1

       WHATEVER YOU DO, don’t throw up.

      Poppy Birmingham pressed a hand to her stomach. The truth was, if her breakfast was destined to make a reappearance, that hand was hardly going to make a difference. She let her arm drop. She took a deep breath, then another.

      A couple of people frowned at her as they pushed through the double doors leading into the Melbourne Herald’s busy newsroom. She was acutely aware that they probably recognized her and were, no doubt, wondering what one of Australia’s favorite sporting daughters was doing hovering outside a newspaper office, looking as though she was going to either wet her pants or hurl.

       Time to go, Birmingham, the coach in her head said. You signed up for this. Too late to back out now.

      She squared her shoulders and sucked in one last, deep breath. Then she pushed through the double doors. Immediately she was surrounded by noise and low-level excitement. Phones rang, people tapped away at keyboards or talked into phones or across partitions. Printers whirred and photocopiers flashed. In the background, huge windows showcased the city of Melbourne, shiny and new in the morning sunshine after being washed clean by rain overnight.

      A few heads raised as she walked the main aisle, following the directions she’d been given for the sports department. She tried to look as though she belonged, as though she’d been mixing it up with journalists all her life. As though the new pants suit she was wearing didn’t feel alien when she was used to Lycra, and the smell of stale air and coffee and hot plastic wasn’t strange after years of chlorine and sweat.

      The rows of desks seemed to stretch on and on but finally she spotted Leonard Jenkins’s bald head bent over a keyboard in a coveted corner office. As editor of the sports section on Melbourne’s highest circulating daily newspaper, Leonard was the guy who assigned stories and had final say on edits and headlines. He was also the man who’d approached her six weeks ago and offered her a job as a columnist.

      At the time she’d been thrown by the offer. Since she’d been forced into retirement by a shoulder injury four months ago she’d been approached to coach other swimmers, to work with women’s groups, to sponsor a charity. A chain of gyms wanted her to be their spokesperson, someone else wanted her to endorse their breakfast cereal. Only Leonard’s offer opened the door to new possibilities. For years she’d known nothing but the black line of the swimming pool and the burn of her muscles and her lungs. This was a new beginning.

      Hence the urge to toss her cookies. She hadn’t felt this nervous since the last time world championships were in Sydney—when she had thrown up spectacularly before her first heat.

      She stopped in front of Leonard’s office and was about to rap on the open door when he lifted his head. In his late fifties, he was paunchy with heavy bags under his eyes and fingers stained yellow from nicotine.

      “Ah, Poppy. You found us okay. Great to see you,” he said with a smile.

      “It’s good to be here.”

      “Why don’t I introduce you to the team first up and show you your desk and all that crap,” Leonard said. “We’ve got a department meeting in an hour, so you’ll have time to get settled.”

      “Sounds good,” she said, even though her palms were suddenly sweaty. She was hopeless with names. No matter what