‘Hello! You must be Imogen, I’m Dora.’ As if she needs to tell me! It’s like hearing ‘I’m Beyoncé’, or ‘I’m Barack’. I squeak, clap my hand over my mouth and start to exfoliate my chin with pastry flakes, before squeaking again, wiping my greasy, sugary hand on my borrowed, expensive trousers and shaking hers a little too forcefully. Dora is not perturbed. ‘I’m so glad to see you before the debate! Usually, they like to keep us separate, to make sure the sparks fly, but that’s not very friendly, is it?’

Feeling a little numb, I shake my head, jaw clamped down to stop any masticated croissant escaping.

‘My daughter loved your piece, she’s a huge fan. She wanted to come in and meet you, but there’s no getting her out of bed before ten in the morning!’ Dora giggles, and I remember hate-reading a furious rant that she had written in the Daily Mail, criticising new research about the amount of sleep teenagers require. ‘My two are up and ready for the day before the sun comes up. It’s all about instilling the discipline they need to ensure they become productive, useful adults,’ Dora had shouted from the side bar.

Carly appears in the doorway. ‘Imogen, they’re ready for you in make-up.’ She registers Dora’s presence, and wags a finger in mock admonishment. ’D, what have I told you about chatting up the guests before a debate? Honestly!’ She leads me away, tutting. ‘We do try to keep you separate, it makes for better telly, but Dora is a law unto herself. Now, don’t forget, it is a debate, you’re not to let her get away with anything. She’s really going to savage you!’ Carly looks up from her clipboard and stares at me, searching for a reaction. I think she wants me to get angry and tell her that I’ll savage her right back. Can’t I roll over and play dead, instead?

Carly continues. ‘She’s read your piece, and she’s going on the attack. Her daughter is a little bit younger than you, and she’s going to focus on that. You’re a bad example, a bad influence, where was your mother in all of this, how can you call yourself a feminist when you’re not in control of your body, wouldn’t the pioneers of the women’s liberation movement be heartbroken if they knew this was how you were using your freedom. Et cetera.’ She’s walking and talking, tapping her clipboard with her pen, punctuating every point of pain. Bad example. Bad daughter. Bad feminist. Bad mistake.