But this Sunday is special. Harri knows she needs to stay calm, relax, and get a good night’s sleep. She’s meditated—well, she’s downloaded an app—she’s changed her sheets, and she’s grimacing her way through a mug of camomile tea. Why don’t I just throw it out? she thinks, between odd, floral sips. Why do I always forget that it tastes so horrible? She is wearing her best pyjamas—black, soft cotton, emblazoned with fuchsia pink dancing leopards. When she really needs to screw her courage to the sticking place, she likes to summon a leopard or two. She has collected them ever since she heard that Marchesa Luisa Casati liked to wander around Rome with a pair of leopards on leads, in diamond collars. Briefly, she allows herself a short fantasy in which she turns up at the office and sets her own leopards on Will, and then decides that wouldn’t be fair. He’s too boring to be an enemy. It isn’t fair to subject him to an imaginary bloodbath when he has absolutely no imagination whatsoever.

For the past few weeks, Harri’s own imagination has been getting to work.

Hilariously, Giles thinks she’s having sex. ‘Where are you? Who is he?’ he laughed, as he waved his hand in front of Harri’s face, in order to get her to sign off on her final flatplans at Panache. ‘You’re wearing too much perfume. I caught you singing to the radio.’ Giles is a little far off the mark, but Harri does feel as though she’s having an affair. She’s fallen in love with The Girl.

The Girl is her new reader, and Harri has been spending every second getting to know her. She even secretly brought The Girl back to her mum and dad’s for Christmas—picturing a 25-year-old reconciling her piercings with a paper party hat, sneaking glances at Instagram under the table. (Her new reader either was out raving in a frozen field, or live tweeting along with the Muppets and shrieking with glee as Gonzo cleaned a frosty window with Rizzo the Rat.)