Her social map has shrunk, over the years. When she first turned up in the capital, with a carrier filled with knock-off Bodymap dresses and a sleeping bag, the night would usually start in Camden, the Good Mixer or an unoccupied dressing room in the old TV-am building, minesweeping any unattended drinks left by the bands her friend Liv was supposed to be looking after. Then—a blur. (And sometimes, Blur.) She has a vague memory of her early twenties, wide eyed excursions to seedy Soho. Cider and sticky sweet fizzy drinks, dancing and dancing and dancing and never going home, thinking she might be made of magic, feeling that the world was working for her, making a new friend on the dance floor of a warehouse out in Hackney or Clapton or Tottenham, then London’s exotic, frightening fringes—and going in to work at that new friend’s even newer magazine, seventy-two hours later. An era when luck just kept landing in her lap.

Eventually even Liv left the rackety glamour of MTV for a proper job in A&R at a record company, skirt suits and a six figure salary, with Class As as an occasional birthday treat (although she wasn’t fussy about whose birthday). And Harri was all too willing to trade every warehouse, every festival, every party in the world for her favourite exclusive Friday night hangout—the sofa, or more specifically the warm gap between Andy’s neck and his right shoulder.

Sometimes Harri can’t quite work out what happened to her. She doesn’t necessarily crave the grand, chaotic social productions of twenty-five years ago. But she’s forgotten how to celebrate the end of a solid period of toil by actually leaving the office and going somewhere other than her flat. The Angel does not count.

Louise speaks up—well, she’s squeaky and hesitant, but she’s trying. ‘Um, uckshully…I’ve been speaking to some PR contacts who might be able to organise something a bit special. Immo, isn’t your birthday coming up soon?’

‘Next week. I’ll be twenty-seven,’ says Imogen, shaking her head in mock horror. ‘I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I was planning an early night at home, thinking morbid thoughts about Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse.’ Imogen grimaces, and Harri tries to remember being twenty-seven. How did it feel? What was she doing? There is a whole adult person sized gap between them. Oh, God. If Harri thinks about this for too long, she’s going to have to retire at the end of the week.