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premises Mr McBride was already pacing the car park, furious.
    â€˜I’ve had a call from the proprietor of The Monmouth. He tells me how disappointed he is that a pair from our newspaper tried to blackmail the staff there into giving them a free room for the night. So, whose idea was it?’
    Becky looked at Ian to see if he was going to own up but he said nothing. Mr McBride angrily waved his nephew away and signalled for Becky to follow him. He showed her into his office, sat down and stared at her, unsmilingly.
    â€˜When I call a meeting for all staff I expect all staff to attend.’
    â€˜Sorry?’ said Becky.
    â€˜My ethics meeting – two weeks ago. I assumed you weren’t there because you were ill. Now I’m told you spent that morning nosing around Mr Darnley’s place. So I want to know who authorised you to look for a story concerning him?’
    â€˜No one authorised me, as such,’ said Becky. ‘But Ian –’
    â€˜Did you discuss it with anyone first?’
    â€˜No, I couldn’t. Because Ian –’
    â€˜Your employment is terminated with immediate effect.’
    â€˜You can’t do that,’ Becky blurted out.
    â€˜You’re on probation. So I can.’
    Becky stared at him. She was sure Mr McBride knew who was really to blame.
    He blinked under her gaze. ‘You don’t adhere to the core values of the company and your performance is unsatisfactory.’
    No one had suggested that before but Becky could see there was no point arguing. Mr McBride marched her to her desk, and, humiliatingly, called Patsy over to relieve Becky of her smartphone, laptop, and security pass. Everyone in the vicinity kept their heads down. Becky looked around. There was no sign of Ian, which was probably just as well as she had no idea what shape her fury would take if she saw him.
    For the second time that day Becky was escorted from a site with no opportunity to explain.

Chapter Three
    â€˜Fired?’ said her mother, frowning. Having never really got her head around Becky’s job at the Essex Gleaner , she was now having problems understanding Becky’s sudden loss of it. ‘But why?’
    â€˜I’ve told you why,’ said Becky, wearily. She’d actually toned down the account of her day to say she had refused to go out with the nephew of the editor and they had decided her face didn’t fit. Her mother thought that any non-secretarial office job was straying into dangerous territory and tales of illicitly booked bridal suites and being thrown out of hotels would just consolidate this view.
    Her brother, Joe, was full of impotent indignation on Becky’s behalf. ‘You should take them to court for sexual harassment. You have rights.’
    â€˜Yes, probably. But taking them to a tribunal is not a great start to my career.’
    â€˜Maybe it’s for the best,’ said their mother.
    â€˜How is it for the best?’
    â€˜Well, you know, maybe it was a bit too much for you. You need to find a job that’s a bit more – steady. Forget this writing business.’
    â€˜It’s journalism,’ snapped Becky. ‘And I will get another job.’
    â€˜But you said the job market was even worse than last year.’
    â€˜You don’t have to be so negative, Mum.’
    â€˜I’m just saying.’
    Becky stormed up to her room. What was wrong with their mother? But she recalled her maternal grandparents had been mired in a sort of old-world working-class passivity too. ‘That’s not for the likes of us,’ was a common catchphrase; one that was brought out when the young Becky had expressed an interest in university or even when Joe, in his early teens, had said (hopefully) that he needed satellite TV to watch the football.
    â€˜It’s ridiculous,’ their grandmother had snapped. ‘Working-class people having satellite TV.’ She seemed oblivious to the satellite