Even so, the story in the Sun is a good one. They’ve tracked down Pamela Carter’s elderly mother. An exclusive interview and never-before-published photographs of the family. The headline is in bold and reads, I’D HANG HER TOO, a reference to the Justice Secretary’s faux pas. I start to read the story. Second paragraph:

She might be my granddaughter but she deserves to die for what she did.

Strong, emotive words, propelling the national conversation onwards. It makes our splash calling for Heathcote’s resignation seem weak and out of date.

I make my way to the bar for another round of drinks, wondering if Maureen Connolly still works here, but there’s no sign of her. It’s more crowded now, women in sparkly dresses and overstuffed men in suits, a rowdy sales team spilling out of their Christmas get-together.

One of them – a younger man, all slicked-back hair and attitude – stumbles drunkenly into my shoulder, knocking me off balance and making me drop my purse.

‘Be careful,’ I say.

‘Someone pushed me,’ he says, leaning against the bar. His eyes are unfocused but he looks me up and down, and a sneer distorts his face. ‘I wouldn’t touch you by choice.’

Although I’m used to the disdain of strangers, especially men, each word is a barb, scratching the thin membrane of my confidence. My instinct is to hide away, to shield myself from his aggressive posturing, but instead I say, ‘That’s not necessary.’

And then he’s in my face, pushing his breath into mine. ‘Yes. It is. Fat bitch.’

Before I have a chance to react, Lawrie and the Daily Telegraph reporter are by my side, warning him to back off. The man puffs out his chest, as if he’s considering taking them both on, but then raises his palms in submission and walks off. I flick two fingers at his retreating back.

I order our drinks and Lawrie carries them back to the table. It’s just the two of us now. The other reporters are deep in conversation. One or two have slipped off to bed, ready for tomorrow’s early start.

Lawrie hands me my beer and sits down next to me. ‘We have to tell Colin about your connection to the Carter sisters.’

‘What? No, we can’t.’ My words are a hiss. ‘I told you that in confidence.’

‘Come on, Brin.’ He leans into me, a gentle nudge. ‘You must see what an amazing story it is. It would do wonders for your profile. Name in lights, and all that.’

How can I explain that I don’t want a profile? I’ve never been the sort of journalist who hankers after fame. I like people and their stories. Nothing more, nothing less.

Lawrie’s eyes are brown and flecked with gold. His leg is touching mine. It’s distracting. ‘We’re in the shit,’ he says. ‘We haven’t got anything else.’