I’m inches from the clothes rail, and I can see a pair of cobalt blue, neoprene hotpants. That’s what confident looks like. Out of habit, I squint for the label. Alexandre Vauthier. Nine hundred quid, minimum, although press samples don’t really have a price. Imagine having a grand to spend on Net-a-Porter and blowing it on shorts! What would I do with a grand? I permit myself a brief fantasy of fancy skincare and estate jewellery, until reality bites. I’d pay my rent, wouldn’t I?

Squinting at my cracked phone screen, I check the time. Oh fuck. Oh help. The deadline for this application is in twelve minutes. And I should have left twelve minutes ago, I’m going to be late for my shift, again. I’m going to get my wages docked, again.

Maybe I should go for broke and tell the truth. If nothing else it would make the application stand out. ‘Through setting up a sex blog and describing some of the most intimate and embarrassing details of my life, I’ve gained writing experience, even though no bloody newspapers or magazines will let my words anywhere near their pages. I’m desperate for a day job, I’m very, very tired, and I’m fed up with supplementing my casual part-time bar work with odd shifts at the pen factory. Tonight I’m on lids, which means I won’t be able to feel my thumbs for a week.’

Without warning, the Acting Editor sticks her head around the door. ‘Everything OK in there, Imogen? You all right? How are you getting on with the Box of Doom?’

Arghhhh! ‘Hello, Harri! Yes. Sorry!’ I throw my phone behind me and lunge for the box.

I’m supposed to be untangling necklaces and returning them to their rightful press offices—not applying for magazine jobs on Panache time. Still, it’s not as if Panache are paying me. Also the Box of Doom is busywork, it’s something to do when the server goes down, or when Rosa, the old editor, was having a major tantrum and Harri, her deputy, had to come up with a scheme to get the interns out of the way and keep them quiet.

The fashion cupboard is a sort of rarefied priest hole. Sometimes, you come back from lunch and there’s a real atmosphere in the office—it’s obvious that Something Has Happened, and it feels as though it must be your fault. (As if I had that kind of power! Usually, it’s a brand pulling the ad that’s paying for the rest of the mag that week. Once, it was because someone microwaved some leftover fish curry, and no one would own up to stinking out the kitchen.)