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aggression.
    Jazz's desk was opposite Maddie's; Mark sat in the far corner of the room facing them both. There was an empty desk opposite Miranda, but Mark had astutely chosen not to sit there when he joined almost a year ago. Jazz could see why. Miranda was about as interesting as varicose veins, although not quite as attractive. Over the past few months Jazz had begun to get the oddest feeling that she was being watched whenever things went quiet in Mark's corner. And his bolshie outbursts had grown more and more unpredictable. She hoped to God he wasn't starting to fancy her. She tried not to think about it. Just like she tried not to think about the depths to which her principles had sunk.
    When she'd started at Hoorah! it had been one of a dying breed, a magazine that was interested in the higher qualities of life; relationships that lasted instead of those that collapsed spectacularly, people who were an inspiration, not an example. Unfortunately the readers were leaving in their thousands. 'Nice' just wasn't a seller any more. People wanted short, they wanted snappy, they wanted dirt. Agatha Miller was brought in as the new Editor and she changed everything. Hoorah! became Hoorah! the women's magazine with a difference – the difference being that it had readers. The writing style went downmarket, the morals stooped, the storylines stooped lower still and the circulation hit the roof. Jazz found herself working on a trashy women's magazine instead of the last remaining decent one.
    Agatha had brought with her a few colleagues from her previous magazine and Mark was one of them. Thankfully though, Agatha had liked Jazz's column and hadn't wanted it changed too much. Just a few more exclamation marks – known in the business as screamers – put in here and there to alert readers to the fact that they had just read a joke. Each screamer cut Jazz like a knife, but she was grateful that her column hadn't been axed completely.
    'Oh look, another one bites the dust,' said Maddie happily. She read out the first few paragraphs in the tabloid she was holding about another highly regarded columnist's descent into infamy. His skeletons had finally struggled out of the cupboard after years of being locked away in the dark. It was always the same. After this gleeful character assassination, no one would ever read his criticisms of others, his comments on the world and his observations of human nature, without thinking, You're a fine one to talk. However brilliant he was. And this one was brilliant.
    Jazz was eternally grateful that her personal life was so straightforward. She had a family that would make the Waltons look like the Kennedys, and a track record that was neat and uncomplicated. She knew it had to stay that way. You couldn't be respected as one of society's critics if you stepped off the straight and narrow yourself. Society loved to hate a hypocrite. Especially a famous one.
    She sighed a deep sigh. She just couldn't start her column. The longer it took to get going, the worse the column was. Why couldn't she focus her mind?
    There was a squeal from the corner of the open-plan office, followed by some raucous laughter.
    'Listen to this, it's priceless . . .'
    It was Sandra, the agony aunt, reading another of her letters out to the eager office. Usually Jazz would tune in, but with a monumental effort she stared at her screen. Focus, focus, focus. She spread her fingers out on the keyboard as if about to plunge into a piano concerto . . . and stared hard at the blank screen. She started her favourite daydream puzzler, wondering which Baldwin brother she'd most like to get stuck in a lift with.
    Her machine bleeped. Excellent, an e-mail. She scanned her messages. The one at the top said Stop Press. She double-clicked it.
    AARRGGH!! I've worked out how to use the e-mail. I'm so excited, I can't write any more.
    Write back NOW. My address is Maureen-Harris @loughborough.co.uk. But if you ever call me Maureen to my face