Olivia left Fletcher & Rowe that afternoon. Graham didn't sack her in front of everyone. He let her resign quietly. I was glad. She'd been humiliated enough.

At six o'clock, Graham called me into his office.

He looked about ten years older than he had that morning.

“Becca,” he said. “I owe you an apology. A very big one.”

“Graham—”

“No. Let me say it.” He took off his glasses. “On Friday, you told me you didn't delete that file. I didn't believe you. I believed Olivia, because I've known her since she was a baby. And because some part of me still thinks of you as the girl at the reception desk.”

He shook his head.

“Ten years. You've never once let this agency down. Not once. And the first time something went wrong, I decided it must be your fault.”

He slid a piece of paper across his desk.

It was a contract. Creative Director. Becca Hughes.

“If you'll still have it,” he said.

I looked at it for a long moment.

“One condition,” I said.

“Anything.”

“Kevin gets a pay rise. And a new chair. His one's held together with tape.”

Graham laughed for the first time all day.

“Done,” he said.