Layla Moran

I rise to speak to new clause 74, which appears in the name of the right hon. Member for Sheffield Heeley (Louise Haigh). I pay tribute to her and say that the Back Benches are very lucky to have her. May I also pay tribute to Mr B, whose story she told so movingly? The campaign to redress the power imbalance for those offered non-disclosure agreements in cases of sexual harassment, harassment, bullying and discrimination has been many years in the making. It transcends organisations and it transcends party. I pay tribute to Members past and present of all colours who have been part of this campaign for so long. I was pleased to hear from the Minister from the Dispatch Box that he hopes to continue to make progress, but I hope to urge him to go further faster, and for very good reason. It is long past time that this practice just stopped. I want to reveal another never-before-told story from ITN. It is never-before-revealed because it is covered by a non-disclosure agreement, which means that I will be using privilege to reveal the details. Before I begin, it is worth saying that the victim is not alone; I understand that there are seven out there from ITN—we have heard another one today—and that investigations have been done by ITN’s board, which is intent on change. This victim is clear that she does not want to cause ITN problems, but she wants MPs to understand the effect that this continues to have on her life and why we need to act quickly. This young woman was in her mid-20s when she landed her dream job at ITN. She quickly became trapped in what we understand to be a coercive, controlling sexual relationship with an older male editor. He would hurl wild accusations at her and accuse her of affairs with colleagues. She ended up suffering from panic attacks as a result of the relationship. Before Christmas 2019, she finally had the courage to end it. When she returned to work in January, she had been demoted. Her hours were reduced and so was her pay. The first editor she told warned her to stay silent. She said: “You don’t want to be one of those women who always moan about being wronged.” She then confided in a more senior editor, and things got worse. She told her: “It’s not like he ever hit you. It’s not like you ever had to go to A&E with broken bones.” She went to work every day for the next year. It took ITN months to agree to an HR investigation into what happened. It agreed only on the condition that she would also be investigated. HR found that it could not assess the complaint because it was criminal in nature, but at the same time found it to be unfounded. That makes no sense. Around this time, she asked a question at an ITN women’s empowerment forum, in front of all staff, during the pandemic. She simply asked, “What support is there for women who report alleged sexual harassment in the workplace?” Within an hour, her email had been cut off. HR summoned her to an urgent meeting; her primary offence, it would seem, was asking for help. From that moment, she was suspended without pay. She had been completely cut off from almost all support networks for about a year. ITN told her that she was not allowed to tell anyone—except the police, to be fair—what was happening. Even her best friend had to sign an NDA to attend a meeting to support her. The NHS offered her group therapy for her anxiety, but she felt that she had to decline because the organisation insisted that she stayed silent. Her lawyer said that the organisation was trying to starve her out in negotiations over her exit. They took years. By the time they got to a settlement, she had racked up £70,000 in legal fees.