Chuck smells blood. ‘So, Dora, Imogen says that your generation is complacent. And this is about freedom, right? You can’t claim to have fought for their freedom, and then complain that they’re using it the wrong way.’ Ah, I get it now! He’s not an emissary for the end of feminism, he’s a pure provocateur.

Dora sniffs. ‘Well, I certainly hope that my children don’t use their freedom this way. I hope they respect themselves.’

‘Don’t worry, Dora,’ I smile. ‘If there’s anyone around this table that I do respect, it’s myself.’

‘Well, fascinating stuff, but that’s all we’ve got time for,’ beams Amanda. ‘Coming up after the break, we’re getting cheesy in the kitchen. That’s right, fondue is back—but you’ll never guess what we’re sticking into it!’ The cameras swing away, and a different runner rushes over to unclip our mics as Amanda turns towards us. ‘Great debate, guys, lovely stuff. I wish I could have joined in, but I can never interrupt Chuck when he’s talking about feminism!’

I stumble out of my chair. ‘Imogen, I didn’t think you had it in you!’ cries Dora. ‘I was getting worried. Good job! Well done, darling!’ She kisses me on the cheek while simultaneously scooping me up with her left arm and taking a picture with her right hand. Where did that phone come from? ‘For my daughter. She’ll love this!’

‘Right, well, give her my best! I’m just going to…going to…going…’ I stumble out of the studio, with no idea where I’m heading. I desperately, urgently need to be outside. I’m not sure where I left my coat, but I’m burning up. I see a door marked Fire Escape, a brick holding it ajar. That will do. The wind is icy, I should be freezing, but sweat is pouring down my face. For a moment, my vision turns Technicolor and then blurs to black. I slide to the ground, gulping at the air, I can’t get it into my lungs quickly enough.

I don’t understand why this feels so awful. This should be the highlight of my career to date. Dora Bainbridge has been putting herself through this every week for years, and she’s not beside me, screaming, crying and sweating through her dress. Technically I think I won the debate, if there was a winner. This does not feel like a prize.

I wonder where my phone is. I think about the thousands of furious faces and voices, locked inside it, shaming me, judging me. Oddly enough, I can’t quite connect with the idea of Adele sharing and applauding, but I can feel the strange weight of shame, grey as dishwater, heavy as a tidal wave.

The Girl could handle this. I can’t.

Chapter Twenty-One

Maleficent wears a skirt suit

Harri