Harri had been helping out on a doomed project, Luxus, Hudson’s failed magazine for millionaires. She staggered into the boardroom on a Monday morning, hungover from a christening, of all things, wheelie case creaking, mascara on her chin. She decided to sit beside the one guy who looked rougher than her. His jacket looked as though it used to belong to an Edwardian undertaker. His hair hadn’t just been blow dried, but blow dried, apparently, by Frank Lloyd Wright. His trainers would suggest recent, major orthopaedic surgery, or significant prowess on the basketball court. He eyed her with interest, which was fair, because she had been squinting at him, baffled, for a good three minutes. As he told her his name, he nodded, as though thinking, ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m called. Sounds good.’

For twenty minutes, a table filled with overpaid thirty-something men named Tom and Matt compared their hangovers. Then one of the Toms suggested that the Luxus meeting be moved to its natural environment, the pub. ‘We’ll catch up with you. I need to discuss the flatplan with Harri,’ said TBM. Harri was about to protest, in the strongest possible terms. She needed to be sitting in a place where she could order something that had melted cheese on it. Then, she looked into his eyes. Oh. Oh, yes. Oh, no. Oh, fuck.

The hottest, and most shocking thing he did was listen. ‘Tell me everything,’ he said. So she did. ‘I was thinking about a series with leading architects writing profiles of the artists they love. I’ve been reading about Santiago Calatrava, and I think he’d write something brilliant on Calder. And instead of standard celeb interviews, what about calling it a “conversation between creatives”. Leo DiCaprio is in that Scorsese film coming out next year, we could get them to interview each other. And I think it would be fun to have a really retro, smart, funny gossip column. I’m sure we could get a big designer to write it—well, obviously I’d probably end up ghosting it.’

TBM did not look away. Every few seconds, Harri would feel painfully self-conscious and uncomfortable, and drop her gaze down to the table, but when she forced herself to come up again, there he was, unmoving. He wasn’t undressing her with his eyes. He was taking her flesh off the bone. The waves of lust were so sharp, so acute, that she had to shuffle around in her chair in order to ease them. Touch me, she thought, while her tongue flapped frantically in her mouth and flung out professional sounding thoughts about fine art and fast cars and whether sherry was the new cognac. For goodness’ sake, please touch me. I’ll give you money.