I look at Bradley, expecting to see contempt, but he’s staring at his Smythson and furiously crosshatching with a Biro. He’s a little flushed, under the NARS, and I think—I hope—he’s feeling slightly embarrassed. I’m trying to catch his eye, wanting him to see my fury, my indignation. He won’t look up. And that’s when I have to bite hard on my lip to stop it wobbling. How very bleak. How desperately sad. No wonder Bradley is such a knob. He has to deal with this all day long.

However, I will get on my knees and suck John’s dick under the table before I allow him to see a single tear on my face. So I blink very hard and spend the last of my confidence currency. ‘I have to get to another meeting, but it’s been great to meet you both. And if you want to discuss those ideas further, you have my email. Hope to see you both soon.’ I do! Ideally, in a big picture on the front of a newspaper, arrested for being a sex offender, and an accomplice to a sex offender. Standing up, I offer John my hand, even though my brain is screaming ‘Don’t touch him! You don’t know where he’s been!’ Unfortunately, the stiff wool of my coat has bunched, and it buckles under the strain of the sudden movement. The button has not been properly secured in its hole. My coat falls open, exposing not delectable, voluptuous, satin clad thigh, but my black cotton crotch, sandwiched between a thick wad of skirt and a bobbly roll of 100 denier tights.

John’s face is so red that he’s turned neon. You could hang him on the wall of a bar and stick a pool table underneath. I’m genuinely concerned that he might die, or at the very least, fall into a coma, but that’s Bradley’s problem. Making no attempt to conceal my underwear, I hook my thumb over John’s pudgy one, and touch him for the very last time before heading towards the door.