“Hello, Philip?” I say into the receiver—then immediately I wish I’d said something thrusting and impressive, like a simple “Yep.”

“Rebecca, listen, sorry to be a bore,” says Philip, “but I’ve got a migraine coming on. I’m going to head off home.”

“Oh,” I say puzzledly.

“And I wondered if you could run a small errand for me.”

An errand? If he wants somebody to buy him Tylenol, he should get a secretary.

“I’m not sure,” I say discouragingly. “I’m a bit tied up here.”

“When you’ve finished there. The Social Security Select Committee is releasing its report at five o’clock. Can you go and pick it up? You can go straight to Westminster from your press conference.”

What? I stare at the phone in horror. No, I can’t pick up a bloody report. I need to pick up my VISA card! I need to secure my scarf.

“Can’t Clare go?” I say. “I was going to come back to the office and finish my research on . . .” What am I supposed to be writing about this month? “On mortgages.”

“Clare’s got a briefing in the City. And Westminster’s on your way home to Trendy Fulham, isn’t it?”

Philip always has to make a joke about me living in Fulham. Just because he lives in Harpenden and thinks anyone who doesn’t live in lovely leafy suburbia is mad.

“You can just hop off the tube,” he’s saying, “pick it up, and hop back on again.”

Oh God. I close my eyes and think quickly. An hour here. Rush back to the office, pick up my VISA card, back to Denny and George, get my scarf, rush to Westminster, pick up the report. I should just about make it.

“Fine,” I say. “Leave it to me.”

I sit back down, just as the lights dim and the words Far Eastern Opportunities appear on the screen in front of us. There is a colorful series of pictures from Hong Kong, Thailand, and other exotic places, which would usually have me thinking wistfully about going on holiday. But today I can’t relax, or even feel sorry for the new girl from Portfolio Week, who’s frantically trying to write everything down and will probably ask five questions because she thinks she should. I’m too concerned about my scarf. What if I don’t make it back in time? What if someone puts in a higher offer? The very thought makes me panic.

Then, just as the pictures of Thailand disappear and the boring graphs begin, I have a flash of inspiration. Of course! I’ll pay cash for the scarf. No one can argue with cash. I can get £100 out on my cash card, so all I need is another £20, and the scarf is mine.

I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook, write on it “Can you lend me twenty quid?” and pass it to Elly, who’s still surreptitiously listening to her mobile phone. I wonder what she’s listening to. It can’t still be her horoscope, surely? She looks down, shakes her head, and writes, “No can do. Bloody machine swallowed my card. Living off luncheon vouchers at moment.”