Another polite, tinkling laugh. This time, she is laughing at herself. Because what kind of fool, what kind of idiot, what kind of woman reaches the end of her forties with so little to show for herself? No big job. No personal life, to speak of. A tiny flat that still feels far too big. And a mortgage that is definitely too big to permit Harri to speak what’s truly in her heart and tell Will to go fuck himself.

Will still has the audacity to look relieved. ‘So, the plan is to launch towards the end of January. That gives you about eight weeks. You’ll need to start research and assemble your team, while you’re phased out of your role at Panache.’

Harri imagines herself fading from high to low definition, her outline flickering and blurring, leaving the office a ghost.

‘Anyway, lots to do, best get back to work!’ Once again, Will looks at Harri as though he is waiting for her to move. It is polite to let her leave first. It also gives Will an opportunity to have a good look at her arse. On the scale of terrible Hudson letches, he barely registers, but Harri trusts no one. Especially because now the meeting is over, Will has stopped looking at her like a senior employee, and started looking at her like a girl in a dress.

‘By the way, you, ah, you look, um, really nice. Doing something after work? Special occasion?’

Harri tugs at the skirt of her treacherous, overpriced editor-in-chief dress. ‘No, not at all. Just fancied a change.’

Chapter Three

The Wake

Harri

‘Where’s the champagne? Did we get a cake in the end, or…’

Hiding behind the door, Harri can picture Giles, her fashion director, scampering about. This would have been his victory too. He likes to call himself her Girl Friday, or the Lieutenant of her Heart. He can be glib, he can be bitchy, but he’s secretly incredibly kind, and volubly, noisily, proudly Team Harri. She knew he’d be organising the straggling staffers who were sticking around after six, desperate to celebrate her good news.

There is no way she can go back into her own office. Not tonight.

She has failed, she has fucked up, and she can’t face anyone, ever again. She will have to run away. For three minutes, Harri considers her options. A suite at Soho House? Absolutely not, far too many concerned friends, and crowing enemies. She is quite near St Pancras—she could get a train to anywhere, perhaps she can start a new life in Paris? No, she might bump into someone. Belgium? She is being ridiculous, she really needs to sit down with a glass of water—but in this moment she doesn’t feel strong enough to visit the kitchen.