Obviously, you’ve got something.’ He flicks the newspaper sharply between his hands, clears his throat and reads aloud. ‘Buy tomorrow’s newspaper for more exclusive revelations.’

‘It’s just more of the same,’ I say quickly. ‘A couple of extra photographs, that’s all.’

‘Got any spares you’re not planning to use?’ says Russell.

‘No, mate,’ says Lawrie, and I can tell by the way he says mate that Russell isn’t one at all. Russell’s mobile phone rings and he wanders out of the cafe, a secretive hand covering his mouth. He’s playing the game, being friendly with the opposition but keeping his exclusives to himself. The unspoken rules of Fleet Street engagement.

A couple of other journalists offer their congratulations, but it’s grudging. All of us know that for today, at least, my story is the one to beat. In newsrooms across the capital, editors will be laying on the pressure, urging reporters to up their game. But even though it’s barely 8 a.m., today’s papers are now out of date. Already, the hunger for a fresh exclusive is biting. By tomorrow, I’ll be old news.