Corridors of Power by C.P. Snow

It was still September. In the middle of the morning, the telephone rang on my desk. My personal assistant was speaking: someone called Ellen Smith was on the line, asking to talk to me urgently. The name meant nothing: what did she want? No, said the PA, she had refused to say. I hesitated. This was one of the occupational risks. Then I said, ‘All right, put her through.'

‘My name is Ellen Smith. ' The voice was brisk and cultivated. ‘I've met you once before.'