‘Maybe we can change Harri’s mind? I’m sure that over time, we can persuade her to let you do some food stuff. And if not—well, you know, the blog is great! Couldn’t you do that full time? It would be a bit risky, I know, but maybe you could find a part time job, and I’m sure…’ Louise cuts me off. ‘My dad would be furious. He’d probably stop paying my rent. He paid for Leith’s, for the MA in Medieval Literature that I didn’t finish, because bloody hell, Imogen, Medieval Literature? Have you ever tried to read any? I mean, no one should have taken me seriously, you shouldn’t be allowed to attempt it. Anyway, he called me a dilettante. And when I got this job he said this was my last chance and if I quit I’d have to do a law conversion.’

I drop Louise’s other hand. Her dad pays her rent? His solution to his daughter’s career crisis would be to pay for her to do another degree? These are Louise’s problems? Not, say, a father who says things like ‘Well, if these magazines aren’t paying you, why should I give you any money? It should be coming out of their pockets, not mine.’ Not that he has any money to give me.

I’m torn between shame and fury, maddened by Louise’s entitlement, her cluelessness. Can’t she suck it up and make it work? I’ve made it work—I think of the places I’ve lived and worked, the weeks when I’ve eaten nothing but tuna and rice. Louise can afford to fuck up, over and over again. She can wear her fear and insecurity weepily and volubly and know that someone else will rush to rescue her, and shore her up. I do not have the luxury of expressing this much self-doubt, out loud. And she’s just learned about imposter syndrome?

Louise’s tear-stained face, her visible fragility, is infuriating. I burn through so much energy trying to hide my own brokenness. Yet when you’re wealthy, when you grow up believing that the world wants you to be safe and happy, you can just dump your pain on the table of a cafe and wait for someone else to clear it up.