Gratifyingly, Akila rolls her eyes and smirks. ‘Actually, it is such a big deal. It’s not 10 o’clock yet, and I’ve already had calls and enquiries from six brands who have mentioned Imogen’s amazing piece. Don’t worry, Tab. I’m sure it will be your turn next.’ She catches my eye. ‘Seriously. Great. Fucking. Job.’

I blush. ‘Oh, you know, a lot of it was Harri’s idea, and it’s just really lucky that Ariana G— ’ Akila gently places a violet fingernail to my lips. It’s a little bit sexy—I must crush that thought before we’re both up in front of HR. ‘Imogen, I’m only going to say this to you once. Remember it. Claim what’s yours. Modesty is not cute. And it’s a really obnoxious white woman thing. Everywhere I have ever worked, other people have rushed to take credit for what I have made. Other people have let them. Own your moment, because there are plenty of people prepared to own it for you.’ Her glance lands on Tabitha for less than half a second. She gives me a brisk hug, and somehow pops me down at my desk, as if she’s going out for the night and leaving me in the care of a babysitter. ‘Right gang, let’s get to it! Big day! Busy day!’ She moves to the grown-up end of the office with a hint of strut, as though it’s a catwalk in Milan and not eight feet of wood-effect laminate.

Sitting up a little straighter, I try to attend to the business of writing. The first thing on my to-do list is a round-up of quiet vibrators for people with clitorises who still live with their parents and want to spend twenty pounds or less. (Obviously that’s the SEO friendly, Google searchable headline. I’m futzing about with ‘Bargain buzz!’ or ‘Silent delight’. ‘Cheap thrills?’) But I can’t take my eyes off Twitter. People are still reading, sharing, calling me a slut or a hero. Waves of nausea keep rocking and breaking through my body. Surely there is no way my internet-phobic parents could find out about this. Is there? Oh, God.

Louise barrels in, late from the doctor. ‘I have no sex life at all, and yet, cystitis!’ she announces, quite cheerfully, all things considered. She’s clutching a sealed, white paper prescription bag, and she shakes it in my face. ‘Oh my goodness, Immo. I saw! I think Busy Philipps just put it on her Insta stories! Should we celebrate? Can we go out for lunch? Pub after work?’

I frown at her bag. ‘Don’t you have cystitis?’

‘Ah, fuck it, I can start the antibiotics tomorrow. For now, I can drink through the pain!’