Harri nods. ‘Trust me, that’s company policy. In 2004, Panache did a big interview with Madonna, and a small pro war group got the idea that she must be in the building. This was over a week after the interview came out. I like the idea that Madge would have just wanted to hang out here, drinking our crappy coffee—anyway, obviously no Madonna. But we didn’t realise that a group of gun wielding maniacs had taken control of the building. The only people who knew were the ones who happened to watch BBC Breakfast before coming into work. And even then, the only thing that happened was a company-wide email, a week later. “Owing to the unprecedented events of last week, all non-staff visitors to Hudson Media will be required to wear a security pass for the duration of their visit.”’ Why do I still work here, again? Remind me?

This is the first time Harri has seen Tabitha expressing an interest in anything she has said. ‘What happened? How did they get them out?’

Harri shakes her head. ‘I’ve never got to the bottom of it. There is a rumour—almost certainly not true—that Geoff from Maintenance tried his hand at a bit of amateur hostage negotiation.’

She has Tabitha’s full attention. ‘What did he do?’

Harri wishes the truth were a bit more exciting. ‘Well, I think he asked if they wanted to see the new disabled loo with the double flush, then he offered the leader a bite of his Ginsters pasty. At that point the group fled in terror. Anyway—sit tight for a minute, if you can, just in case you can squeeze any extra cash out of Hudson before you go.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Let’s not make it easy for them.’ And I really ought to take my own advice.

‘Make it easy for who?’ Louise has arrived and is beginning to embark upon the tortuous daily process of untangling herself from the straps of various tote bags. Some are slung across her body, like ammo belts. Some are tightly wedged over the arms of her coat, garrotting her armpits. Ladymag Rambo, thinks Harri, ready to fight her way out of a publicity junket at a moment’s notice, with an arsenal of sweaty sports kit, used tissues and unwashed keep cups. Kim walks in behind her, with a single, sleek, small rucksack. Being a working woman, with lipstick and laptops to carry, is essentially being condemned to spend your waking life trapped in an escape room of your own making.

‘I was just saying to Tabitha that the last few days have been quite unsettling. Officially we’re waiting for news. Unofficially, I can tell you that Mackenzie has gone, and no one seems to know quite what’s going to happen next. But I promise that there isn’t anything to worry about, and I’ll keep you as informed as I possibly can.’