Harri sounds hopeful, desperate even. What can I tell her? I think about the very first time we had sex, the third bottle of wine, the ease with which we somehow ended up in a hotel room, the blacking out. Why have I kept going back? How many girls have there been? ‘Honestly, there’s nothing I wouldn’t suspect him of—but I suppose it’s been easier for me to tell myself that I was seeing him on my own terms. He’s dangled various jobs in front of me, and that was a bit manipulative, but I’m making it work for me by eating my way through his fridge.’

Harri snorts. ‘He must have changed a bit if there’s anything to actually eat in there. It used to be all fancy mineral water. But you don’t feel exploited, or anything? Sam Strong was—is—notorious for being the worst, and I’m pretty sure that he has slept with every woman who has ever worked on a London magazine. He goes around like the flu. But sometimes, when I think about some of the stories, the rumours, what we put up with, what we laughed off…I wish I’d challenged him. I wish I’d called him out. I wish I knew how to fix it.’

I’m touched by Harri’s words, but they really are just words. She wants to help—but what could she do, really? And there’s more than one way to be exploited, I think, crossly. I wonder how many hours I have spent in this building, working and not getting paid. I know that what I’m doing with Harri is different. It’s a collaboration. The work itself is exciting, absorbing. But part of me wants to kick myself for coming back and doing it again. My face must betray me, as Harri frowns. ‘Look, I know this isn’t ideal, all of this extra work. I do appreciate it, really. We’ve done so much, we’ve got loads to show to potential investors—I think we’ll be ready soon.’

‘I’m enjoying it, really.’ I am! Harri has pulled back a curtain, and I’m starting to understand how her world works. My brain is pulsating with the effort of keeping up, as I learn how to link my wildest, weirdest ideas with the evidence that will make them commercially viable. ‘Always think like a trickster,’ Harri had said. ‘We won’t get anywhere if we think of the money people as Dickensian villains, getting between us and our art. We must be prepared to meet them at their level.’

For a few moments, we work in companionable silence, until I hear Harri saying ‘Huh. That’s strange.’ I wonder if it would be rude to put some earphones in for a bit.