Hartley's left at eleven. Catherine shook my hand at the door and held it for a moment. “Tell your dad,” she said, “that the woman at the top says thank you. For thirty-one years.” At four o'clock that afternoon, Graham's phone rang.

He put it on speaker in the middle of the open-plan office, so everyone could hear. “Graham, it's Catherine Hartley. We've seen four agencies this week. Three of them had beautiful slides. One of them had a packet of biscuits and a whiteboard marker.”

She paused.

“We'd like to give Fletcher & Rowe the account. On one condition. Becca Hughes leads it.” The whole office exploded. People were cheering, clapping, jumping on chairs. Sophie, my best friend in the design team, threw her arms around me and lifted me off the floor. Twenty million pounds. The biggest win in the agency's history.

I rang my dad from the fire escape.

“Dad. We won. Hartley's. We won it.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Did you tell them about the line?” he said finally. His voice was thick. “About Mavis?”

“I told them everything, Dad.”

“That's my girl,” he said.

Through the window, I could see Olivia at her desk. She wasn't cheering. She was looking at her screen, very still.