She sounds so vicious that I instinctively turn around to scuttle back to the office. But then I think No. I can stand up to bullies. I can stand up to you. I have nothing to lose any more. I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what your problem is but you have to stop giving me shit, Tabitha. I’ve talked to Harri, I know I shouldn’t have lied—but you can’t hold it over me.’ Waves of rage are rolling and breaking. I’m not afraid, but I am filled with fury. ‘I don’t know why you think you’re special. You’re no different from any of the other stuck-up bitches that have made my life a misery. A good fashion editor is unique. A visionary.’ I want to be cruel. I want to wound. ‘Well, you’re just a type. Another posh girl. You come to work looking like a space cadet, or a bee keeper, sneering at everything, like you’re special. You think you’re Isabella Blow when you have the soul of a…gilet with a pashmina on top.’

I’ve wanted to make that speech a thousand times—and not just to Tabitha. Yet, I don’t feel exonerated. Her eyes are narrow, glittering, but she looks broken. I have hurt her. I’m ashamed of myself. ‘You don’t know me at all.’

‘Tabitha, I’m sorry, I…’

‘It isn’t Tabitha, all right? It’s Tanya. Go and tell your mates that I’m a big fake. Just like you. I’m probably quitting, anyway.’ She sniffs. ‘I finally got my Vogue interview, and I don’t think I can go. I can’t stay here, either. I’ll probably have to move back to Tottenham…’ She starts crying again. ‘It’s easy for you! You can just be yourself. My whole life is lies.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Tabitha shows me her phone screen. There’s yesterday’s #OOTD picture—bright blue silk pyjamas, white backless loafers, inflatable handbag. Odd, but not unusual. ‘Look at the comments.’ I scan. I recognise a few publicists, media names—but not the anonymous accounts. ‘Is that Tanya Pollard? She looks like an actual clown.’ ‘What an embarrassment—but she looked like shit at college too.’ The words I’m reading are vicious, violent. I don’t understand.

‘But what…’ She registers my confusion and takes her phone. She scrolls, and hands it back to me.

‘I just got tagged in this.’

The girl in the photo is young, with lank, mousy hair, a spot on her chin, a very short tie, a button missing from her shirt. But the oval jawline, the flipped-tick brows, the defiant glare-to-camera show that it’s clearly Tabitha. Or Tanya, I guess.

‘Now she’s a fashion editor at a slag mag—never would have predicted THAT at college.’ The account handle is @BitchesOfHaringey.