I’m so excited—and I’m so scared. It’s as though every cell in my body has been renewed. It’s not logical. To have a tiny bit of security for the first time in my life, and then even think about giving it up, basically to run a fancy version of my poor, neglected blog—there’s no way that can work. I’d be mad. Harri must be mad. But she isn’t mad. She knows what she’s doing. Is the little voice in my head…encouraging me, for once? The fear is tempered by a curious joy. This feels like the opposite of a panic attack. A sense of space. My own business. I could create my own role, on my own terms. Harri and I, in it together. No one to fire me, shame me, or tell me off.

It’s as though winter has finally ended inside me—and outside, too. Nature’s confetti cannon has exploded, and the parts of Shaftesbury Avenue that aren’t covered in old McDonald’s wrappers are carpeted in pink. I feel like singing! In fact, as I approach the Hudson Media building, I can hear someone singing. No, it’s crying. Violent scream-sobs are coming from the stone stairwell on the corner.

The Londoner in me wants to keep walking and give the weeper their privacy. But the cries sound so vulnerable, so wretched, that I can’t. Cautiously, I call out ‘Hello! Are you OK? Would you like me to call someone?’

I descend the steps. In the shadows, I can just about make out a pair of gold, glittering brogues. A familiar pink fringe. Tabitha.

‘Are you OK?’ Stupid question, the woman is weeping as though she’s watching Leonardo DiCaprio sinking to the bottom of the ocean. ‘Have you hurt yourself? What happened?’

‘Like you care.’ She won’t look at me.

‘Tabitha…’

‘Fuck off. Don’t forget what I know. Don’t forget how miserable I can make things for you. Now leave me alone.’