‘OK, check out the science, but for now I’ve got some stuff from freelancers that I need you to read through, do a quick tweak and a copy edit.’

Even Kim, pushing his fingers into the corners of his mouth, lifting his face into a smile, and silently mouthing ‘PENISSSSSSS’ at me does not cheer me up.

I’m supposed to be a staff writer. All I want to do is write. Harri told me she loves my voice, she loves my ideas—so why am I hardly ever allowed to write anything? I’ve done one piece, and it wasn’t even proper journalism. It was an advert. It was supposed to be promoting a show for a new TV app. Harri said ‘make it outrageous’, then told me the client had said all of my ideas were too outrageous, and I ended up having to write it as an ‘as told to’, interviewing a girl from TOWIE about the time she had sex in a bush.

It’s not just me. I know Louise is losing her mind to the endless SEO-hell of writing articles called ‘What time does the Love Island reunion start?’ and ‘Where can I watch Selling Sunset?’

‘The Girl is supposed to be practically running Google, not barely capable of using Google,’ she sniffed, after Harri turned down her proposed Nigella hagiography in favour of a glorified TV guide. ‘I thought we were the team! I thought we were The Know! But I feel like we’re just…the admin.’

‘I’m sure Harri has a plan for us,’ I said—wanting to reassure myself, as much as her.

But when we go live, at midday—and we have a countdown, and a glass of warm prosecco, and a round of applause—the home page is dominated by Nella Stella, model, activist and influencer, writing about her insecurity, her lack of body confidence, and how she expressed her courage and bravery by posting a series of sponsored bikini photos. ‘We negotiated it so that the brand paid her to write the piece, so we got it as a freebie,’ I heard Harri telling Akila. ‘Might be worth going back to them, I’m sure they’d be keen to do more content with us.’ A writer I’ve never heard of has produced a round-up of the best CBD oils for anxiety, something I feel a sharp stab of when I see that the cheapest one costs eighty pounds. And Emily Forge, Panache’s tenured columnist, has produced something pretty…clickbaity on whether a wolf whistle could ever be a compliment.

Ironically, the clicks aren’t coming. Every so often, I get up, on the pretext of stretching my legs, getting a coffee, going to the toilet, so that I can sneak a look at the data on Harri’s screen. Every time, I see a grey, flat line. I don’t know what it means, but I can guess.