I think of all the time I’ve spent at various jobs, bored out of my gourd. If I were to add it all up, it would come to about a year. I’ve read entire ten-thousand-word Mumsnet threads discussing whether Center Parcs is code for a specific sex act. I’ve read every One Direction member’s Wikipedia entry at least four times. I sometimes think Harri might be underestimating our readers. Or overestimating them.

But for once, I’m not procrastinating, distracting myself or checking the word count after every sentence I read. It feels fluid. I am engrossed, focused, entirely connected with the work. Still, I feel a bit sick when I press send. Because it’s really long, far too long. What if Harri hates the jokes, or she thinks it’s a bit waffly, or comes back frowning and tells me it’s self-indulgent and badly written? I’ve forgotten that The Know Girl—Girls—are my audience. Harri is the only reader I care about. I just want her to think I’m a good writer. No, that’s not quite it. She’s the law. Any objective measure of my talent rests entirely in her hands. If she thinks it’s shit, it’s not an opinion I can dismiss. It means I’m shit. I won’t just have to find another job, but another life to dream about too.

Tabitha looks up. ‘Imogen, are you…grinding your teeth? Please stop, I can’t hear my music over the sound of your mouth.’

Suddenly a bracketed (1) indicates a new email. It reads:

SUPERSTAR. This is perfect. No adds. l’ll organise a legal read, then it’s going straight up. HX

I commit the line to memory immediately. It’s the chorus of my new favourite song. Superstar. Perfect. I have done it. I’ve climbed the only mountain that counts. Harri thinks I’m perfect, and I’m high. I could run up the wall and dance on the ceiling. I could phone up that old lecturer who once shamed me in front of a whole seminar group for confusing my Brontës. How do you like me now? I could fuck Heathcliff and Mr Rochester at the same time! Ha!