'Tall, ginger hair, works at the Daily Courier. Had a thing with Amelia, ages ago.'

'Um.' Lexie picked up the ashtray, then put it down again. 'Sort of.'

'I saw him last night at the French Pub. He's got a job for you.'

Lexie turned. 'A job?' she repeated.

'Yes, a job. You know. Work and pay and all that. Out in the world.' Daphne tapped her ash into the grate. 'It's all arranged. You start on Monday.'

Lexie frowned and tried to think of a reason she couldn't but was unable to come up with one. 'What is the job?' she asked.

'They need a person in Announcements.'

'Announcements?'

'Yes.' Daphne sighed impatiently. 'You know births, deaths and marriages. It's hardly thrilling and you could do it in your sleep but it's better than this.'

'Births, death and marriages,' Lexie repeated.

'Yes. All the important things in life.'

'Why don't you want it?'

Daphne shrugged. 'I'm not sure it's very me Fleet Street and all that.'

'Maybe it's not me either.'

Daphne stood up and brushed down her coat. 'It is,' she said. 'Or it might be. At any rate, it's better than going slowly mad among your blue roses. So. Monday, nine o'clock sharp. Don't be late.' She stood up and grabbed Lexie by the arm. 'Come on, get your coat.'

'Where are we going?'

'Out. You look like you need a square meal. I touched Jimmy for ten bob, so we're in luck. Let's go.'

On Lexie's first day at the Daily Courier she was shown to a desk squeezed in between a larger desk and a set of bookshelves. It was in a small room off a long corridor; the ceiling was low, the floor uneven and a murky window gave a view over a passageway that connected Nash Court with Fleet Street. The whole office had an air of hush, of stasis. There seemed to be hardly anybody about. Had she arrived too early?

She sat at her desk, placing her bag beneath it. The chair was covered with chipped green paint and had one unstable leg. On the desk were a typewriter, a blotting pad and a pair of rusted scissors. Lexie picked these up, opened them, shut them. The blades, at least, were operational. A heap of papers from the neighbouring desk had slumped on to hers. These, she pushed upright, tidying them into a neater pile. She picked up a mug off her desk and peered into its dark depths. A strong smell of coffee rose into her face. She put it down again. There was a note propped on her typewriter, which read, 'Ask Jones abt poss of 2 wks' worth copy.'

At noises in the passageway below, she stood up and went to the window. People were walking in off Fleet Street. She watched them from above and reflected that there was something about the angle that made the tops of their heads, the backs of their necks look vulnerable.

Just before lunch, a man rushed in through the office door. He had greying, wildish hair, an unbuckled raincoat, and he dumped a bursting briefcase on his desk, muttering to himself, then sat down in his chair, reaching for his telephone. 'GEO five six nine one,' he muttered under his breath, and began to dial. Only then did he notice Lexie. 'Oh,' he said, with a start, and let the receiver clatter back into place. 'Who are you?'

'I'm Lexie Sinclair. I'm the new Announcements person. I was told-'

But the man had his face buried in his hands, ranting, 'Oh God, oh God, oh God, will they ever listen to me? I told them, I specifically told them, not another-' He gestured towards Lexie. 'I mean no offence to you, my dear, but really. This won't do. I'll phone Carruthers now.' He snatched up the receiver. 'No, I won't.' He put it down again. 'What shall I do?' He seemed to be asking her. 'Carruthers won't be in yet. Simpson? He might help.'

Lexie stood up and smoothed the scarf covering her hair. 'I wasn't sure where to start,' she said, 'but a sub brought in some proofs earlier, for today's edition, so I marked them up. Here they are.' She handed them to him and he snatched them suspiciously. 'I wasn't entirely sure on the house style,' she continued, 'but I've put a question mark next to anything I wasn't a hundred per cent certain about.'

The man pushed his glasses to the top of his head and perused the proofs, the pages held close to his face. First one, then another, then the third. 'Hmm,' he said to himself. 'Umm.' When he finished the third, he let them fall to his desk. He sat for a moment with his head tipped back, his fingers laced together. 'The Courier doesn't italicise the titles of individual poems,' he said, addressing the ceiling.

'I see.'

'The titles of books, yes, but not individual poems or essays within a collection.'

'My mistake.'

'Where'd you learn to proof-read like that?'

'At . . . my last job.'

'Hmm,' he said again. 'Can you type?'

'Yes.'

'Can you cut copy to fit?'

'Yes.'

'Can you edit copy?'

'I can.'

'Where was this job of yours?'

'It was . . .'here Lexie has to pause '. . . at a magazine.'

'Hmm.' He flung the proofs at her desk. 'You need to initial them,' he said, 'or they'll never find their way back to us.' He fidgeted about with some papers on his desk. He withdrew a pencil from a pot and put it behind his ear. 'Well, don't just sit there, my dear,' he said, suddenly rather peeved, and flapped his hands at her. 'Take them back to the subs. Ring Jones. Find out when he's filing. Go and see if they've set the crossword yet. And your announcements need typing up. I like to have three days' worth at the very least under our belts. And the Country Reflections. Chop, chop, not a moment to lose.'

Lexie spent several months typing out lists of births, details of marriages, those of people's lifespans and descendants and survivors. The addresses of funeral parlours where flowers should be sent. She became adept at wheedling copy out of the recalcitrant Jones, at calming down her boss, Andrew Fuller, when he felt as though he was losing control, when the Country Reflections stockpile dipped below five, at relaying messages from Mrs Fuller about what time dinner would be served in Kennington. She also had to learn ways of sidestepping the attentions of the newspaper's various single men and several of the unsingle ones. She quickly developed a few cast-iron methods of refusing an invitation to lunch, a request to share a pint, an outing to the theatre. Fuller wholeheartedly supported these refusals. He didn't like his assistant distracted. 'Don't come sniffing around here,' he'd shout at a man who'd appeared hopefully in the doorway, brandishing a pair of free tickets or a concert flyer. 'Let the woman work!' She acquired a reputation for being rather serious, distant, aloof. A 'blue stocking', one of her would-be suitors dubbed her, which was the one time she snapped, was ungracious. She would go to the pub at lunchtime with Fuller, or with the editor of the women's section, or with Jimmy. At one time a rumour circulated that she had a thing going with Jimmy, which Jimmy did nothing to quash; the rest of the office didn't know that during their lunches, Lexie counselled Jimmy as to what to do about the engaged girl with whom he was in love. She found the pace of a daily newspaper gratifyingly hectic, soothingly distracting, the way it was an insatiable machine that had to be fed and fed, that as soon as one day's work was done there was no break before you had to start on the next. There were no gaps, no crannies in which she could think or reflect: she simply had to work. The one photograph of her from her early years at the Courier is of a woman in a camel-coloured skirt, sitting on the edge of a desk, frowning at the camera, hair cut short, a particular cashmere scarf around her neck.

It might have continued like this for years had she not, as she thought of it later, given herself away. She was walking back from putting some crossword proofs on the subs' desk when she passed a group of three men talking in the corridor. The deputy editor, the assistant editor and the back-page editor.

'. . . profile possibility,' the back-page editor was saying, 'is Hans Hofmann-'

'Who?' Carruthers, the deputy editor, interrupted.

'Well, quite. To my mind-'

'Bavarian-born abstract impressionist,' Lexie heard herself say to them, 'emigrated to America in the early 1930s. Known not only for being a painter but also a teacher. Students include Lee Krasner, Helen Frankenthaler and Ray Eames.'

The three of them stared at her. The back-page editor went as if to speak but didn't.

'Excuse me,' Lexie muttered, and walked away, and as she did so, she heard Carruthers, whom she knew only by sight, say, 'Well, it looks as if you've found your expert.'

Ten minutes later the back-page editor came to find her. Fuller looked up from the contemplation of his crossword list but didn't yell at him to stop sniffing about.

'Look here,' the back-page editor said, 'you seem to know your stuff about Hofmann. The Tate have just bought two of his pictures. Can you let me have a thousand words by tomorrow? Don't worry too much about style just the facts would be good. I can get one of my boys to rewrite it.'

It went into the next day's paper untouched. Next came a piece about David Hockney's interpretation of William Hogarth, and a profile of the new director of the National Theatre. Then the women's-section editor asked her to write about why more girls don't apply to art school. After this was printed, Carruthers called Lexie into his office. He had his long legs up on the desk, revealing burgundy socks, and a ruler balanced between his two index fingers. He indicated for her to take a chair. 'Tell me this,' he said, when she had settled herself opposite him, 'in what capacity are we currently employing you?'

'As Announcements assistant.'

'Announcements assistant,' Carruthers intoned. 'I had no idea there was such a position. You work for Andrew Fuller, yes?'

Lexie nodded.

'And your duties are what, exactly?'

'Editing births, deaths and marriages. Chasing copy for the crossword and Country Reflections. Proofing the Miscellany page, checking copy for-'

'Yes, yes,' he said, cutting her off with a flick of the ruler. 'It seems we may have been underestimating you.'

'Oh?'

'Where,' Carruthers swung his legs off the desk and fixed her with a narrow gaze, 'did you spring from, Miss Lexie Sinclair?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, one doesn't learn to write the way you can write being a desk assistant. One can't report in the manner that you can report in the natural course of life in Announcements. You must have learnt it somewhere and I want to know where.'

Lexie laced her fingers into each other. She met his gaze. 'Before I came here, I was working on a magazine.'

'Which magazine?'

'Elsewhere.' It occurred to her that this was the first time in a long time she had said the word. It felt strange in her mouth, after all these months, like a foreign term with an unfamiliar meaning.

'Under Innes Kent?' Carruthers demanded.

He and Lexie stared at each other. She inclined her head, once. He leant back in his chair and smiled a thin, quick smile.

'Well,' he said, 'it all makes sense now. If I'd known you were trained up by Kent I would have got you out of Announcements months ago. An editor of his calibre. A tragedy, what happened to him, of course, not to mention the magazine. I knew him a little. I would have gone to his funeral, had I known, but . . .' He continued to talk. Lexie laced her hands as tightly as they would possibly go and began to count the number of pencils in the jar on his desk. Three orange ones. Four red. Six blue, two shorter than the others.

She became aware that Carruthers was looking at her with a new, direct expression. 'I beg your pardon?' she said.

'You're not the one he . . . ?' he said, in a low voice, letting the end of the question dangle between them.

She allowed her chin to drop. If she kept looking at the fabric of her dress, if she followed the streams and eddies of the paisley to the places they tailed off into space, the moment would pass, she would be delivered from this.

'Forgive me,' she heard Carruthers murmur. He cleared his throat. He moved some pages from one side of his desk to the other. 'The point is,' he was using his booming, slightly nasal voice again, 'we want to move you away from whatever it is you're doing at the moment to a writing position. You'll be paid twice what you're earning now, you'll be working across a variety of pages, you may need to travel. You'll be the only woman in the reporters' room but I don't imagine that will be a problem for you. From what I gather, you're well able to look after yourself.' He waved his arm at her. 'Go and find yourself a desk with the rest of them. Good luck.'

Lexie was moved up to staff writer on the Courier. She was indeed the only woman in the job, and would continue to be so for several years. The invitations to pub lunches dwindled, as if her new status gave off a forcefield that no colleague dared penetrate. She took a two-roomed flat in Chalk Farm but she was rarely there. She lived, she worked, she travelled. She took up with Felix, indifferently, she dropped him, she took up with him again. Daphne went to Paris, to live with an artist, and was never heard of again; Laurence and Lexie mourned her loss. The Angle Gallery did so well that Laurence and David opened a second, the New Angle Gallery. Elsewhere reappeared as London Lights, with a new editor and new staff and a new office, and it sold at every newsstand. Lexie flew to New York, to Barcelona, to Berlin, to Florence. She interviewed artists, actors, writers, politicians, musicians. She wrote columns about radio stations, abortion laws, CND, teenagers and their motorbikes, the rights of prisoners, widows' pensions, divorce reform, the need for more women at Westminster. During this time, she would receive the occasional unsigned note via the Courier's mailroom, written in a rounded, adolescent hand. Does your employer know you steal paintings? read one. First you take my father, then you take my inheritance, read another. Lexie ripped them to confetti and pushed them to the bottom of her wastepaper basket. She was thinner, she smoked more, her voice developed the slight huskiness of too many cigarettes. Her interviewees found her sympathetic, incisive, then suddenly ruthless; most of her male colleagues found her irksome and prickly. She knew this but didn't care. She rattled through life and through work, never stopping; she could be found at her desk in the office most weekends, most evenings. She wore the fashions of the time the short hemlines, the long boots, the clashing colours but with an effortlessness that bordered on disinterest. She never spoke of Innes to anyone. If Laurence mentioned him, Lexie would not reply. She hung the paintings around the walls of her tiny flat. She ate standing up, looking at them.

And just as she was sure that this was the way her life would be for ever, that this was her, finally and immutably, something changed, just as it always does.

Lexie makes her way along the corridor at the BBC, turns a corner and enters Felix's office without knocking. Felix is sitting with his feet on the desk, the phone cradled in his shoulder, saying, 'Quite, quite,' into the receiver. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees her. They haven't met for several weeks. They're having one of their off periods.

Felix puts down the phone and springs up, seizing her by the shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks. 'Darling,' he says, a touch too fervently, 'this is an unexpected surprise.'

'Don't be pompous, Felix.' Lexie sits in a chair and arranges her bag on the floor beside her. She realises, to her surprise, that she is rather nervous. She looks at Felix, who is lounging against the edge of his desk, then looks away.

Felix regards Lexie, arms folded. She has appeared unannounced in his office, as abrupt as ever but looking rather splendid in an emerald dress. She's had her hair cut, shorter at the back this time. He likes this very much, this whole scenario, this turning up like this, this looking like this. It's always been him who's had to do the running before. He'll take her out to lunch. Claridge's perhaps. He smiles. Lexie is back. Their last fight whatever was it about, he forgets seems to fade. What started as an ordinary day is now promising to be rather fun.

He is on the verge of saying, how about a spot of lunch, when Lexie says, 'I need to talk to you.'

Felix's face falls. 'Darling, if this is about the American girl, I assure you it's over and-'

'It's not about the American girl.'

'Oh.' Felix frowns, registers the urge to look at his watch but manages to resist it. 'Well, how about we talk over lunch? I thought Claridge's or-'

'Lunch would be nice.'

They get into a taxi. She permits him to put his hand on her thigh, which Felix takes as a good sign, a sign that all the unpleasantness about that other girl is forgotten, a sign that they'll be in bed together before the day is out. They zoom towards Claridge's, they go in through the revolving doors; the maitre d' recognises Felix so they are seated swiftly and at a good table beneath the cupola. They are perusing their menus, when Lexie says, 'By the way . . .'

Felix is weighing up the grilled sole and the steak. What kind of mood is he in? Fish or meat? Steak or sole? 'Hmm?' he says, to show he's listening.

'I'm pregnant.'

He shuts the menu. He puts it down. He puts a hand over Lexie's. 'I see,' he says carefully. 'What do you think you will-'

'I'm keeping it,' she says, without looking up from her menu.

'Of course.' He wishes she'd put the damn menu down. He'd like to snatch it from her and hurl it to the floor. Then, all of a sudden, he is no longer angry. In fact, he wants to laugh. He has to put his hand over his mouth to stop it bursting out into Claridge's restaurant.

'Well, my darling,' he says, and she sees he is controlling laughter, the bastard, 'you are a one for surprises. I have to say I've never seen you as the maternal type.'

She removes her hand from under his. 'Time will tell, I suppose.'

He orders champagne and gets rather drunk. He seems pleased with himself and makes several references to his virility, all of which Lexie ignores. He brings up the subject of marriage again. Lexie refuses to discuss it. As the waiter serves their lunch, he is saying she has to marry him now. She snaps back that she has to do no such thing. He gets angry and says, why do you always say no? When there are girls queuing up to marry me? Marry one of them, Lexie says, pick whichever one you like. But I pick you, Felix says, frowning at her across his champagne glass.

They re-emerge on the pavement outside Claridge's, both in a temper.

'Shall I see you tonight?' Felix asks.

'I'll let you know.'

'Don't say that. I hate it when you say that.'

'Felix, you're plastered.'

He takes her by the arm and starts saying something about how it's time to stop all the arguing and accept the necessity of their marriage when, over his shoulder, Lexie sees someone.

For a moment, she can only register that she recognises this person. She cannot place her. She stares at the pale, wide face, the round eyes, the sinewy hands clutching the bag straps, the fine, wispy hair held back in a polka-dotted band, the way the mouth is held slightly open. Who is this person? And how does Lexie know her?

Then the clouds part. It's Margot Kent. But grown-up. Walking along Brook Street in high heels and a mini-skirt. The words paintings and you'll be sorry thread and weave through Lexie's mind. That uneven, rounded lettering in blue ink.

She comes closer and closer, her shoes scuffing against the pavement. They look at each other; Margot swivels her head as she passes. Then she stops. She stands on the pavement, staring at Lexie in that unwavering way she's always had.

Felix turns. He sees a young girl and, being Felix, assumes she has stopped to talk to him. 'Hello,' he nods, 'lovely day.'