My name is Becca Hughes. I'm thirty-two, and I'm from Gateshead, just across the river from Newcastle.

Ten years ago, I started at Fletcher & Rowe, an advertising agency in London, as a receptionist. I answered phones, signed for parcels, and made tea for clients. At night, I taught myself design on a second-hand laptop in my tiny shared flat in Lewisham.

After two years, I showed Graham Fletcher, the boss, some of my ideas. He gave me a trial as a junior copywriter. Then a proper job. Then a promotion. Then another.

Now I was a Senior Creative. One step below Creative Director.

And the Creative Director job was open.

There were two people in the running. Me. And Olivia Sinclair.

Olivia had been to Oxford. Her father was a famous film director. Her godfather was Graham Fletcher. She'd joined the agency four years ago, straight into a senior job.

She was talented. I'll say that. She was quick and stylish and very clever.

But she'd never once answered a phone at reception.

And she'd never once let me forget that I had.

“Becca's so good at the practical stuff,” she'd say in meetings, with a sweet smile. “She used to run the post room, you know.”