Still, as I feel my way to the cubicle and shut the door, I feel my spine slumping, and my head growing heavy. It’s only a job. Who cares?

And that’s the thought that flattens me, crumples me, that wrenches the sobs from my body. Here, no one can hear me scream, so I’m screaming, weeping. Crying for my life. Ugly crying. Orgiastic crying.

Only a job.

It has been my life, my identity, my ability to feel happiness, my entire sense of self-worth and self-esteem. And it’s only a job. And yet, because of our jobs—or maybe, the way we feel about them—I’ve broken up with my best friend, Louise is having a breakdown, Tabitha has effectively put herself under her own witness protection programme, and Harri—Harri wants to leave. Harri has given the best and worst years of her life to Hudson and being offered the ultimate prestige job—the job she has been working towards for so long—isn’t enough of a reward. She wants out.

Six months ago, I believed that if I had a full time job at Panache, I would feel safe and happy. But Harri wasn’t happy. She wasn’t safe, either. But no one ever is. I think of her grief, the secret, silent weight of it, the numbness of it. I think of my own mother, the living grief she endures, the way compromises can stack up, and mutate and turn into something that looks like giving up.

I can’t blame Harri for refusing to compromise any more. But I can’t really blame her for wanting me to play it safe, either. It’s exactly what my mother would tell me to do.

Maybe I should call her.

Coming out of the basement, I feel as trepidatious as I did going in. Calling Mum is always an ordeal, but it’s been extra stressful ever since that last, hideous visit home. As I lean against the wall of the Hudson building, I realise I’m shaking. I’m feeling more strained with every ring of the phone. Mum picks up in seconds.

‘Imogen! Love! I’ve been worrying! We saw your company, whatsit, Hudson, on the news! That awful woman, stealing all of your money! Are you OK? Do you need anything?’ It’s as though she’s been biding her time, waiting for everything to go wrong.

Sighing heavily, I start to wonder whether I’ve made a mistake. ‘Yeah, that was a shock. But it’s OK, really. How’s Dad?’ I ask brightly, and again, curse myself immediately. ‘Keeping well? Looking after himself? What’s the latest?’ I feel like a bloody magician; every time I open my mouth, a stream of uncontrolled, primary coloured nonsense shoots out.