I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s surprisingly chewy. Extremely sweet, sort of apple-y, not unpleasant—but it really sticks to the roof of your mouth. I put my headphones back in, typing out the actress’s words as I try to uncoat my tongue and teeth.

‘So I researched the role by trying to make toast, and seeing if the smell would…’

‘Imogen, hey! Can I have a quick word?’

Harri is at my side, by my desk, with one hand on my shoulder. I squeak in panic. She knows. She knows I am eating edible underwear. I freeze. She tugs delicately at the wire of my headphones, and I swallow hard.

‘Harri, sorry, yes, yes of course, I was in the muh of a…nuhhhh…’ My tongue feels thick and furry and I chew at it, trying and failing to scrape off the panty coating. ‘What can I do? How can I help?’

‘Can you come out for a chat? We can go to Soho H…’ she glances at her watch. ‘Actually, sorry, best go to Pret, I’ve got the visuals meeting in an hour. This shouldn’t take long.’ Treacherous, dangerous hope blooms again. My gut starts to untwist itself. I think this might mean that Something Has Happened.

Chapter Five

The Quick Chat

Imogen

A paradox. A good intern is an invisible intern. But we only give away our labour, for free, because we hope to be noticed. There are two alternative definitions for ‘intern’. One is ‘work experience’. The other is ‘political prisoner’.

For some reason, I don’t mind being called ‘the intern’ but I hate it when I’m referred to as ‘the work experience’. Or ‘the workie’.

If I’m not getting paid, surely I’m the only person in the room who is not a workie.

It would be in shockingly poor taste to consider myself a political prisoner. Wouldn’t it?

These are the machinations my brain runs through, as Harri orders a macchiato, takes a table and establishes that I would not like ‘a bun, or something’ to go with my filter coffee.

Obviously I long for a bun or something. If I’d had my wits about me, I’d have ordered the fanciest, foamiest, most elaborate drink on the menu, and a triple decker sandwich. But then, that’s another trap, another trick. Plenty of companies have told me that they have a role for someone who is hungry. They don’t really mean it.

‘…I’d get you to sign an NDA or something, but…’ Harri shrugs, and I clamp my lips into a tight, silent smile.

‘Anyway, we’re launching a brand new online title for younger women, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. You’re, what, twenty-five?’