‘Pegging,’ I say, before I have a chance to decide whether or not it’s a good idea to do so. Harri looks blank so I blunder on. ‘It’s, ah, female led penetration, that is a woman, a cis woman usually, wears a strap on dildo and penetrates her partner’s anus. Well, it doesn’t have to be a male partner but it’s often the case, it’s all about subverting traditional, het power dynamics, and I’m exploring the complicated feminist perspective—I mean, I’ve found that pegging brings out something quite aggressive, when I do it, and I love it, but I worry that it’s quite problematic…’

Harri nods. ‘Imogen, I know what pegging is,’ she says quietly. ‘I meant, what are you working on today? At Panache.’

We walk back to the office in near silence. ‘Not so cold today,’ I offer. Harri nods.

It is entirely possible that I have just been almost hired, then fired.

Christmas comes and goes. Every phone call, every email, every mysterious sound fills me with brief, tremulous joy, and then instant, crushing despair. This is the worst thing about wanting to be part of this world. Every professional rejection is simply a ghosting. No one ever tells you where you stand, or gives you a straightforward refusal. No one lets you know when to stop hoping, and because hope is all you have, you hang onto it, in vain.

At home, I reassure Mum by telling her that I might have some exciting opportunities coming up in the new year. Hope flickers, and fades. It’s the hope that kills you. I should know that, by now.

I apply to be a social media executive on Kites and Dirigibles and hear nothing. I apply to be a coordination assistant on Modern Ferret and get a form email telling me I have not got the job ‘owing to the high volume of applications from many strong candidates’. I write a blog post about whether masturbation is an effective antidote to loneliness and feel too depressed to publish it. And then, after a long, bleak bar shift (during which I both have my arse pinched and am declared, loudly, to be ‘ENTIRELY UNFUCKABLE’ by the same customer), I take my phone out of my bag and check my emails, out of habit, expecting little.

Imogen, can you call me first thing tomorrow? We’re on.

Btw we really liked your name. It’s The Know. Hx

Harriet Kemp

Editor-in-chief, The Know

Chapter Six

Imogen phones home

Imogen

‘Mum? Mum, it’s me. I got the job!’

‘Imogen?’ A heavy, wheezing, Tramadol breath. Another, longer, deeper, worse. It’s as if the simple respiratory act exhausts him. ‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’ Fuck. He almost never picks up the phone. ‘I was just ringing to tell Mum—and you! I got that job. The website one.’

‘Right. I’ll get your mother.’