“No,” I said.

They both looked at me.

“Hartley's is coming to hear Made by Hands,” I said. “That's the idea we sent them. That's the idea they liked. I'll present it.”

“With what?” said Olivia. “You've got no slides.”

“I don't need slides. I know every word.”

“Becca,” said Graham, “this is a twenty-million-pound pitch. You can't just stand up and talk.”

“My dad stood on a factory line for thirty-one years,” I said. “He never had slides either.”

I opened my bag. Inside was a packet of Hartley's Digestives. I always carried one. It was a habit from home.

I put the packet in the middle of the boardroom table. Then I picked up a whiteboard marker.

Olivia laughed. “You're going to pitch to Catherine Hartley with a packet of biscuits and a felt-tip pen?”

“Yes,” I said.

Graham looked at the clock. Two minutes to ten.

He closed his eyes for a second.

“God help us,” he said. “Becca leads.”

Olivia's smile didn't move. But her knuckles went white around her memory stick.

The door opened. Catherine Hartley walked in.