I worked on that pitch for six weeks. Evenings. Weekends. Two in the morning.

I went home to Gateshead and filmed the factory workers on my phone. Old Mavis, who'd been packing biscuits since 1979. Young Liam, an apprentice engineer, whose great-grandad had worked there in the war.

My mum sent me a box of old photos. Dad on his first day, aged nineteen, in a white hat. Dad holding me as a baby at the factory family day. Dad on his last day, with a cake shaped like a Digestive.

I put them all in the presentation.

Olivia was meant to be my co-presenter. Graham insisted. “It's good for you two to work together,” he said.

She didn't do much. But she did offer to help a lot.

“Let me check your slides, Becca. Just to make sure the fonts are on brand.”

“Let me have a look at the final version. A second pair of eyes.”

“Where are you saving it? Just so I know.”

I told her. It was a shared drive. Everyone on the team could see it.

I didn't think anything of it.

I should have.