I will not rise to it. Approximately every six months, Sam Strong likes to raise my hopes and break my heart by offering me an imaginary job at the Guardian. In fact, that’s how this nonsense began. He found my blog, he slid into my DMs, he declared himself a fanboy—given his proximity to fifty, the ‘boy’ should have been a red flag—and suggested that his editors might want to meet me. There were never any editors. There was a blackout boozy lunch at the Soho Hotel, and then bed. I fell for him, he ignored me, I got over him, I ignored him. The second he sensed my interest was waning, he was back in hot pursuit. I resisted, then remembered the well stocked fridge, the underfloor heating, the Addison Lee account. The reliable orgasms. As long as I focus on what a detestable twat he is, I’m safe, and I can treat my trips to Docklands as a sort of luxury mini break.

Still, I’m so tired of doing this dance. Sam’s excuses for the lack of this imaginary job have been so creative, inventive and impressively consistent that it’s almost baffling that he’s failed to find any critical acclaim as a novelist. (I took a screenshot of his worst Amazon review, and I reread it when he is being especially distant and dismissive. The schadenfreude soothes me like a prescription tranquilliser.) First, there was no budget. Then Sam started sleeping with his editor and would only be seen with me under cover of darkness. Then there was a job—classified ad sales trainee, commission only. ‘It’s a great way to get into the building!’ he’d enthused. If that was all I’d wanted, I would have nicked his pass and swiped myself through the barriers.

But now I have the upper hand. ‘I don’t want a job at the Guardian, I want to work at The Know. It feels really timely and exciting. Harri says she loves my irreverent tone, she thinks it’s “perfect for the brand”.’ I can’t resist making air quotes. ‘Everything else for women seems so earnest and po-faced, this is supposed to be feminist and funny. And you know, working for Harri is a big deal.’

Sam looks thoughtful. ‘Harri Kemp, right? I think we used to…I mean, everyone just assumed she’d take over at Panache, after Rosa Calder left. Wonder what happened there?’