I shake my head. “What does ‘cool as a cucumber’ mean? Cucumbers aren’t particularly chilled. I mean, they’re not in the fridge at Tesco’s. They’re out in boxes. So, why cucumber? Why not as cool as the pre-cut carrots?”

He blinks. “This is not the way I thought this interview would go.” He shakes his head as if to try and empty it. “Moving back to business, Mr Reed?”

“Jesse,” I say helpfully. “Just call me Jesse. Mr Reed sounds like my dad.”

“How lovely that we’re circumventing the awkwardness of the interview format. What a joy,” he says dryly, and I grin at him.

“I do my best.”

“Okay.” He peers down at the piece of paper. “So, looking at your resume, it appears that you don’t stick at jobs, Mr Reed.”

I clear my throat, and when he looks at me, I smile. “Jesse.”

He stares at me over the top of his glasses. “Oh, of course. Well, it appears, Jesse, that you have all the sticking ability of a plaster on a cut after a few days.”

I sit back in my chair. “That’s probably a fair summary.”

“Your old boss, who gave you a reference, has written something that’s very …” He seems to pause to look for words. “Nebulous. If the army ever need a code writer, they’d do well to contact this man. He manages to say so much while not actually saying anything at all.”

“Not in person,” I assure him. “In person he managed to say quite a lot.” I shake my head. “All the way through my lunch hour and somebody else’s too.”

He slowly puts the piece of paper down and takes his glasses off. “Jesse,” he says slowly. I sit forward, waiting to hear words of wisdom. “Your job history is spottier than Boris Johnson’s.”

He surprises a laugh out of me, and I grin at him. “Well, look what job he got,” I say. He shudders and I laugh. “I just wasn’t the right fit to be a taxi rank operator or a dog groomer.”

“Or a bus driver,” he says wryly, stabbing the paper with one long finger. “Apparently, you diverted the route you’d been given to pick your mate up.”

“That’s a long story,” I say cagily. “It’s best that you don’t press me for it.”

“Oh, okay,” he says faintly.

“Look,” I say, leaning forward. “Let’s chuck the CV away.”

“Oh, please do,” he says, waving a hand. “But unfortunately, the thing’s engraved on my brain now.”

“Try and wipe it clean,” I advise him. I look around the office. “The truth is that you need me.”

“I do?”

I nod, and then do it again more emphatically in case he missed the point. “This is an agency that deals a lot with LGBTQ customers, isn’t it?” He nods and I sit back. “Perfect, I’m gay.”