I drove to the address Emma had given me, a small, run-down office above a dry cleaner's in a less fashionable part of East London.
The paint was peeling on the door, the windows were grimy, and the stairwell smelled faintly of cleaning chemicals and damp carpet. It was a world away from the gleaming glass towers of the super-agencies in Mayfair and the West End. I walked in.
The office was a single, cluttered room. A young, stressed-looking assistant was on the phone at a desk near the door, trying to placate an angry client, one hand pressed to her forehead.
Filing cabinets lined the far wall, several drawers hanging open, their contents threatening to spill. In the corner, a woman was standing by a window, her back to me, staring out at the street below.
