“And I’ve had to buy loads of new clothes,” she adds, and pulls a little face. “They’re all really smart at Wetherby’s.”

New clothes? New clothes? Right, now I really am jealous.

“I went into Karen Millen and practically bought it out,” she says, eating a marinated olive. “Spent about a thousand quid.”

“Blimey,” I say, feeling slightly awe-stricken. “A thousand quid, all at once?”

“Well, I had to,” she says apologetically. “And anyway, I’ll be earning more now.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” she says, and gives a little laugh. “Lots more.”

“Like . . . how much?” I ask, feeling tweaks of curiosity.

“I’m starting off on forty grand,” she says, and gives a careless shrug. “After that, who knows? What they said is . . .”

And she starts talking about career structures and ladders and bonuses. But I can’t hear a word, I’m too shell-shocked.

Forty grand?

Forty grand? But I only earn—

Actually, should I be telling you how much I earn? Isn’t it one of those things like religion, you’re not supposed to mention in polite company? Or maybe we’re all allowed to talk about money these days. Suze would know.

Oh well, sod it. You know everything else, don’t you? The truth is, I earn £21,000. And I thought that was a lot! I remember really well, when I moved jobs, I jumped from £18,000 to £21,000, and I thought I’d made the big time. I was so excited about it, I used to write endless lists of what I would buy with all that extra money.

But now it sounds like nothing. I should be earning forty grand, like Elly, and buying all my clothes at Karen Millen. Oh, it’s not fair. My life’s a complete disaster.

As I’m walking back to the office, I feel pretty morose. Maybe I should give up journalism and become a fund manager, too. Or a merchant banker. They earn a pretty good whack, don’t they? Maybe I could join Goldman Sachs or somewhere. They earn about a million a year, don’t they? God, that would be good. I wonder how you get a job like that.