Harri bursts through the door, her caramel cashmere coat hanging off her shoulders and flying out behind her like a cape. Not all superheroes wear man-made fibres. ‘Imogen. Quick word?’ She’s brusque—no, angry. Why is she angry? Shouldn’t she be hugging me, and maybe presenting me with a giant comedy cheque for increasing the ad revenue?

I jump up and follow her to her desk. ‘Right. Great news, I’ve managed to persuade everyone upstairs, you’re on Good Morning Britain tomorrow, they’ll give you a call about getting a car to pick you up. And then we’re just confirming with Woman’s Hour. Loose Women is interested too.’

‘Ah, right. Harri, you see, the thing is that I don’t…I didn’t realise…this is perhaps not…I’m not sure…’

Harri’s nostrils flare. I’ve only ever seen that happen in cartoons.

‘Imogen. I have spent—wasted—quite a lot of my morning convincing Mackenzie to sign off on this. You are sure. I am sure. This. Is. An. Opportunity.’

‘Do I need to go? Maybe you or Akila could do it?’

I think Harri wants to hit me. ‘Imogen, for fuck’s sake. You’re an ambassador for The Know. You’re representing the millions of readers,’ Probably not millions, Harri, ‘who are seeing themselves for the first time. You’re disrupting. You have the chance to tell the whole world what we’re about, who we’re for. Think of The Girl! She’s ambitious, she’s fearless, she’s going head to head with the breakfast Establishment in a T-shirt that says “Fuck the patriarchy”. Oh, lord, please, no. ‘Anyway, it sounds like you’ll be on with Dora Bainbridge. Everyone hates her. It will be an easy win. You’re the gorgeous young woman living her life, wittily. And she’s the symbol of internalised misogyny. No one will even notice that you’re talking about a threesome, they’ll be too busy bitching about her wonky Botox.’

‘It’s true that I have often fantasised about attacking Dora Bainbridge with a big stick. In fact, I imagine that she only bothers bashing out her racist, sexist overpaid nonsense columns because she’s waiting to be hit with a big stick.’

‘Imogen, you really can’t bring a big stick to Good Morning Bri— oh, you’re joking. Yeah. That’s the spirit. Give them hell. You’re our Joan of Arc. Ha, or Joan of Snark!’

Does Harri remember what actually happened to Joan of Arc? Am I seriously going to set myself alight to keep The Know warm? If this act of public humiliation is for sexual freedom, I think there are hills I would rather die on. Literally die on.