I don’t think I regret what happened. But perhaps that’s because I can’t afford to let myself regret it. Since the threesome, I’ve learned how to get better at establishing my own wants, desires and boundaries. I have discovered that you can just ask for what you want, you don’t need to wait for someone to give it to you. And labels aren’t always helpful when we’re trying to understand our sexuality, and our own desires. Ultimately, I’ve made peace with the fact that maybe we can only have the sex we want and crave by making a few mistakes. I’m not sure I’d have learned what my own boundaries were before I tested them. At the time, I thought I wanted to let Tyler and Russ objectify me. But maybe, in my memory and imagination, I have objectified them, too.

It’s a decent piece, I think. But I still don’t know what to do with it. Could I pitch something about the complications of consent, maybe? How to navigate a world in which yes must mean yes, and no must mean no, when your own nascent sexuality has been shaped by shame? How to feel and express desire independently, when you have never been granted the societal headspace to see yourself as subject, not object? I can already hear Harri. ‘Imogen, this isn’t an academic journal. Go away and write a round-up of the best Insta filters for fanny photos!’ Still, I’m certain there must be something worth exploring.

I’m lost in thought for the rest of the journey. When I arrive at the office, only Louise is in, beaming sweetly behind a giant box of cupcakes. ‘Hey, Immo, guess what?’ Immo? I don’t love it, but I don’t want to sound mean. Still, if I don’t say something now…I clear my throat, but Louise is not leaving me any space to object, or indeed guess. ‘These are from that new bakery, Piece of Me. Look! Congratulations to the team at The Know! Sending you something special from our oven to celebrate your upcoming launch.’ The cupcakes look absurd. They are tiered. In fact, if they can be classed as cupcakes, then a BLT is just a slice of bread. One has a pink-and-white swirled lolly sticking out of the top. It looks as though a spoiled child has been using it to play moon landings. Another is crowned by a full-sized doughnut. Still, I’m breakfastless and starving, so I reach for the healthiest looking cake, which is decorated with a three inch tall foam banana.

‘Immo, NO!’ Ah, it’s too late. I shall be Immo for ever. ‘What are you doing?’

The cake is so close to my open mouth that I can tell the top of the banana has become sticky.

‘Sorry, what? Did you want this one?’