To be fair, Tabitha should not have to explain herself when her outfit works as a sort of living CV. There is so much to take in, my brain didn’t fully process it all as she walked through the door. From the waist up, she’s dressed as Gene Kelly in On the Town, in a puffy white sailor blouse, with a navy blue collar. But everything literally pales into comparison against her luminous trousers. I can see portions of neon green tweed leg glowing under the desk, in a Prince of Wales check. (I can identify that check at twenty paces, after working on Panache’s hellacious Diana Fashion Special double issue.) She is also wearing a sailor’s cap over her white blonde Lord Farquaad bob. Her fringe is a work of art—edged in turquoise, which is edged in silver. Seafoam is the word my brain surprises me with.

‘Great. Fashion! I’m hoping to write some fashion features. I used to do some fashion things for Panache, so…’

‘Fashion? You? Ha. Funny,’ says Tabitha, mirthlessly.

I am wearing a dark blue Whistles jersey dress from Wimbledon Cancer Research, with black tights and my Christmas present from Mum—very plain, flat black ankle boots from New Look. No, Alessandro Michele isn’t about to ask me to walk for him, but it isn’t funny. It isn’t fair. Who the fuck is this? Why do I ever bother to try with posh girls?

Perhaps she realises she’s been rude. She leans towards me, with maybe half a degree of warmth. ‘Listen, we both know Hudson Media is a backwater. I can’t believe I’m working for a company that makes a magazine about cranes, or whatever. And obviously something weird happened—I don’t really rate Harri, but she should have been editor of Panache. There’s a hiring freeze at Condé, so I’m just…waiting. For now.’ She doesn’t say ‘I didn’t come here to make friends’ out loud but I hear it.

For a few stupid seconds I open and shut my mouth, trying to formulate a response. Harri isn’t there for you to rate, I want to scream. You’re lucky to be here. We all are. I reach for the cheapest, snarkiest and most regrettable comeback. ‘I was at Condé for a little while last summer, and I don’t think I’d want to work there.’ Tabitha does not need to know that it was for two days, on a new technology supplement, and I was asked to leave after I accidentally poured coffee into the internal monitor of an Oculus Quest.

Tabitha wrinkles her small, straight nose. ‘Well, you wouldn’t exactly fit in, would you?’

Chapter Twelve

It takes the cake

Imogen

I wake up just as I become aware of the drool pooling on my chin. I can’t miss my stop, again. Why am I so tired?