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“No need to move. There’s room for everyone,” said the award-winning playwright.

Olivia glared at Alex and set her Grande coffee cup on the table. Under the room’s watchful gaze, she rested her coat on the chair, released her shiny laptop from its bag, and pushed her black leather Mulberry Piccadilly holdall to the side.

Isabella stood behind her desk, eyes absorbing the U. “Welcome back. Unfortunately, Gemma had to return to Scotland because of a family emergency, so we have a new recruit. Please welcome Alex Sinclair.”

Three of the four writers grinned, nodded or looked pleased. Olivia frowned behind a sip of her coffee.

“As I mentioned three weeks ago, this workshop requires your utmost commitment. I’m not here to dish out compliments or hold your hands. I’m here to push you, to make you better writers. We’re working on Olivia’s play tonight. I trust that everyone’s read it. If you haven’t, you shouldn’t be here…”

Alex’s eyelids stretched open, catching Olivia’s confident smile in their sights. Isabella the teacher was a different beast than Isabella the stage door idol. She didn’t expect her to be such a hard-ass.

Isabella handed her a photocopy of the play. “Alex, my fault—I forgot to email your copy last weekend, so please work off these sheets and jump into the discussions where you can.”

The play. It stared back at its rightful owner. Alex blinked several times, surprised to find tears threatening her eye makeup. It had been six months since she had held a copy. Six months! The fluorescent lights above her buzzed like hyperactive wasps in her ears.

The first fifteen minutes of the workshop consisted of Isabella commenting on why the suffragette play caught her interest.

“Stories of female equality and teamwork are needed more than ever. Women supporting each other, their drive to succeed and obtain what’s fair and just—we can all relate to those struggles. Right, ladies?” Isabella glanced at Alex and Olivia. “That’s why this play is so poignant. I wish this battle was ancient history, but it continues today. It’s a war we’re still waging.”

Alex rifled through the pages, taking deep breaths. Word by word, the story was identical to her long-lost hard copy. Didn’t Olivia tweak any of it? Even her character notes at the back looked the same. The only differences were that the font was Helvetica and the unblemished cover page had Olivia’s by-line in bold type.

“Okay, then. Let’s discuss the protagonist of this true story. Emmeline Pankhurst, the woman who lead the suffragette movement. Olivia, some background, please…”

“Absolutely.” Olivia’s eyes darted towards Alex. “While our flat was being painted last year, I spent a week at Mummy’s on Clarendon Road. I was walking down the street and discovered a round blue plaque at number fifty. It marked the address where Emmeline and her daughter Christabel lived.”

Isabella jumped in. “Is that in Kensington? Must be beautiful.”

Olivia grinned. “It’s quite lovely, yes. The plaque piqued my curiosity. Who were these women? How did the suffrage movement change British society? I took the idea and ran with it that same day…”

A vein on Alex’s temple twitched. She crossed her legs and tapped her foot against the table leg. Letting go was proving to be more difficult than she originally thought.

“The more I read, the more my admiration grew for these exceptional women. Since I’m all about ‘girl power’, I decided to make the idea my own and create a work that would spark conversations, educate, and entertain. As a Kensington girl myself, I wondered how Emmeline went from being a well-to-do socialite to a revolutionary figure that inspired—”

Alex slowly raised her hand.

Olivia pouted, and stopped mid-sentence.

“Is it okay to jump in?” asked Alex.

Isabella nodded. “Absolutely. We’re not precious about decorum here.”

Olivia clenched her jaw.

“Wasn’t Pankhurst born in Manchester? Moss Side or somewhere like that?” Alex looked at Isabella. “She’s a northerner like you, right?”

“A proud northerner. Something I can relate to,” said Isabella. “Go on.”

“Her northern roots are important because it was in Manchester that she met her husband Richard who was a key figure in the creation of Manchester’s Women’s Suffrage movement,” said Alex. “His beliefs matched hers, and unlike most men of his day, he supported her attempts to improve society and get the vote for women.”

Alex sat back in her chair, her nerves slipping away with each word spoken. “In fact, if she had been born in London, she wouldn’t have met Richard, and her mark on history may have been quite different.”

The hair on Alex’s forearm spiked at the tense electricity vibrating from the seat to her left.

“Olivia…continue.” Isabella waved her on.

Olivia resumed her presentation, but occasionally tripped over her words, mixing up Emmeline’s associates and the dates of their most epic confrontations. Her wobbles hinted at forgetfulness, or worse, a shocking lack of knowledge. Alex’s adrenaline was pumping, and she couldn’t resist jumping in several times.

“…No, actually, Emmeline never did champion hunger strikes…”