“So, Clare,” I say, as she puts the phone down, “how was your weekend?”

I look over, expecting to hear the usual thrilling account of what shelf she put up where with her boyfriend—but Clare doesn’t even seem to have heard what I said.

“Clare?” I say puzzledly. She’s staring at me with pink cheeks, as though I’ve caught her stealing pens from the stationery cupboard.

“Listen,” she says in a rush. “That conversation you heard me having just now . . . could you not mention it to Philip?”

I stare at her in bemusement. What’s she talking about? Oh wow—is she having an affair? But then, why should Philip care? He’s her editor, not her—

Oh my God. She’s not having an affair with Philip, is she?

“Clare, what’s going on!” I say excitedly.

There’s a long pause, as Clare blushes deep red. I can’t believe this. A piece of office scandal at last! And involving Clare Edwards, of all people!

“Oh, come on, Clare,” I whisper. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.” I lean forward sympathetically. “I might even be able to help.”

“Yes,” says Clare, rubbing her face. “Yes, that’s true. I could do with a bit of advice. The pressure’s starting to get to me.”

“Start from the beginning,” I say calmly, just like Dear Abby. “When did it all begin?”

“OK, I’ll tell you,” whispers Clare, and looks nervously about. “It was about . . . six months ago.”

“And what happened?”

“It all began on that Scottish press trip,” she says slowly. “I was away from home . . . I said yes without even thinking. I suppose I was flattered, more than anything else.”

“It’s the old story,” I say wisely. God, I’m enjoying this.

“If Philip knew what I was doing, he’d go crazy,” she says despairingly. “But it’s just so easy. I use a different name—and no one knows!”

“You use a different name?” I say, impressed in spite of myself.

“Several,” she says, and gives a bitter little laugh. “You’ve probably seen some of them around.” She exhales sharply. “I know I’m taking a risk—but I can’t stop. To be honest, you get used to the money.”

Money? Is she a prostitute?

“Clare, what exactly are you—”

“At first it was just a little piece on mortgages in The Mail,” she says, as though she hasn’t heard me. “I thought I could handle it. But then I was asked to do a full-length feature on life insurance in The Sunday Times. Then Pension and Portfolio got in on the act. And now it’s about three articles every week. I have to do it all in secret, try to act normally . . .” She breaks off and shakes her head. “Sometimes it gets me down. But I just can’t say no anymore. I’m hooked.”

I do not believe it. She’s talking about work. Work! There I was, thinking she was having a steamy affair, ready to hear all the exciting details—and all the time it was just boring old . . .