‘I presume you’re here to hand in your laptop,’ Tim says, and there’s not a trace of a smile on his face.

‘What do you mean? Have I done something wrong?’ My eyes flick to each of them in turn. ‘What is it?’

Heather picks up a sheet of paper. ‘Have you forgotten your Facebook post?’ she asks.

I’ve no idea what she means. I had intended to do a bit of posting when I was away, but I’m not addicted to social media and after the first couple of days I decided not to bother any more. I was too worried about seeing something derogatory that Ian might have posted.

Heather reads from the paper in front of her.

‘“Can’t believe I’m going to have to leave this beautiful country to return to my lousy job, made all the more lousy by my idiot boss, who cocks up everything and is a bit too free with his hands, if you get me. He should be sacked. Our clients get such a bum deal.” What do you have to say to that?’ Heather adds, putting the sheet of paper back down on the desk.

My heart pounds. What is she talking about?

‘I didn’t post that!’ I know full well that I have been known to say that Tim’s an idiot, but I’d never be stupid enough to post it on social media. And he might make the odd sexist remark, but he’s not a groper.

Tim jumps up from his chair, pushing it back on its wheels, and stomps out of the door. I can see through the glass that everybody is trying hard not to look at what he’s doing. He is at my desk, where I put my laptop just moments before, yanking the lead out. Then he marches back into his office, slamming the door behind him.

‘Log in to your Facebook account,’ he demands.

I shrug and click on the link, knowing my password is stored so it will log in automatically, but confident he’s not going to find anything in my posts other than a couple of early pictures from Myanmar. He pulls the screen round to face him and Heather, and I begin to feel slightly sick. All of Ian’s emails are on my laptop, and I pray they don’t go searching through those as they hunt for further evidence of my misconduct.

There’s a click on the trackpad, and Tim sits back in his chair, shaking his head, his mouth in a tight line. He’s a big man with a florid face, and his lips almost disappear into his jowls. Heather spins the computer back to me.

‘Does anyone else know your Facebook password?’

I look from one frowning face to the other, speechless, and shake my head.

Tim and Heather can see my confusion, but they’re not backing down.