‘You’ve been head-hunted then. Haven’t I been good to you?’ Norma felt hurt translate itself into a blade that cut into all her vital organs in the same moment. ‘What’s the problem? Is it me?’ asked Norma.

‘I don’t feel comfortable around you.’ Francesca’s gentle voice stiffened into something much harder, more abrasive.

‘What do you mean?’ Norma heard herself match it.

‘The way you look across the office at me.’

‘You’re imagining it.’

‘It’s not just me who’s noticed. It’s the talk of the office. The anonymous Valentine’s Card that arrived at my house. Not a word on it. Block print letters on the envelope but do you know what, Norma? I could smell your perfume on it. Literally. Chanel Coco. There were creases on the card where you’d dripped it on to…’

‘Francesca, stop right there! I did no such thing. It was a prank, a prank by one of your colleagues.’

‘Why is it, Norma, every time you take us out to eat, you sit at the top of the table and I sit at your side? Why is it when a table is booked, you call the restaurant and give them place settings and those name cards are set out on the table? Why is it your hand or foot always touches me under the table?’

‘I’m crippled and have no sensation at all from the waist down.’

‘Every picture taken of every night out, your left arm’s around my shoulder and your fingers are hovering over the top of my breasts.’ She pointed at a framed picture on the wall. ‘Look, if you think I’m imagining it. Look, if you don’t believe me!’

‘I didn’t know you had this in you, Francesca. There are codes of conduct for estate agents. We have rules. You cannot break your contract.’

‘That’s exactly what I am doing.’

‘I’m going to take this further, you’ll see.’

‘Go ahead. I’ve been talking to a barrister about you and your harassment. If I take you to tribunal, you’ll get roasted alive.’

‘Roasted alive? Will I now? Well, if I was you I wouldn’t rely on any support from your so-called friends downstairs. They wouldn’t dare go against me. I’m their bread and butter. You’re just somebody who used to work here. But on that note, on that very sorry note, just who are you going to work for?’

‘Mr Doherty.’

The first stirrings of a storm brewed inside Norma and the new-found hurt shifted into rage.

‘Then I’ll take both of you to the cleaners.’

‘Leave him out of it. He didn’t approach me. I approached him. And I can prove it.’

Norma pictured Brian Doherty, pompous and bulbous-lipped, and imagined Francesca Christie fawning over him and working hard to win his affection and admiration.