‘I’ve been sidelined. Which is somehow worse. If they’d properly sacked me, they’d have to give me some money, and I could slink away with a little dignity.’ Harri silently admits to herself that if dignity is what she really wants, she ought to stop submitting to the cheap thrills of the Angel’s pot pourri flavoured Sauvignon.

‘Anyway, you told me you enjoyed the research for the new launch. And we both know Panache is on the outs,’ says Giles. Harri rolls her eyes. Giles has been predicting the end of Panache for the last five years, usually whenever his expense forms are queried. She’s never worked on a magazine that hasn’t lurched unpredictably and uncertainly from month to month. ‘Still,’ he adds, ‘I think this online thing might be a really smart move for you. After a couple of months with this horse and pound of flesh lady, I’ll probably be begging you to hire me.’

‘It’s just…GOD. Twenty-somethings, Giles? What do they like? What do they know? Who do they fancy? I’d be arrested for lusting after the people they’re into. Their vintage isn’t just the stuff we wore first time around—you shot and styled it. If they know who Kate Moss is, it’s because she’s Lila Grace’s mum. They wear Friends shirts, but they were actual babies when Friends was on TV. I can’t do it. Maybe I can get a job writing for The People’s Friend and edit cosy stories about grumpy grannies teaming up with troublesome grandsons to defeat the school bully.’

Giles raises his eyebrows fractionally. Harri has known him well enough, for long enough, to predict that he is approximately three weeks away from his next Restylane top-up. ‘How do you know so much about The People’s Friend?’

‘Oh, my nan used to get it; sometimes they have it at the dentist and I have a read for nostalgia’s sake. And it’s taught me about all sorts of clever tricks with a stock cube.’

‘You need to get laid,’ says Giles.

‘You always say that. So do you.’

‘Let’s see if Kev fancies a threesome.’

Harri is not really in the mood for Giles’ nonsense. ‘Sure, if he’s up for it, you can take his trousers off and I’ll hold your poppers.’

Giles will not let it lie. ‘Seriously, when did you last…I mean, it’s been a while, yes? A date? Why not? A teeny tiny trip out for an itsy bitsy cocktail, avec un handsome man? When did you last wax, even? I shudder, Harri. I bet it looks like all of the Marx brothers, down there. You were the one who told me that if you don’t stay on top of the grooming, your fanny looks like the face of a man who brings his own cider to a folk festival.’