She is predictably, obnoxiously glossy. Her hair is swept up, smooth at the top, ornate at the back, thick and bountiful. It could be used as a display model in the window of a Parisian patisserie. Her lips are carmine—a word I did not realise I knew until I saw it, staring me in the face. Are those perfect false eyelashes, or her own perfect eyelashes? She has clearly never given herself conjunctivitis by faffing about with tweezers and old glue during a last minute panic on New Year’s Eve.

‘Yes, I’m Imogen Mounce, here to see…’ Oh, bloody hell, what is he called? ‘Tom Johnson, at The Gentleman.’

She keeps a straight face, but her eyelashes seem to laugh at me. ‘Do you mean John Thompson?’

I do mean John Thompson. What a stuck-up bitch, knowing the names of the people who work in the building. I try to inject a little froideur into my voice. It’s like dropping a very small ice cube into a cup of steaming hot tea. ‘Yes, that’s what I said, John Thompson,’ I gurgle.

‘OK, I need you to look into this camera, and I’ll print your security pass,’ says The Girl With The Croissant Updo. Right—professional, polished, poised. Come on. Making a claw with my thumb and forefinger, I smooth my eyebrows, which are damp to the touch. Some of the dark brown pencil has come off on my fingers, and it looks like…oh no. No. How can I fix this? Just in time, I stretch my neck up and suck my cheeks in. At least I won’t have a moon face. ‘Here you go,’ says the receptionist, smirking as she hands me a metal clip, affixed to a small plastic wallet that appears to contain a picture of E.T.

I’m exiled to a metal bench, and attempt to discreetly slip on my Interview Shoes. They are very plain, black leather, with a sort of stiletto heel, from a department store that claims its ‘airsole’ is the last word in ‘shoe comfort technology’. Airsole also being the perfect insult for the lying marketing strategy that tricked me into this particular purchase.

As I slip off my Converse, I detect the faint but unmistakable stale scent of my own feet. I can’t bring smelly shoes to The Gentleman. But I can’t leave them here, crammed in the tote bag. Someone will think it’s a bomb scare, they will get blown up and I will have to hobble home in my stupid high heels. My toes are slightly too long for my smart shoes, and the little toe of my right foot is bent and twisted. I try, and fail to wriggle it, which makes me gasp in agony and screw my face up like a gargoyle’s.

‘Imogen? Imogen Mounce?’