BooksBarbecue
Back Careering Save as PDF
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Chapter One
  5. Chapter Two
  6. Chapter Three
  7. Chapter Four
  8. Chapter Five
  9. Chapter Six
  10. Chapter Seven
  11. Chapter Eight
  12. Chapter Nine
  13. Chapter Ten
  14. Chapter Eleven
  15. Chapter Twelve
  16. Chapter Thirteen
  17. Chapter Fourteen
  18. Chapter Fifteen
  19. Chapter Sixteen
  20. Chapter Seventeen
  21. Chapter Eighteen
  22. Chapter Nineteen
  23. Chapter Twenty
  24. Chapter Twenty-One
  25. Chapter Twenty-Two
  26. Chapter Twenty-Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-Four
  28. Chapter Twenty-Five
  29. Chapter Twenty-Six
  30. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  31. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  32. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  33. Chapter Thirty
  34. Chapter Thirty-One
  35. Chapter Thirty-Two
  36. Chapter Thirty-Three
  37. Chapter Thirty-Four
  38. Chapter Thirty-Five
  39. Chapter Thirty-Six
  40. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  41. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  42. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  43. Chapter Forty
  44. Chapter Forty-One
  45. Chapter Forty-Two
  46. Chapter Forty-Three
  47. Chapter Forty-Four
  48. Chapter Forty-Five
  49. Chapter Forty-Six
  50. Chapter Forty-Seven
  51. Chapter Forty-Eight
  52. Chapter Forty-Nine
  53. Chapter Fifty
  54. Chapter Fifty-One
  55. Chapter Fifty-Two
  56. Chapter Fifty-Three
  57. Chapter Fifty-Four
  58. Chapter Fifty-Five
  59. Chapter Fifty-Six
  60. Chapter Fifty-Seven
  61. Chapter Fifty-Eight
  62. Chapter Fifty-Nine
  63. Epilogue
  64. Acknowledgements

I’ve been avoiding Twitter as much as possible—partly thanks to Akila’s wisdom. ‘I’ve got friends who have been in similar situations,’ she’d explained. ‘My best mate’s boyfriend cheated on her with his Strictly partner—I’ll tell you all about that one day but for now, we’re not gossiping. You need to mute the conversation. Every time you see the notifications, you’ll get a weird burst of adrenaline, and it’s worse than cocaine. I can’t tell you to stop looking, but you can set it up to make it less horribly addictive. You need a good night’s sleep.’ For once, I’d slept with my phone beside my bed, instead of in my bed. But it’s tempting to tell the world that I’m going to be on TV. It is exciting, I think. I’m a journalist, talking about my work, in front of the country. I should feel proud. Maybe it’s a case of mind over matter. On Twitter, I type out ZOMG! On my way to…as we drive past the Oval. I stare at it for a bit, and then delete it when we reach the Imperial War Museum. I don’t need to show off about being on TV, I mean, it’s TV! People will see it. Although hopefully no one I actually know. I picture Dad, slumped in front of Sky, Mum whistling and bustling to Motown on Radio 2 before she goes to work. She’ll be devastated to miss it. But she might be more devastated if she saw it. Oh, I haven’t thought this through. Why couldn’t I have said no to Harri? Because she would have fired you, says my brain, unhelpfully.

It’s still not quite light when we pull into a car park and drive up to a barrier. My driver says something to a man in a little hut, and we turn and line up behind a row of identical Mercedes. The door is opened, and a smiling woman with a clipboard leans in. ‘Imogen? Hello! I’m Carly, we spoke on the phone.’

‘HELLO!’ I roar. I’ve been up for over an hour, and I’ve not spoken a full sentence to anyone. My own voice is a bit of a shock for my ears. Leaping to my feet, I yell ‘THANK YOU! THANK YOU SO MUCH!’ in the direction of the car’s tinted window, windmilling my arms and nearly hitting myself in the face with my bag.