God knows why she’s being so secretive. As if I’m interested in her tedious life. I sit down at my desk, briskly flip on my computer, and open my diary. Oh goody, I’ve got a press conference in the City. Even if it is some boring old pensions launch, at least it means a trip out of the office and, with any luck, a nice glass of champagne. Work can be quite fun, sometimes. And Philip isn’t in yet, which means we can sit and gossip for a while.

“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—”