Giles looks up at the ceiling and blinks. Harri knows this trick can temporarily staunch a flow of tears. ‘Now, well. What does redundant mean? It’s not just a word for laid off. It means I’m useless. My job at Panache is going to stop existing, but my job doesn’t really exist anywhere. If this is happening at Hudson, it’s happening all over publishing. I feel a bit like the inventor of the Betamax video. I’ve dedicated my life to building a talent, a skill that nobody wants!’

‘For what it’s worth, things obviously didn’t go that well for the inventor of VHS in the end…’

Giles sips his white wine and gathers his thoughts. ‘Harri, there were so many times that I wanted to leave. Every so often I thought “I’ll give it another year, then I’ll go and work as a stylist, or see if I can get something going with a designer”. You know what stopped me? It was the masthead. I loved telling people I worked at Panache.’ He digs into his pocket, pulls out his Thom Browne grained leather wallet, and holds up a creased, yellowed rectangle, about two inches long. Time has drained almost all colour from the logo on the back, but Harri recognises it instantly. ‘I was so proud when I got my first business cards. Giles Robinson, Panache, could go anywhere. But Giles Robinson, freelance stylist, is no one. Panache swallows up your identity. I could never be bigger than that building. I couldn’t bear…’ the tears begin again, ‘…couldn’t bear the thought of talking to people about my job, and having them say “but didn’t you use to work at Panache?” And that was when I was thinking about doing it on my own terms!’

Harri gets it. She isn’t just thinking of her own sudden ejection from the hallowed halls of Panache, months ago. Giles’ pain evokes a memory of a different period of grief. She tries to remember something comforting, anything the counsellor might have told her that made some semblance of sense as she howled her way through the shock and the pain.

What can she tell him? She should have seen this coming. She should have intuited it, fought harder, planned a counter attack. There must have been something she could have done. Now, all she has for him are platitudes.

‘This feels like the worst thing that could possibly happen. It feels like the end of hope—the end of who you are and who you were going to be. But you will muddle through it.’ She thinks, hard. What does she wish she had known? What does she still want to believe most?